Chapter Ten: Or Their Stretched Purpose Slacken

Chapter Ten: Or Their Stretched Purpose Slacken

"Who murdered all these?

...their unforgiven prisoner?"

-Ted Hughes, Crow's Nerve Fails

Molly has a routine. She doesn't quite think of it that way, but it is a routine nonetheless; a set of private rituals she completes in the quiet between the children's bedtime and Arthur's return home, which rarely occurs before ten. The house seems to echo with silence in those hours, a creeping absence of sound and laughter that reminds her of the lonely year she spent waiting to join her brothers at Hogwarts and stirs up a grief that threatens to overwhelm her if she sits idle for too long.

Hence the routine.

There are dozens of chores to catch up with. Most are tasks she cannot accomplish with four boys underfoot and usually take up a good portion of her time. Laundry is folded – or rather, re-folded as the earlier attempt had been foiled by the over-enthusiastic help of Fred and George – sticky fingerprints are cleaned from the walls, toys are put carefully away.

She attends to the kitchen last of all, submerging herself in the familiar rhythms of household magic – one charm for dishes, one to sweep the floor, a third to clean the counters, and so on. She leaves the wireless on to keep the silence at bay, and when Celestina Warbeck sings, Molly can almost forget the fears and losses of the past year. She can focus on reclaiming her house gradually from the chaos of the day and remaking it into a bright, clean place where the boys can play in safety.

Molly can remember her mother's hands moving through the air, her wand tracing the same patterns that Molly herself now uses. These are old spells, family spells, and using them is comforting. They remind her of the sanctuary that her mother's house always was; that her grandmother's house was. The memories give her hope that her own children will remember the sanctuary she has managed to build for them in turn, rather than the terror that rules the world outside.

After the kitchen has been cleaned, she makes herself a cup of tea. Molly always forces herself to finish it before she allows herself to go into the living room and look at the clock, reassuring herself that Bill is at Hogwarts, that Arthur is at work, and that the rest of her children are safely at home.

Once she has done so, she goes quietly upstairs. She has spells in place to tell her if one of the boys leaves their room, but magical knowledge does not provide the same comfort that checking on them herself does. This way she can softly open each door, can see for herself that her boys are curled safe and sound and asleep under their blankets. Sometimes she sits with them for a while, spending ten minutes or so beside each bed just watching them breathe.

Charlie and Percy both sleep deeply, rarely moving at all, while Fred and George are restless even in slumber, small hands moving constantly against blankets and pillows. Ron still sleeps the deep, snuffling sleep of the very young. Molly pauses for a moment longer over his crib than she does the beds of the other boys, aware as she does so of a sharp pang of grief for the Potters and for the Longbottoms. She hopes that Harry and Neville are sleeping as soundly as Ron does tonight. She hopes that they are as well-loved. When she turns away from Ron's crib, she is aware of the slight sting of tears in her eyes.

Molly goes quietly down the stairs again, and back into the living room. Arthur is still at work. A quick check of the time tells her that it is half-past ten, and she forces herself not to pace. Instead, she starts the needles on a pair of socks for Ron before picking up her copy of Enchantment in Baking. The book keeps her occupied for nearly half an hour, although she loses count of the times she glances up at the clock.

Finally, at nearly eleven fifteen, Arthur's hand whirs briefly to 'Travelling' before coming to rest on 'Home.' Molly puts her book aside with mingled irritation and relief, but the look on Arthur's face when he comes through the door wipes all thought of speech from her mind. Her gentle, kind-hearted husband has rarely looked so grim.

"It's Lupin," he says, before she can ask. "He took off after Black sometime this afternoon. Half of the M.L.E. is convinced that he's going to try and kill Black himself, but Crouch is treating it as a full-fledged defection. He's convinced that Lupin has joined Black, and that the two of them are planning to rally what's left of the Death Eaters."

"No," Molly says. "Not again." Gideon and Fabian are not even three months in the ground, and the thought that Sirius Black is about to render their sacrifice meaningless is enough to tighten her stomach in rage and fear.

"The Dementors crossed into France late this evening," Arthur continues. "Crouch is running the operation himself, though he's put Shacklebolt in nominal charge. Dawlish told me that they were concentrating on Alsace-Lorraine at first, but that about an hour ago they switched their focus to Cologne. When I left, Bagnold was on the Floo with the German Minister, trying to get him to let the Dementors across the border."

"Do you think he will?" Molly asks. She is torn between wanting Black and Lupin caught and her innate dislike of Dementors.

"Doubtful." Arthur shakes his head. "The Germans are still too sensitive about the way they used the Dementors during the Grindelwald war. It's a serious crime to bring or allow one into the country. He'll probably insist on the Aurors instead, and I don't blame him one bit. The Dementors are getting increasingly frustrated at not having found Black, and as a result they're becoming increasingly difficult to control. The Aurors had to pull three of them out of Newgate Prison this morning, and I don't think it will be long before one of them Kisses someone. Someone not Sirius Black."

"Merlin forbid," Molly says. "Have you eaten yet, Arthur?" The change of subject is deliberate. There is no immediate threat to the safety of her house and family, and she is determined that her home will be free of fear – even if she herself is not.

When Arthur gives her a tired smile and shakes his head 'no', she rolls her eyes in fond exasperation then goes to the kitchen to fetch the plate she has been saving for him.

***

In the shadow of the stairs, the rat called Scabbers holds very still. He is trying to order man-sized thoughts in a rat-sized brain, and the process is not easy. He is not willing to resume his own form, not after the spell he felt brushing at him two days earlier. He'd been able to feel it questing after him, trying to make firmer contact even as he'd buried his mind in the instincts of his body.

Peter shudders at the memory of the closeness of Dark magic along his skin – of Black magic, intent and hungry for him. He'd been able to feel Sirius behind the spell, and the furious rage that is driving him. Sirius will be after revenge first and freedom second, and he will use Dark magic to do it, every spell he knows, and some that he probably doesn't yet, and now Remus has joined him and they will catch him catch him catch him.

Peter realises dimly that he is panicking, but is unable to stop the tremors that rack his small body.

***

"How long do you think we have?" Sirius asks.

"A few hours, if your luck holds," Phineas answers. "This house is Unplottable, which should throw off the Tracking Charm as long as they're trying to map Lupin. They won't be able to pinpoint your location until they get to the city and start using their wands instead."

"The wards will hold them," Sirius says. "Not forever, though, and if they're outside, they'll be close enough to track us when we Apparate."

"Do you even know where you're going?" Phineas asks sharply.

"I have a few ideas," Sirius says. "In the meantime, why don't you go on back to the Ministry and keep an eye on things? Bagnold'll have to ask permission before anyone or anything crosses into Germany – let us know when that happens, will you?"

He mentally awards himself ten points for the expression on Phineas's face. After a moment, though, the portrait gives him an almost civil nod before stepping out of his frame.

"Right," Sirius says, mentally dismissing him. He turns to Remus. "First things first. Let's get rid of that bloody Tracking Charm. Then, maybe, we can flee this ancestral monstrosity for someplace without a portrait of Phineas." The last is more sarcasm than it is seriously meant. As much as it pains Sirius to admit it, the old bugger has been surprisingly helpful.

"Sirius," Remus says. Sirius can hear the apology about to begin, and the guilt in Remus's eyes says quite clearly that if Sirius still wants to drive him away, this is the lever to use. He knows which words to use. The syllables have already formed, weapon-like, in his head. The idea is tempting for a moment, but the memory of James's face rises up in front of him, still and empty. The wound is too fresh for him to deliberately injure another of his friends.

Sirius chooses his next words very deliberately.

"Don't be thick, Remus," he says, his tone carefully off-hand. "There's no way you could have known that those prejudiced arseholes would be tracking you."

"I should have – "

"Should have, could have – you sound like me," Sirius says, catching his gaze and holding it.

Remus looks back, his eyes wide and startled, his mouth partly open in surprise. Sirius takes a sharp breath.

"I need you, Moony," he says. "I didn't realise it until you got here, but I can't do this alone." He's certain that everything he's been so carefully not saying is written clearly on his face, and looks away quickly.

"I led them straight to you," Remus says.

"They'd have found me eventually," Sirius says. "I'm glad you came." He is, too. The dreadful, lost feeling that has dogged him since Hallowe'en is – not gone, exactly, but in abeyance. Remus's presence helps to fill the empty spaces he has been carrying with him like shadows.

"Promise?" Remus asks.

It's an echo of earlier times, and for a moment the tide of memory sweeps Sirius up. I don't care if you're a werewolf, he'd said, and Remus had said, promise? in the same half-afraid-and-hiding-it tone that he's using now. Twelve years as the heir to House Black had left Sirius unable to comprehend how anyone could think so badly of themselves, let alone how Remus – serious, clever Remus – could do so. Ten years later, that hesitant, self-deprecating note in Remus's voice still raises Sirius's hackles and his protective instincts. I promise, he'd answered, and at twelve years old, he'd never meant anything more fervently.

"I promise," he says now, looking up to meet Remus's eyes. "Now can we get that bloody Tracking Charm off of you?"

***

Author's Notes: As always, my thanks to my wonderful betas. Title borrowed from Ted Hughes's Relic.

Thanks also to everyone who has taken the time to read/review. Your comments feed my plot-bunnies.