SDS - Changelings - 1/13
CHANGELINGS
[ masterpost]
Chapter One: Summer's End
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of Rye,
Four and twenty Naughty Boys,
Baked into a Pye
* * *
James Potter is twelve, and possibly the king of the world. He feels such, anyway, because it is narrowing down on the last hours of the Summer hols, and his mother has been bringing him lemonade and cakes about every twenty minutes for the past four hours. Now, she is coming again up the pasture, only this time it's with a letter.
Lazily, James rolls over in the grass - narrowly missing a half-eaten slice of strawberry gelatine pie - and tries to make out the handwriting on the envelope as his mother draws closer. Her arthritis must be acting up, despite the potions. Her steps are a little unsure, slow and stiff, but she hardly seems to notice.
The letter can't be from Sirius, because he writes in what he swears isn't calligraphy, all the strange curls and loops and flourishes. It's not Peter either; he writes large (a year of McGonagall's essays will do that to a man). Unless someone's sent him another love letter, and the lack of a soft pink envelope suggests it's not, it's from Remus.
And it had better not be a love letter.
Well, good man then. James has hardly heard from Remus all summer. Not that Remus is ever chatty - that would be like expecting Sirius to stop brooding when the mail came with a family crest, or Peter to defect and take up with Snivellus. These things just didn't happen.
It's that Remus-y silence again. The secretive one. Only he and Sirius and Peter can recognize it. James really thought they'd cured Remus of all this in their first glorious year at Hogwarts. But over the summer it's felt like Remus is trying to draw away from them again, the same way he had those first long weeks of befriending him. But…maybe you never know, with Remus. James wrinkles his nose. He prefers knowing.
"Thanks, Mum" he says as she reaches his throne of meadow grass and hands over the letter. While he studies it, she raises his dirty dishes with a flick of her wand. James, halfway through tearing open the letter with one skinny, gelatine besmeared finger, realizes that his cake has gone with the dishes.
"Mum! Wait, Mum," he cries desperately searching the air among the plates for a hint of strawberries and graham cracker crust. From his vantage point, all the plates seem to be floating in the sky, jostling the clouds. It's very blue behind them. This is one of those days when even housekeeping magic seems grand and beautiful.
Not that he'd ever say it.
"What's the matter, James?" his Mum calls back. She's recently stopped calling him "Jamie", on his request. It adds to the satisfaction of the day.
"The cake, Mum. My beautiful, beautiful cake. Where has it gone?"
She just smiles and says, "You'll fill up for dinner." It is one of her sterner moments. James knows he could get it back if he really tried, but it is still summertime, and the grass is warm (though it smells suspiciously like some cow dung is nearby, but that's Devon for you) and he has a letter to entertain.
"I am wounded by this lack of cake!" he howls, startling a flock of blackbirds out of a tree on the edge of the meadow. He listened for his mother's laugh before he unfolds Remus's letter.
His mum limps away humming that Muggle song about blackbirds, the plates floating behind her, bright and round like daytime moons. His mum's got no voice for singing, but James lies still and leaves Remus's letter unread. He listens.
"Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly. Into the light of the dark black night."
Bit of a girly song. And it's too sad; it doesn't fit summertime in Devon, the hot sunshine, the warm parchment in his fingers, with a bit of owl slobber on. There is no darkness, James is sure, anywhere in the world.
James Potter
Godric's Hollow
Devon, England
James,
I found the dungbombs before they went off, thank you very much.
I hope you've had a nice summer and are not driving your Mum insane. It must be sunny in the South. Lucky you! It's been rainy and cold up here - something to do with the mountains, and living in mountains, and Wales being a generally miserable place. Apparently they're bad for sunshine and days on the beach, these mountains.
Though it's really not so terrible.
I haven't heard from Sirius, but Peter's owled me descriptions of a seaside holiday.
Remus J. Lupin
James feels…thoughtful, which isn't his usual reaction to lacklustre letters. There goes Remus, rambling about the weather and the mountains and all that nonsense. James Potter may not have been raised in the strict style of the Blacks, but he has been schooled in the art of Very Bland But Inoffensive Topics For Every Situation. As much as James has done his best to forget any and all etiquette, he can spot evasion in the form of weather chatter from a mile away.
Of course, it is always difficult to be certain that there are real secrets being kept from him here. Thinking from Remus's perspective, there may be a lot his friend simply doesn't feel like talking about, like his sick Mum or Sirius's family. James guesses he understands the second, at least. They'd all been privy to Sirius's volatile, violent mood on the train back to King's Cross at the end of term.
Of all of them, it was only Remus who hadn't suggested that maybe it wouldn't be as bad as Sirius was expecting. He just stared quietly out the window at the sprawl of London and adjusted all their Muggle clothes to make them just a little more believable. Sirius had almost cracked a smile when Remus tossed Peter's turban out the window. This is what Remus does.
James flops back with a dramatic sigh, wriggles a bit in the grass, and stares at the blue sky instead of Remus's careful handwriting. It just stands out to him, the same way all those "challenging" Transfigurations are so obvious. The words are awkward and feel painstakingly chosen. It does have a bit of Remus's dry wit showing through, but James didn't know how much dry wit twelve-year-olds are really supposed to be allotted, and how much less suspicion it should earn them.
Friends don't keep secrets from each other, right?
As lazily as possible (it is the last day of summer) he thinks of Remus, shivering his arse off somewhere in the wild mountains of Wales. Couldn't his parents move to Cardiff? Just as Welsh, but much more Southern, sunny (relatively, anyway), and best of all, just across the channel.
James plucks at the grass, tossing it in the still, sweet air. The blackbirds have settled again. He misses his wand. All it took was one exploding hay bale, and whoosh! Goodbye wand. James makes a flapping motion with his arms, attempting to convey this event to the general vicinity. But of course, he'll see both the wand and Remus Lupin tomorrow, on the Platform in London, with all his other friends.
Maybe in celebration he'll put frog spawn in Marlene McKinnon's hair. She goes all Scottish when she's screaming at him. It's a good bit of fun.
James rolls over onto his stomach and smoothes out his frown. He is sure frowns aren't becoming, unless you're Sirius Black. Not according to James of course, Merlin no, it's the girls who say it. Like Marlene.
Frog spawn is definitely imminent.
Secondly, it's just a letter from the Rather Private Mr. Lupin. If he has any secrets, they could all wear him down in a matter of days. James is absolutely confident.
So on that glorious afternoon, the end of the summer of '72, James Potter falls asleep in the sticky smell of meadow grass, glasses askew, a few tiny grass moths fluttering about his nose, where there is a smudge of something strawberry-flavoured. He sneezes, and the blackbirds startle again, swooping in the Devonshire sky.
The Black family marches in close formation through King's Cross and across the barrier, flanking their eldest son. Their shoes are all French and Italian, from Father's loafers to Narcissa's heels to Regulus's little boots. The hard soles crack against the stones. Master and Mistress Black have mouths pinched too thin, and Orion's hand is clamped on Sirius's shoulder. Regulus just looks scared.
Everyone who knows anything about Wizarding society hurries to make room for the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. Sirius cannot see outside the tight circle of his family, but he can read his Mother's face; when she catches someone in the crowd smirking behind a hand, he can tell. But she is built of stone and ice and madness, this woman. She can take it. Regulus's hands are shaking. He is being forced too close to Bellatrix.
Sirius wants to spit, preferably in someone's face. Not Regulus's. Maybe Regulus's, for going along with it when Sirius knows he doesn't like it.
It is Sirius who is the shame of the family, official for a year now. The whole summer has just been weeks and weeks of Those Bad Days, when he and Regulus have to crouch on the stairs, even though Reg really can't stand the severed heads mounted on the wall, and listen to the pitch of voices below, to try to decide if it was safe to venture into the dining room.
A wrong guess can lead to the basement. Regulus always makes all the right guesses, and Sirius is always too headstrong to follow them.
They have forbidden Regulus from sitting with him on the train, or talking to his low class friends, or his blood traitor friends, or his poor, low class, halfblood friends - the last being Remus. Regulus hasn't dared to look at Sirius since.
It feels a bit like he missed summertime. When they all left school they days were rushing along, bright and hot and long, almost reaching their summertime peak. Then it was three months in Grimmauld Place, with the only lights painting the cloudy sky in the night-time. Sirius is glad, in a begrudging, raging way, for the sunlight on Platform Nine and Three Quarters. September sun is brighter than he'd thought it would be.
He cranes his neck, searching for familiar faces, but his family's shoulders rise too tall.
All he can see are the skylights, and the sunlight glaring in his face, a taste of freedom. He is so close to being rid of most of them, even if it is just for a train ride. Cissy will be at Hogwarts, with no Andromeda to keep Narcissa and her friends in check. He is glad he never had to go to school with Bella, but angry at the same time. It would have been a good chance to hex her.
He wondered, briefly, where Andromeda is. She isn't part of the guard around him.
Always good at slithering out of things she doesn't like to do, Andromeda.
Sirius does not slither, but he has to find his own way out of this strange guard. He jerks out of his father's grip, ducks automatically (though surely even the Blacks wouldn't curse their own son on the crowded platform?) and shoves past Narcissa, because even he isn't reckless enough to shove Bellatrix.
Twice in an hour, anyway.
Narcissa's wand is knocked out of her hand and she scrambles after it. Sirius ignores her and whips around to face them all, trunk in hand, his owl shrieking its indignance, and begins to snarl, "Goodbye, Mother, Fath-"
Bellatrix's hex slams into his chest while his parents are distracted by Narcissa's panicked search for her wand. Sirius flies back against a brick pillar and slides down, his lungs clenching, his torso frozen. Terrified students scramble away from the family, and his mother is screaming at someone - possibly everyone - and Sirius discovers that he cannot breathe. Then comes Bellatrix.
His wand is up but isn't doing him much good. He can't move his lungs, can't press air out to form words. The tip of the wand just sends off a few sparks. Sirius works his jaw; his mouth gapes. Bella's teeth are shining, which means, his foggy head thinks, she must be smiling. He spits at Bellatrix, but she's too far off and he's shaking too hard to aim well. If he cannot scream, if he cannot speak a spell that will end her - and he knows them, even if he pretends he doesn't in front of his friends - Sirius knows somewhere deep inside himself that he will go mad.
Gritting his teeth, Sirius refuses to panic and braces for a little more pain. To panic now is to lose to Bellatrix. But the pain will come. This summer is not finished with him, and neither is Bellatrix Black.
She is almost to the shadows on Sirius's pillar when a hex comes flying out of the crowd and misses her by inches. Bella shrieks, and it's anger, not fear. She turns her back on Sirius in time to block the next flash and pop of light, but Sirius can see that it's sloppily done. He cannot see the attacker. For one moment, just a moment, Sirius thinks his parents are stopping her, but then he sees James Potter's face, ridiculous James Potter, with a bulging package of his Mum's cakes and a fancy new broomstick under one arm. James Potter's other hand furiously brandishes his wand, directly at Bellatrix's face.
He shoves away a group of gawking fifth years about twice his size and shouts another hex at the dark-haired girl with the mad Black eyes. Bella isn't quick enough to block this time, not quite believing a kid with what looks like a bit of sugar glaze smeared across one cheek and crooked glasses is the one brave enough to stand up to her.
It is probably that moment that Sirius realizes, unconsciously, that James will always be a hero, and all his life he will try to be as good a man as James Potter.
The hex is a childish one; they tested it on Lily Evans last year, when she told them off from picking on Snape. Long ropes of Bella's wavy black hair whip around her like snakes, until, with her face twisting with rage, she looks so much like the Medusa Sirius would laugh, if he could. The hair twists across her eyes and mouth, leaving her gagged and blind, scarlet with fury.
Sirius hardly even cares he is suffocating anymore, because if he dies watching James gag his cousin with her own hair he'll die happy. He'll die laughing.
Only he can't laugh. Can't laugh or scream, even with the air thick with his family's shouts and Bellatrix clawing blindly through the crowd, James leading her further and further from Sirius, in the shadows.
Also, his fingers are tingling and his vision is getting spotty.
Is no one noticing?
Ah, maybe he shouldn't have spoken so soon about the whole death thing. Sirius would really like to burn Grimmauld Place to the ground before he dies, let it light up the sky, so the partiers in Soho look over towards Islington and wonder, what is that light on the clouds? There are plans to carry out as well - very serious plans, concerning the logistics of smuggling pixies into the school. It's not ready yet because Remus is the logistics man, not Sirius or James. And Remus knows how to escape a whole horde of pixies without getting half his face bitten off, which will be a definite bonus when the time comes.
So you see, Sirius Black thinks at the Universe, I really don't have the time to die now.
He's not sure the Universe listens. The pain is roaring up his throat now, far harsher than he would have imagined death by suffocation to be. It's becoming difficult to feel the bricks under his fingers. There is some bonfire in his stomach that he can't vomit away, even when his body begins to heave and wretch. He writhes, sick and burning, starving and blackening to one high point of pain, not as awful as Crucio but a whole lot more like dying.
Sirius scrabbles at his chest, at his throat, clawing at these strange Muggle clothes his mother has transfigured out of Regulus's old robes. It's more than just the suffocation; it is an old, old fear of his childhood, that if he cannot breathe he will go mad, mad, mad, like every other Black before him.
Panic, panic, heart thudding, fingers curling, clawing at his ribcage, at his eyes which he was sure are glazed with insanity and he can't even scream. This is worse than he could have imagined, and Bella needs to die, they all need to die, they've been strangling him for years, they've tossed him on the Thames with the broken lights, but he is too dark he is black he is no star deep dark the cold waters of the river in London with light above pushing him down oh merlin the light is drowning him, it hates him for his darkness so it's pushing down down blue to black river water deep-
"Finite incantatum," comes a whisper over the roar of the river, or was that his ears?
And then he isn't dying anymore.
Sirius gulps in air, presses it out, then back in again. He's chasing breaths with breaths, afraid he'll have to choke again soon and desperate to get as much air as he can now. He wipes his face of snot and spit laced with stomach acid and tries to shove himself back further into the shadows. James is being pulled away by a Prefect and Bellatrix is glaring venom from inside that circle of Blacks, her hair back to normal again.
He stares around, a little wild, still a little crazed by some primal fear, even on this crowded platform full of families. But where is the voice, the voice that had ended the fire? It wasn't James, who was now being held by two Prefects, so it has to have been one of two people - and there was Remus Lupin, stepping out of the cloud of steam rolling away from the Hogwarts Express, wand held aloft.
His hair is boring and floppy and brown, and he's wearing a jumper in September which has gone all soggy from standing in steam, but he's probably the best thing Sirius has ever seen. His face is unreadable. Sirius has the uncomfortable feeling that he doesn't want to find out what's behind it.
Sirius lets his head fall back against the bricks and chokes in breaths, deep and ragged. Remus doesn't approach him yet, just watches James on one side and Sirius on the other, and calls across the distance, "You alright, mate?"
Sirius laughs.
"That good, eh?" says Remus, and goes to rescue James from the Prefects. Even through the chaotic crowds of Platform Nine and Three Quarters he can feel Remus's gaze. He should be insulted that Remus feels he needs watching over, but instead he just breathes easy.
Peter is so late for the train that the three of them are all starting to worry that they'll have to find the conductor and jinx him to keep the Express from starting on time.
"You don't suppose he'd do something cracked, like switching to Durmstrang without telling us?" James asks, pressing his face against the window. His glasses click on the glass.
Sirius scowls at a passing third year who eyes the seat they've commandeered for Peter and proclaims, "He wouldn't dare." His voice is still a little rough, like it's changing, only that won't start in Sirius until next year. They are not mentioning it to him, or anything at all related to the fight on the platform. This Sirius, as languid and relaxed as he's playing at being, is not alright and is, in fact, very likely to explode quite messily.
"Maybe Beauxbatons then," mutters Remus, scanning the crowds of parents for a familiar blonde head. "He's realized his charm is wasted on us, and has gone off to try it on the French girls."
Remus only says things like this when he's absolutely sure no one but his friends are listening. He rather likes how shocked they look each time.
James unpeels his face from the window. "Why Mr. Lupin, how crass of you! Wizard pubfellows before witchy bedfellows, I always say."
Remus decides not to tell him he's heard his own father say that once, while drunk, and it had been scarring.
"French does not make one pretty," spits Sirius. His tone is so dark that neither boy argues with him. Nor do they point out that Sirius spent a good part of first year breaking into French at strategic intervals simply for the sheer annoyance value.
"Look!" yelps Remus, incredibly thankful to Peter for breaking the stiff silence that followed Sirius's words, "There he is!" Sure enough, a small blonde boy is flinging himself away from two frazzled parents across the platform towards the train. The wheels inch forward, as if in challenge.
James flings himself halfway out the window. "C'MON PETE, LEG IT MAN! GO, GO, GO! Whooh, look at him!" Peter bends close to the ground in his sprint, weaving through legs, dodging parcels, upsetting younger siblings (though he looks as if he feels bad about that, and repeatedly shouts "Sorry!" over his shoulder) and finally launches himself and his trunk into the carriage, just as the Express begins to chug in earnest.
The three abandon their things and dart out of the compartment. Remus charms the door shut after them - damn rich purebloods with absolutely no common sense nor the healthy proletariat fear of robbery - and joins James and Sirius. They have gathered around the stairs up into the carriage, where Peter lies collapsed next to his trunk.
"Missed-the Portkey-outside-Southampton." He tries to catch his breath. "Had to double back to the house and use the Floo, go to my Mum's friend's house in London. Well, they got into a row over something-dunno what, probably my Dad. Anyway, Mum's friend drove us, in one of those thingies, it was awful, and now I'm here."
He fakes a swoon, hand on his forehead. James guffaws, slaps his shoulder, and he and Remus take Peter's trunk between the two of them and drag it into their compartment.
They return to find Sirius prodding the vulnerable Mr. Pettigrew with his wand, muttering something disconcerting about cadavers. Sirius's sense of humour is always a little macabre. Remus think it only gets worse after holidays spent at home. He cautiously pries Peter from his friend's grip and hands him to James.
Well, the hols are over now until Christmas, and Remus is glad. He'll miss his parents, and he'll miss the strange luxury of waking up in agony in his own bedroom, instead of in the Hospital Wing. But he cannot for the life of him begrudge Sirius the end of summer.
Not if it was all like that.
He still hasn't put his wand away, even if the danger had mostly passed with the elder Blacks, including Bellatrix, heading back home. Narcissa and Regulus must have scuttled off to their own compartment during the excitement, because he hasn't seen them anywhere, on the platform or on the train. Remus does not allow his hand to shake when he finally forces himself to tuck his wand into his trousers pocket, and his palms are not sweaty either. It's willpower. But the picture of Sirius Black twitching in the shadows of the platform, lips the strangest shade of blue….
Remus watches Sirius straighten and sway as the train picks up speed. His dark hair is in a strange side-parted bowl-cut, courtesy of Walburga's aesthetics and Bellatrix's violent alternations. He is running his fingers through it now, uncaring of Remus's eyes upon him, messing it up until he looks like Sirius again. Remus supposes it is images like that - blue lips, doomed eyes - which flash in front of a person's eyes all their life, just like all those nights painted with the moon.
Remus knows. He knows life is unfair, he knows that even good people get what they never deserved and never asked for. He hopes, naively, vainly, that Sirius still believes that the world is a fair place, and nearly laughs at himself. Who else could know so well, besides Remus himself?
James and Peter are Wessex boys, used to long, warm days, and they start shivering almost as soon as they tumble off the train. James tries to hide it, but he's just too skinny. Remus likes that Peter doesn't; he just laughs and smacked his hands together, glaring amiably at a band of Scottish third years who have their billowing sleeves rolled up to their elbows and are being fanned by a small, eager piece of charmed parchment.
"Too bad Auntie Walburga hasn't thought of that spell," says a girl in a high voice, "It would spare her the trouble of summoning an Elf to do the job."
Sirius twitches, and Remus stands on his toes to peek over Peter's head. Of the crowd in the direction of the voice he only recognizes the seventh year Black girl Sirius knocked over on the platform. Her platinum blonde hair seems to glow in the darkness of the cloudy night, and the sea of black school robes. There is a dark shadow behind her, that smaller version of Sirius. The famed little brother.
"Just Narcissa. Let's get on the carriages," hisses Sirius. He hasn't seen Regulus Black then.
"What carriages?" asks Remus, a little distracted, "Don't you mean the boats?"
James throws his arm out vaguely in the direction the crowd is heading. "Those, the horseless ones. For second year and up. But damn the carriages-Sirius, will you tell us what that was about? On the platform?" There is only so much patience in James. Remus thinks it will probably improve as he gets older, but for now they are twelve and twitching with curiosity.
"Nothing," says Sirius dully, shouldering his way through the crowd. Remus notices he is stomping in every mud puddle they pass, probably ruining his outrageously expensive shoes.
They choose a carriage of their own and James bars the door while Peter tugs open the window. Secretly, Remus is anxious to see Hogwarts again. Last year he begged himself just to get there, just see it. Then the goal became to last a week, then two weeks, then two months, and finally until Christmas. By the time the castle was coated in snow and mistletoe running rampant in the corridors, Remus was swept up in the absolute giddy chaos of the three idiots with which he is currently sharing a very bumpy carriage ride, and forgot to set goals. Except one, of course.
Keep the secret. He touches the dip at the base of his throat. He can still feel the weight of the wooden plaque on his collarbone, and his mother's voice whispering, "Cadwchy gyfrinach, Remus." He can still feel the chord around his neck, and his dread when his tongue slips, when one of the forbidden words, those terrible hints, slip out.
He kept the secret last year, without the not on a string around his neck to remind him. He can keep it this year too.
Hogwarts, and his friends, seemed unreal over the summer. He'd been back in his parents' house nestled on the side of the mountain, veiled in the thin Welsh rain, his mother's old Welsh Not back around his neck to remind him over and over, not to forget to keep the secret. It seemed impossible that Hogwarts and magic - good magic - existed at all.
Then the spires of Hogwarts fill the carriage window and they all pretend not to hear Pete's little gasp. If it wouldn't make them girls or first years, they'd all be gasping. Already Remus can feel a shy little grin spreading and ducks his face to hide it, because here are all the idle dreams of summer and childhood rising out of this mist, a thousand years strong and completely, utterly, indestructible - or so they believe at the time.
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