Snapshots: Reparation

[toujours_nigel]

“Looking for a ride, babe?”

 

She looks around the square, furious, but also amused by the idea of being picked up. A bike has rolled to a halt in the street behind her and the rider, a tall man in black leather, is still looking at her appreciatively.

 

“Can that beast of yours seat two? two and a half, really,” she adds, patting her prominent stomach, walking over to him. He’s still a boy, really, barely out of his teens, black hair framing a pale face, intelligent grey eyes serious.

 

“Sure can, beauty. I’ll even go slow in consideration for your sprog.” She nods in acquiescence, seating herself side-saddle behind him. “Where to, then?”

 

“Your choice, boy. I feel like a bit of peace and quiet, if such a thing is to be found in busy Londontown.”

 

“Country girl, are you?” he grunts, steering slowly through winding streets, trying to avoid jolting the child.

 

“My parents live in Scotland,” she answers, wrapping an arm loosely around his waist, “and my husband has an estate in Wiltshire.”

 

“Up here to shop?” he asks, voice carefully neutral. “Or are you visiting relatives?”

 

She says nothing, and he cuts off the engine soon, leading her by the hand into a park.

 

“What is this dump?” Her voice has changed, no longer play-flirting.

 

“Don’t call it that, the ducks are really sensitive.” He snorts at her expression. “Really. It’s St. James’ Park.” She looks at him sharply. “Started coming here a few months ago.”

 

“And the name had nothing at all to do with that, I’m sure.”

 

He smirks at her tone. “Oddly enough, it didn’t. I went drinking, nearly started a brawl—oh, don’t look at me like that; I said ‘nearly’, didn’t I? – anyway, a bloke hauled me out here and taught me much more pleasant ways to get bruises. Decided later it was a nice enough place. Ducks are a bit ravenous though.”

 

“Pleasant ways?” He holds her gaze, slowly licking his lower lip. “Ah.”

 

“Narcissa?” he asks after they’ve sat staring at the ducks for a full five minutes. “How did it go?”

 

“Quiet and sombre.” Atmosphere so oppressive with almost-tangible sorrow that she ran away immediately afterwards. “They’ve put him next to Orion, in the Black Crypt.”

 

He sighs, leaning forward, elbows resting on knees, hands clasped. “Tell me it was at least painless. He hated pain.”

 

“I don’t know,” she says honestly, heart aching at the sight of the bowed black head. “But I doubt it was. Lucius and I were not informed until after the deed was done. The Dark Lord thought we might weaken if asked to execute him, thought we might make it…easy.”

 

“Bella?”

 

“Aye. Dear, sweet, kind Bella. I’m sorry, Sirius.”

 

“Did she boast about it? Did she gloat about how she tortured him?” He looks up, eyes wild. “Did she mimic his screams?”

 

“Not the last, no. It appears,” she continues with savage glee, “that he did not scream.”

 

“Good for him, then.” He kicks aimlessly at a pebble, sending it flying into the duck-pond.

 

“Sirius?” she says a little desperately, she wants him away, safe. “Are you…where’s James? Or any of your other…friends? Maybe you should be with them…”

 

“Quit playing mother,” he laughs harshly. “Doesn’t suit. James is busy with his new wife. Last I heard, he was child-proofing the estate. The entire estate, Narcissa.”

 

“Is he sure it’s his?” she asks sardonically. Wouldn’t that be fun, if the bitch had been sleeping around on James? If the precious child James was breaking all their hearts over wasn’t even a Potter?

 

“Narcissa!” But he smiles at her. “Yes, he’s sure. Lily’s not the cheating type. Besides, James isn’t that sort of fool.”

“Every sort of fool,” she declares, “to marry a Mudblood slut.”

 

“She’s not a slut,” he says wearily, “and we’ve been over this before.” They have, time and again, since James got engaged to the bitch, slipping questions in with the insults that get thrown around during their duels, little suggestions whispered in Rita Skeeter’s ears. All to no avail, of course, because Sirius always says the same thing. “Lily loves him and they’re happy and it’s his child and she’s due in late July or early August.” Then he straightens slightly, and adds a new line to his retort. “What about you?”

 

“You should become an uncle sometime in June,” she says, hands going protectively to her belly. “Well, ‘Cousin’, really, but ‘Uncle’ sounds a lot better.” 

 

“Already am.”

 

“Yes, of course. How old is she now?”

 

“Almost six. A budding Metamorphmagus.”

 

“Really? Hadn’t heard that. Her husband is going to be an extremely lucky man.” She smirks at his scandalised expression. Why do they all forget that she was raised with Lucius before she married him, raised with three younger brothers as well? But they all do and even these boys, these scarcely-men who used to complain that she used her claws like knives, hardly remember vicious, savage Cissy Black. And that is good, it’s what she has worked for, these last few years. But it still irritates her at times.

 

And maybe he sees that in her eyes, because the false smile goes from his lips and eyes, replaced by the blank expression she knows is a mask covering burning hatred and boiling rage. She’s seen it in the mirror often enough. “Why? Do you know why, Cissy?”

 

Well, he’s made it a bit easier. Cissy Black used to speak her mind, not coat it with sugary words. “We’re being told that he tried to back out. That could very well be true. It’s not exactly peaceful or merciful and Reggie has never been much of a fighter. However…” she pauses, sighs, Mrs. Malfoy coming to the forefront. If she is caught, she might have to share his fate, but she loved Reggie, dammit, and Cissy’s baying for blood. “Sirius, do you remember what we used to play at when we were children?” Not much more than seven years ago, for all it feels like as many decades.

 

“Playing at the Arthurian legends… pretending to be Arthur and Merlin and Morgana and… we were such fools.”

 

“We were children.” And not entirely, even then. “Do you remember who Reggie used to be?”

 

“Galahad,” he whispers. “Always Galahad.” 

 

She nods, standing before he can utter the question she can see on his lips. “Sirius. There is still time for you to get out of this. The Dark Lord would be content if you would just consent to remain neutral. Think about it. You’re the scion now. We can’t let the Blacks die out. Go to Greece, Sirius. I know you have a villa in Pthia. Just leave England for a while. You don’t have to fight this war.”

 

“Yes, I do. I know this is bigger than me, but it’s my folks on either side. You know I can’t sit idle.”

 

“And you know I had to try.” She tucks an errant lock behind his ear, smiling ruefully. Cissy’s been dead nearly six years and can’t come back even for this.  “I really don’t want to attend any more funerals.” Not his or James’ or Lucius’. Not even Bella’s, for all that she’s ruthless and amoral and Bella has killed their youngest boy.

 

“I know, Cissy.” He stands as well, taking her hands into one large paw. “Why did you remind me about Regulus playing Galahad?”

 

“Because I find it hard to believe Reggie was stupid as well as cowardly. And also,” she rummages in her purse, pulls out a much worn piece of parchment, “because Lucius found this in his pocket, when they put him in his shroud.”She holds it out and he takes it, long fingers unbearably warm against hers, which remember the chilled ones, so like these that she held half-an-hour ago. “Now I really must go. Shouldn’t be here at all.”

 

“Fraternising with the enemy, eh Cissy?” She nods. “What is this? Why are you here at all?”

 

“Because he shouldn’t have died,” she answers, not looking at him, resolutely not looking, because she can’t say what she really wants to. “Because you deserve to know why.” Because my sister killed him and I know how much you loved him and they wouldn’t even let you carry him to the vault in your arms and he was just a boy and you deserve revenge and she deserves to die. “Because he clearly wanted someone to know.” She turns on her heel, disapparates before she walks ten steps.

 

He sinks back onto the bench, clasping the blackened scrap of parchment, bearing the last words his brother ever wrote.

 

Remember Galahad’s Quest.

                                                R.A.B.