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❨ chapter fifteen. ❩
❛ the calm before ❜

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~ 1 Month Later ~

    SIRIUS CAREFULLY SURVEYED his bedroom at the Potter's. The wardrobe stood empty, the desk recently decluttered, and the bed cleanly stripped of all bedding. Two trunks were stationed nearest the door, an empty owl cage balanced on top of one, a velvet traveling cloak draped over the other. The rest of the room had been stripped of all his personal belongings, and there was a bare, lonely feeling in the guest room that had until recently been his.

    Now that they had finished at Hogwarts, Sirius could no longer think of a reason to impose upon the Potter's hospitality any more. They had suggested, almost vehemently, that their home was always open to him just as it was to James, and that there was no need for him to be so formal; their words had warmed Sirius up considerably. All the same, he did not think it wise to linger in their house any further, especially now that he was of age and could live by himself.

    Still, it was odd, leaving his room at the Potter's; it had been his refuge when he'd run away from his own home nearly two years ago, and he would never not be grateful for it. In a strange way, it felt like he was leaving home again, albeit without feeling like he was carrying a stone or two in his chest.

    Though he would never reveal it, Sirius was pleased when James suggested they look for a place together. We'll end up crashing at the same place anyway, he'd said, why bother pretending otherwise. And so, after a couple weeks of searching and viewing flats around Diagon Alley, Wimborne, and a few other wizarding settlements, Sirius and James had found a sort of quaint, mostly cramped flat in Upper Flagley. With two bedrooms, a common area, and something resembling a kitchenette, it was hardly anything impressive. But it was theirs, and the windows offered stunning views of the hills surrounding the village, and they had years ahead of them to find a better place.

    With a long suffering sigh, he turned his attention to the bed, which was strewn with piles of discarded newspapers, letters, and spell books. Most of them were ready to be discarded, but there was still a small pile of newspapers and parchments he'd yet to go through. Reaching for it, Sirius began sifting through the lot. He had balled up a few letters from Marlene and tossed aside some empty envelopes when a stray page from the Daily Prophet caught his eye. A large photograph covered a quarter of the page and followed by a short piece of text:

RUFUS SCRIMGEOUR TO HEAD
THE AUROR OFFICE!

LONDON, Thursday, July 13 — Rufus Scrimgeour won a decisive victory in the Ministry of Magic's special election yesterday evening to become the Head Auror of the Auror Office.

Mr. Scrimgeour, who joined the Auror Office in 1961, won a substantial majority and a clear mandate to reverse the nation's course in the war against You-Know-Who. Mr. Scrimgeour is the 62nd Head of the Auror Office at the British Ministry of Magic, a position he takes over from the previous Head Auror, Angus MacDonald, whose whereabouts are currently still unknown. During a press conference following his election, Mr. Scrimgeour refused to comment on Mr. MacDonald and his family's disappearance, citing it to be "highly sensitive information" that could not yet be divulged.

In an exclusive statement to the Daily Prophet, however, Mr. Scrimgeour did promise to "combat the forces of evil that seek to rob the Wizarding World of its rightful liberties." He also reiterated that the Ministry of Magic would henceforth be doubling its efforts to capture the radicals calling themselves the 'Death Eaters', and has assured the magical community of Great Britain and Ireland that all appropriate measures will be taken to ensure their safety will not be jeopardized any further.

Mr. Scrimgeour also went on record to say that. . . (cont. on pages 2 and 3)

✧

    Scoffing, Sirius flung the newspaper aside, where it landed amongst the pile of papers that he would later banish into a trash can with a lazy flick of his wand.

    It had been a little over a month since the attack on King's Cross, and it did not escape Sirius' notice that despite the Ministry's continued reassurances and promises to the Wizarding community, no Death Eaters had been apprehended so far. In fact, if anything, the recent events seemed to have bolstered the growing unease that had been plaguing their world, tendrils of fear and mistrust crawling rapidly across the country and seeping under warded doors and locked windows.

    He wondered vaguely if this Rufus Scrimgeour would prove to be any more efficient than his predecessor. James, Sirius thought dully, would be witnessing the new Head Auror's successes or failures first hand. He, Sirius, would no doubt learn sooner than many others about whether or not Scrimgeour would make good on his promises to restore peace in the Wizarding World.

    Something inside him twisted as he thought about James starting Auror training in just over a week, and without him, while Sirius himself was still searching for a job that would bring him closer to the real war. Amongst the abundance of uncertainties around him, this at least was a given: he would not be lingering on the sidelines for the entirety of the war. He had had a month to mull over things and untangle his thoughts, and it was clear to him what he had to do, whom he had to speak to. They were on the brink of outright warfare, and he would be in the middle of it when the time came; his family, he knew now, were already in the thick of it. Soon, he would be too, albeit on the right side of the war.

    Spirits slightly brightened by the admittedly grim thought, Sirius turned his attention to the task at hand, doing his best to not dawdle on thinking about his family or anything else too worrisome.

    An hour later, after having sorted through the last of his letters and books, when Sirius finally came downstairs for a bit of late breakfast, it was to find an unusually loud house. Mr. and Mrs. Potter were hardly sticklers for the sort of overbearing, pristine silences his own parents had been so fond of, yet the fact remained that there was just so much noise an elderly couple and their teenage son could generate. Nevertheless, as Sirius gingerly climbed down the last couple of stairs — his leg, though healed, still felt a little too stiff for his liking — an ungodly din of cutlery, intermingled with the sounds from the wireless, rose above whatever the people in the kitchen were chatting about.

    "What do those boys need a set of fish forks for?" Mrs. Potter was asking her husband as Sirius appeared at the entrance to the kitchen. She was holding a box in one hand, and a dozen other parcels were spread across the table behind her. Mr. Potter, his trusty pipe resting at the corner of his mouth, was waving his wand and causing a number of smaller boxes and neatly wrapped pots and pans to levitate themselves into a small cardboard box that Sirius was sure had been modified with an undetectable extension charm.

    "Sirius likes fish," Mr. Potter shrugged, pulling out a tiny notebook from his breast pocket and tapping it with his wand once. He adjusted his glasses as he continued, "So does the Peter lad."

    "They're seventeen, Monty, they don't even know fish forks exist," Mrs. Potter huffed, perching herself at the edge of one of the kitchen chairs, "I'd be surprised if any one of those boys even know how to set a table. . ."

    "Now, now, Mrs. Potter," piped up Sirius, finally drawing the elderly couple's attention to himself, "We're not complete heathens, you know?"

    "Really?" she asked flatly. "That's news to my ears."

    "You wound me," Sirius said in mock indignation, slapping a hand to his chest. He turned to Mr. Potter, who was grinning around his pipe, a cloud of smoke partially obstructing his face. "She wounds me, Mr. Potter."

    "Yes, it is a long withstanding hobby of hers, wounding us weaker mortals."

    "The agony!"

    "The injustice!"

    "The-"

    "Oh, hush, both of you," interrupted Mrs. Potter, sounding stern, though she gave herself away but grinning. Quickly, however, she recovered from her giggles to fix Sirius with a look and asked him, "Where's James, dear? Is he still asleep? It's nearly noon."

    Sirius shook his head, frowning. "He's not – I thought he'd be with you. Haven't you two seen him?"

    Mr. and Mrs. Potter exchanged a glance.

    "I'm sure he's alright," said Sirius hastily, hoping to curb their racing – and no doubt anxious - thoughts.

    "Yes, of course. He probably just nipped out for some air," said Mr. Potter to no one in particular. There was a moment's tense silence, then he turned to Sirius and added in a would-be-calm voice, "Sirius, see if there's a note on the mantelpiece, old boy."

    Nodding, Sirius made his way across the hall and peered into the living room. His eyes were almost instantaneously drawn to a piece of folded parchment that was resting on a shelf atop the fireplace:

    Relief flooding him, Sirius read over the hastily scribbled note once, twice, and then his face split into a broad grin. He marched back into the kitchen and waved the tiny piece of parchment about dramatically.

    "He's absolutely fine, Mr. and Mrs. P. Dandy, in fact. Corking, you could even say," Sirius told them, smiling wider at the bemused looks on their faces. "He's just 'gone to see a friend', apparently."

    Mrs. Potter let out a sigh of relief and sagged in her chair, but then, grinning, she raised an elegantly sharpened brow. "Does the friend have red hair, by any chance?"

    "I'd wager my Astronomy N.E.W.T. on it," replied Sirius promptly.

    "You never took Astronomy for your N.E.W.T.s," Mr. Potter pointed out, the corners of his mouth twitching.

    "That," Sirius retorted, "is neither here nor there."

    Mr. Potter gave a short laugh and turned back to the pile of boxes he was arranging within a larger one, while Sirius busied himself with making a pot of fresh tea. He was just pouring milk into his cup when Mrs. Potter spoke again.

    "I was thinking," she began, sounding thoughtful, "We should probably invite Lily over for dinner sometime soon. I know we meant to the day we picked you lot up from King's Cross, but after everything that happened. . ." She trailed off, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "Poor girl's had a lot on her mind, hasn't she?"

    "She has, yeah," agreed Sirius, dropping unceremoniously into a chair himself. "But her parents are out of St. Mungos now, and James said she's doing loads better. Called him out for being a prat too the other day, from what I hear, so I'd say she's gone back to her usual self alright."

    "How about the week after next? You boys will have settled into your new flat by then, won't you?"

    Sirius half-shrugged, half-nodded. He honestly could not claim to know how long 'settling in' took; neither he nor James had ever lived by themselves. The thought of having a place of their own, to Sirius, was exciting. Remus claimed it was downright terrifying, but Sirius felt it best to ignore such comments.

    "That does sound good, Effie," said Mr. Potter approvingly. He leaned against the counter, his expression faraway as he ran a hand through his greying hair. "It's a shame we haven't met her yet. I wonder what she's like."

    "So do I!" exclaimed Mrs. Potter, turning to face her husband, her face alight with excitement, "I can't believe James never told us anything about this Lily Evans before."

    "Aren't you the lucky ones," Sirius supplied with a roll of his eyes, "We — that is to say, myself, Remus, Peter, and the whole of Hogwarts — have had to listen to him prattle on and on about her ever since we were thirteen."

    "But you say she's a lovely girl."

    "I do, Mr. Potter. Doesn't change the fact that there's just so many times I can hear about how mesmerizing Evans' eyes are, or how witty she is, how clever, how effortlessly good at Charms, or how there's always the smell of freshly cut peonies about her, or –"

    "Alright, alright, we get the idea," cut in Mrs. Potter, while Mr. Potter, the corners of his eyes crinkling, asked in a tone of mock incredulity, "What do peonies even smell like?"

    "Like Lily Evans, apparently."

    Before either of them could get another word in, however, Mrs. Potter got to her feet and said, "So, dinner the Sunday after next, I think?"

    "I hope," said Sirius brightly.

    "You can bring someone too, if you like," she added, watching him curiously.

    "Do Remus or Peter count as someone?" he asked in a falsely innocent tone.

    James' parents chuckled.

    "Someone you're really. . . fond of, we meant."

    Sirius gave them a dazzling smile and leaned forward slightly. "I don't know, Mrs. P, but I hardly think it acceptable to ask you as a guest to your own party."

    She shook her head good-naturedly. "We have a charmer here, I see."

    "I accept the description, Madame," Sirius grinned, and she patted his shoulder genially as she moved past him and into the hallway beyond.

    "Sure you don't want to invite anyone, old boy?" asked Mr. Potter, his pipe wedged into the corner of his mouth once more, and Sirius shook his head, grabbing a digestive biscuit and dipping it carefully into his cup of tea.

    "Nah, if I ever want to invite someone for a Sunday lunch, I'll let you know myself."

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    "SO EXCUSE ME forgettin', but these things I do," a man's voice crooned, the sound magnified as it flowed from the boombox that had been set up in a corner. "You see, I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue."

    Penelope's housewarming party was in full swing, the music reverberating around the small but quaint space that was currently occupied by more people than it could accommodate. They were sprinkled across the living room and spilling into the kitchen and the small closet-like space that was to be Penelope's home office.

    "And you can tell everybody this is your song," Juliette sang under her breath, recognizing the song as one she often heard over the radio at the local bookstore she now worked at. It was different from the music she had grown up with, but Muggle music was rather pleasing to the ear, she had to admit.

    Weaving through the throng of people congregated inside the apartment, she tried to make her way towards the table in the back, hoping to grab a drink of cold something.

    Someone gave a loud, boisterous laugh, and Juliette smiled to herself. Penelope's friends and colleagues were a cheery lot, interesting to listen to and rather welcoming as well. Although she barely knew anyone else here tonight, she had still managed to laugh at their animated retellings of fiascos at work and latest failures on the dating ground.

    In fact, the entire month following her collapse had been one of the most peaceful of Juliette's entire life. Gone was the leaden feeling that had weighed her down for weeks, and was replaced instead by a feeling of calm she had rarely experienced in all her eighteen years of existence. Of course, somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew this newfound peace had to have come at a heavy cost, yet she did not know what. And just now, surrounded by loud, cheery music and jovial people, she found it hard to worry about anything.

    But she had worried. Had fretted and sobbed and paced the living room floor for hours in the immediate aftermath of her collapse. Then, unable to help herself, Juliette had scribbled a hurried letter to Lynette, asking her whether all was well. She had had to wait two whole, agonizing, torturous days before Phorcys returned with Lynette's reply:

Dear Juliette —

Honestly, you do worry too much for anyone's good. Stop fretting, and go enjoy London! Noor always said Muggle London was incredibly fascinating (don't mention this to Mumma, I beg of you!). I'm counting on you to learn everything about it and show me around one day.
The family asks me to say hello. They hope you're adjusting well.
Take care, alright?

Love you,
Lyn

    She had read and reread Lynette's letter three times before letting out a long sigh of relief and sinking into her pillows, limbs aching from the tension she hadn't noticed all day. She had thought, had been almost certain, that Lynette's reply would come bearing ill news. Instinct, overwhelming instinct, kept telling her that something had been amiss.

    Juliette supposed it was just one of those strange things no magic nor legend could explain, the way she could sense Lynette's discomfort. Perhaps that's what came of being attached at the hip since they'd drawn their first breath. But Lynette had said everything was alright; as far as her sister was concerned, nothing was amiss, and her word was good enough for Juliette. Lynette, though a girl of many admirable qualities, was not one to mince her words. She was forthright and brisk in her approach, and Juliette knew Lynette would not lie to her.

    Finally reaching the table, Juliette surveyed the assortment of bottles lined up at one end, unsure of which one she'd like. She still had a crate of Butterbeer in her own pantry, and apart from fresh juices and a can of some bubbly, sweet orange drink Penelope had introduced her to, Juliette rarely indulged in Muggle drinks. Come to think of it, she had hardly ever tasted anything stronger than a Butterbeer even while she was a part of the hidden magical society.

    She had just pulled back the sleeve of the cream-colored sweater she'd worn to the party and reached out for a slim glass bottle that held a quantity of some rosy, amber liquid, when a throaty voice spoke from beside her, "I'd stay away from that one if I were you."

    Juliette looked around to see a man leaning against the fireplace beside the table, a kindly smile gracing his freckled face. Bright brown eyes peered at her nervously from behind a pair of thick, angular glasses. His sandy hair was combed back neatly, and even in the dim lighting of Penelope's apartment, she could see that his blue checkered shirt was starched to perfection.

    "What is it?" she asked him, pointing to the bottle she had been reaching for.

    "Dickie Dire's Rhubarb Liquor," he answered promptly, a grimace tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then added, "Smells like rotten licorice, tastes like liquid suffering, and burns like the depths of hell."

    "You sell it so well," said Juliette, deadpan.

    He reddened slightly but laughed nonetheless. "I just wouldn't want anyone to knowingly inflict that upon themselves."

    "Thanks for the heads up," she told him, reaching for a bottle of some clear liquid instead. "What about this one?"

    "Hmm. Tastes like lemony pears and sugar, but blander."

    "So long as it doesn't burn a hole through my throat." She poured herself a measure of the liquid and raised it. "Cheers!"

    It was indeed very bland, not unlike the bottle of Firewhisky she had shared with her siblings last summer. Juliette supposed actual Firewhisky did not taste anything like this, but Ellis had watered theirs down with a generous measure of lemonade and soda before he'd let her and Lynette touch some. The memory of that night, sitting with Ellis and Lynette on the roof of their stately but somewhat shabby home, giggling and teasing, still warmed her from the inside.

    Stopping herself just in time from sinking into a nostalgic stupor, Juliette turned back to the man, who was staring into his own glass with a nervous expression.

    "So how do you know Penelope?" she asked him, more to alleviate the awkwardness than anything else.

    He glanced up and grinned awkwardly before answering, "Oh, Penny and I go way back. We went to school together actually. She's probably one of my first friends ever. Then she moved away and we lost contact for a few years, but we ended up at the same uni eventually. Different colleges, but the same place really. We had a few mutual friends, reconnected, and well, we've stayed friends since."

    "That sounds really lovely," smiled Juliette, ignoring the twisting feeling growing in her chest. She had never had any friends, mutual or otherwise.

    "It is," the man went on, oblivious to her internal dismay, "Nothing like childhood friends, you know? So, what about you? How do you know Penny? I've never seen you at hers before. . ."

    "I'm her neighbor," Juliette told him, "I moved in a few months ago. Penny's been  very nice to me, helped me settle in and all."

    He nodded knowingly. "That's Penny alright. She helped me move as well when I first moved to London."

    "You live in this building too?" asked Juliette, a little surprised.

    The man shook his head. "Nah, I live in the one that's two doors down. That deli at the corner of the street? I live above that building."

    "Oh," said Juliette, racking her brain for something to say. "Do you like the area?"

    "Hmm? Oh, yeah. It's a fairly nice part of the city to be in, isn't it?" he said cheerfully, reaching for a bottle of some pale amber liquid. "I've lived here for a few years now. Told Penny she'd like it when she finally came back to London."

    "Came back?" repeated Juliette.

    "From New York," he muttered, struggling to unscrew the bottle.

    "She lived in New York?"

    Something about Juliette's voice made him pause in his efforts to open the bottle clutched in his hands and instead stare at her.

    "Oh, blimey, didn't you know? I thought everyone. . . well, if you've just known her for a couple weeks, I suppose. . ." As though realizing what he was doing, the man hastily stopped babbling, looking a little uncomfortable now. He cleared his throat loudly before saying, "Um, well, yeah. She moved to New York a while ago. Lived there for about two, three years before shifting back to London."

    "Why did she move to America?"

    The man grinned nervously. "Oh – that's –maybe you should ask her. It's all so. . . I dunno. Haven't talked about it in a while. Ask her, she'll tell you. I'm sure."

    "I have a feeling I shouldn't. I wouldn't want to make things awkward for her," said Juliette calmly, thoroughly intrigued now. "It seems like whatever it is that happened, it might be a sensitive topic to broach, especially with Penny. I just thought, maybe you could. . . but It's alright if you can't say it. I wouldn't want to –"

    "No! It's alright, it's alright," he answered quickly, leaning forwards a little. The motion cast light across his thin face, and Juliette noted that his eyes looked rather glazed.

    In a low voice, he revealed, "Penny's husband died a couple years ago. Terrible accident, a gas leak in the house."

    "I had no idea," whispered Juliette, wondering how on earth she had missed learning that her neighbor, her friend, had a husband. Or used to, at least. It seemed to her like the sort of thing friends tell one another.

    With a sinking feeling, she realized that perhaps Penelope Bones too had a past she would sooner never talk about, much like Juliette herself. An odd mix of sympathy and unease washed over her.

    "Yeah, it was awful," the man agreed, "Penny was devastated. They'd been together since they were fifteen, you know? Married straight out of school too. She doesn't like to talk about it much, but it's understandable, isn't it?"

    Juliette could only nod her head.

    "I'm sure she didn't mean to not tell you," the man added as an afterthought, likely correctly interpreting Juliette's terse expression. "See, she doesn't hide it per se. She just doesn't talk about it until someone brings it up, that's all."

    "I'll be careful not to then."

    "Probably for the best, yeah."

    "I'm sorry," he began again after a long moment, "I don't think I caught your name. . ."

    "Huh? Oh, uh, Juliette."

    "Very Shakespearean," he grinned at her, and, this time, Juliette had no problem understanding what her name meant to other Muggles. The man pushed his glasses up his crooked nose, then pressed a hand to his chest and told her, "The name's Hershel. Hershel Finch."

    Juliette was about to ask him what he did other than attending Penelope's housewarming parties and freely giving his opinion on alcohol, when a voice boomed from the other end of the room, "Oi! Doctor Finch, get your arse over here!"

    "Yeah, c'mere a mo!" another voice, high pitched this time, called over the sound of chatter and music.

    A few people tittered before returning to their conversations.

    Hershel gestured at them, lifting two fingers, before turning back to Juliette. He stood up straighter, and she noted they were of the same height.

    "Well, it was really nice meeting you," said Juliette politely.

    "Yeah, you too!" replied the man pleasantly, "Sorry to –"

    "Oh, not at all," interjected Juliette rather quickly, "I'm sorry to have kept you from your friends."

    "Devils more like," Hershel laughed, shaking his head fondly. "See you around, Juliette."

    She watched him go until he melted into the crowd.

    Everyone seemed to be lounging around the apartment in small circles, laughter and liquor flowing freely between them. It seemed like they were all enjoying themselves thoroughly, and she had to admit, even she had had a nice enough time tonight. But as more and more people got either drunk or simply gave in to the exhaustion that had been building up all week long, the party began dwindling down.

    There was no place for her here anymore, amongst groups of old friends and chatty colleagues – people who knew one another well enough to push the conversation beyond the threshold of cursory pleasantries.

    In search of Penelope to bid her goodnight, Juliette began pushing her way through the crowd, eyes squinting as they peered around the dim hall. She looked over the drinks table, cast a hurried glance over where the boombox was kept, and slid her gaze from the front door to the dining table in the other corner.

    She did a double-take. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest.

    There was no mistaking that face. Standing by the front door, half-hidden by a tall potted floor plant, was a young woman Juliette had not dreamed of seeing tonight. She was leaning casually against the wall and wearing an expression of utmost boredom, her blonde hair much darker at the roots now than it was the last time they'd been in the same room together.

    It was Lynette.

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A/N.
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