09

THE PROMISE

December 1975

Potter House

James would never flinch when he heard his father's footsteps passing before his room.

He never flinched when his father called him 'Snake' while gulping down the contents of his brandy glass that was never empty. He never flinched when his mother looked at him and averted her eyes without seeing him.

James Potter did not flinch.

He smirked with using only the left side of his lips. He rolled his eyes. He looked down on them.

James would avoid coming over the Potter residence all together if he could. But the only way to see his friends over the winter holidays was to hope his father would forget to put down the Floo wards for the night, or botch them up altogether due to his inebriated state, and James would sneak out in the middle of the night to the Number 12, Grimmauld Place where it felt like his real home.

So he came back. He always did.

Last night the idiot had charmed the whole fireplace magenta instead of warding it. James had no idea how his father's wand still worked for him. If he were a wand he'd long since stop working with a caster like Fleamont Potter.

Of course, James had to accept that saying it aloud had been a mistake. His father had never been a man that could take James' cheek i his stride -well, at least not since he had been sorted to, as his father would put it, "the House that Brought Shame to the Name of Potter and How Could Fleamont Potter Face His Friends Now".

In short, yes, it was stupid of James to point out the incompetence of Fleamont and to his face, too. He was disappointed in himself.

"Even your wand must be ashamed of the botched up magic you constantly perform," James had said. "Say, father, how much does it hurt your pride when you continue to call yourself a wizard?"

Stupid. Unbelievably stupid.

Most of all, because, his father wasn't exactly incompetent, and when he was not completely knackered he could be even called strong. In the middle of the day, when James had uttered the words that he should have not, he hadn't been really drunk. It was, after all, that time of the day that Fleamont Potter could be even called sober.

See. Stupid.

Especially considering that Fleamont Potter was at his worst when suffering from a hangover when without his go-to sober-up potion that would save him from the horrid headache and nausea. It could have been better if he had been drinking enough to not feel the hangover, but James knew that it was too early for that.

James knew the stages of his father's day intimately.

No, at this time of the day, Fleamont Potter would be angry. Angry at his pounding head, angry at his stupid wife, angry at the fact that it was another unwanted morning that he had to celebrate another unwanted Christmas with his unwanted child that never remained in school during breaks, and most of all, angry at the way James had talked.

And when Fleamont Potter was angry, he took his wand in his hand. Especially now, when he was dying to prove how competent he was with that exact wand to his ungrateful child.

James, of course, did not flinch when his father threatened him with the exact wand James pitied.

Instead, he smirked, raised a single eyebrow and wore the most condescending expression that he could possible have. James knew himself to be rather good at it.

When the first curse hit him right on his chest, James had been busy making fun of his father in his head. Stupid mistake, of course.

This day was a chain of stupid mistakes. He thought he could blame his nerves, his dislike for spending the holiday with his parents, he could even blame his youth. But they were just excuses and excuses were for people like Fleamont Potter or Gryffindors that felt the need to explain their every behavior to feed some sort of a noble ideal that was, more often than not, just too far fetched to be the truth.

No, James wasn't a self fooling idiot and so he could accept his behaviour for what it was: stupidity. Even when the shocks of electricity coursed through his veins, making his heart beat impossibly fast he could accept that fact. It didn't matter that he noticed that he was unable to stand up at the same time he noticed that he had fallen to the ground, he still could use his mind.

A little.

He still tried to find his balance on his two feet, and damned his stupidity once again when he felt the second curse - charm, technically, since it was a fire spell and they were rarely actual curses and when they were they had a fancy name like fiendfyre or something - burn his shoulder.

Attack or run, he thought, but his mind failed to reach at a conclusion.

James was sure that he must have screamed, since he really and truly hated the feel of burning, the crispy smell of it, and how bubbly his skin felt; how tender it became, like it would never heal. No matter how many times his burns have healed, James still always felt like one day they wouldn't. Unfortunately, his father knew what that did to James, making it his go-to spell for disciplining his son.

His stupidity, of course, didn't end there, why would it? He was on a roll today.

He had no wand. He had left it in his room.

Never again, James thought as he ducked the third spell, thanking years of Quidditch practice and adrenaline coursing through his system. He barely heard Fleamont's screams proclaiming James a traitor along with other colourful profanities and finally, finally, he started to run.

James' luck returned when he knocked over his mother by the staircase, looking dumbly at the commotion as clueless as ever. He ignored her voice that called out his name indignantly, but he didn't ignore the wand that stuck out of the pocket of her robes.

He didn't know why the idiot woman even carried a wand with her at all, since she hardly used it for anything useful, and definitely never to defend her son. Still, it was a lucky turn for James, and a great time to break the chain of stupidity.

No more.

He grabbed the wand, pulling it nimbly from her robes and flicked it, aiming at his father. Using his mother's wand made James feel strangely sullied, like he was betraying his own Mahogany one. He tried to ignore the disturbing feeling or how weak the magic that left from its tip had been along with his mother's desperate cry for her wand.

"My wand!" Exclaimed the woman pathetically.

Stupid bitch cared about her wand, did she?

Anger was a powerful tool and as reluctant as this wand was, it couldn't ignore the command that was fueled with so much of it. His father tripped, snarling as he fell. James didn't like that he had to use harmless spells, unless he was willing to risk trouble with the Aurors. It was a real shame, since now lying on the ground, his father had become the perfect target. It would be so easy to just kill him.

He wished to kill him.

But he'd wait. He'd take his time and he would be smart about it. It meant this was not the time to murder the pathetic worm.

So he turned and climbed the stairs as fast as he could, and he was the fastest person in Hogwarts, reached his door and failing to blast it with the useless wand of his mother, he shouldered it, despite the scorching pain that the contact doubled, the door opened.

He closed the door as his father's steps approached and James threw the strongest repelling ward that he knew of -and it thankfully worked, albeit tentatively. It wouldn't hold for long, not like a spell from his own wand would have, but it would give him several seconds, maybe a minute. James could even spend one of those seconds on letting out a frustrated, pain driven, tearful scream.

Why was he even crying?

It did no good other than blurring his vision and turning breathing into a struggle. He wasn't weak, he didn't need the damned tears. What he needed was to get out of here.

Only if he could breathe.

Just a single, lung filling breath would do, but he didn't have the time. Not to breathe, not to think of a plan; just enough to act. He grabbed the several books scattered around his bed and threw it into his open Hogwarts chest. He snapped the chest close, feeling strangely satisfied when it locked itself.

James was quick. If he had one strength over all it would be how quick he truly was. His vision, blurry with tears and almost tunnel-like due to pain, didn't even slow him down. He didn't think over what to grab, everything that he didn't have inside his chest were already forfeit. There was no time left to be sentimental over things. They didn't matter.

No more.

He hoped throwing the chest that had his belongings out the window as soon as he pocketed his wand was not as stupid as it felt. His father was already banging down the door and soon enough it blasted inwards with wood pieces flying all around his room - old room, now, he supposed. Some even stuck into his skin but James tried to ignore the pain. Instead, he dove for his broom as fast as he could and felt a gush appearing on his left arm, blood flowing down from it, but he could deal with that later.

Sentimentality or genius, he didn't know, but he needed his broom. He was the captain of the Quidditch team this year, and he couldn't screw that up, given that this day surely would put a damper on his already begrudgingly given allowance. Also, a broom was a good method of escaping this mess, since he couldn't apparate, and it would be even more stupid to try to reach back to the floo.

"Just where do you think you are going?" his father sputtered at him, his already messy hair getting even messier. James hated how much he looked like his father, as odd a thought it was when being attacked by the same guy.

Things had surprisingly escalated today, hadn't they?

His father's question was valid, James had to give it to him. He didn't know where he was going. He had no idea, in fact. Not like he had any time to come up with a plan before his father started to teach him a lesson.

Anywhere but here, was the only legitimate answer he could give to himself.

"Crucio," was the only answer his father deserved.

Unfortunately, all the hate and intent he could muster wasn't enough. Even before it reached its target James knew that the spell was weak. Still, he couldn't help but feel strangely, darkly, proud of casting his first Unforgivable. He didn't even care the move was stupid. Wasn't he supposed to be careful not to create trouble with the Aurors?

But today had been the day of stupidity, so why not add one more?

"Why you foul little-"

James didn't let his father finish talking and his next spell, a stupify this time, hit him right on his chest. He damned the inconsistency of the spell work of a wand that did not choose him but he would still take what he was given, since this time spell was even harsher than he had intended. Wands were funny like that.

His father dropped to the ground and his mother shrieked.

"Monty… Monty… Darling…" Euphemia started to chant. But that wasn't what stopped James in his tracks. It was the next thing she said. "Why do you always have to hurt us?" she asked James, looking at him for the first time in a long time. "What did we ever do to deserve you?"

James Potter, as expected, did not flinch.

No.

As usual, he smirked. Only, it was a little harder this time.

Orion Black sat behind his mahogany desk in his spacious study and eyed his sons.

"Dark times are coming," his father had said to him. "Rumours of the new Dark Lord is arising, of this Lord Voldemort... Prepare your sons."

If Arcturus Black was worried, then so was Orion. Blacks were always targeted when Dark Lords were around. It had been the same with Grindelwald, although the Blacks didn't even endorse him beyond meeting few of his followers in several occasions. It did not matter of course. They were always deemed a House to be feared, and Orion felt both a little proud and exasperated by that.

'Prepare your sons,' meant that Orion was to tell them about the box that was placed on the desk.

"What is it?" Sirius said leaning towards it. "It looks -"

"Like nothing important?" Regulus said.

His older son turned and looked at his brother with a smirk. "Which means it certainly is not."

"Obviously," Regulus said.

Orion stopped his smile from forming, enjoying his sons reaching to conclusions. He wondered how far would they go just by looking at the box. He wondered if they'd be able to figure out what it was without touching it. He had a strong feeling even if not spot on, they would come really close to the truth.

"This is called the Black Book," Orion said.

"A grimoire?" Sirius asked and Regulus snorted.

"No, the Grimoire," Regulus said, condescending. "Aren't you listening?"

Sirius huffed, unfazed by his brother's attitude. Orion knew both of them were used to each other's behaviour towards one another -they preferred it so. "It's the same f- it's the same thing!" But then he stopped. "Oh, you mean this is the Black Grimoire."

"Precisely," Orion said at the same time Regulus said "Clearly," making Sirius sneer at him.

Orion did not try to stop the laughter that escaped him upon that.

"Why haven't we seen it before?" Sirius asked.

"Because you can't use it, not yet," Orion explained, caressing the wooden box that carried the tomes of knowledge from hundreds of years. Every spell, potion and formula the Black patriarchs had used, invented and recorded was hidden there. From ancient summoning circles to blood wards, from Dark Magic to sacrificial rites… "Only the Black Patriarch and his Heir can open this box and read these tomes. This can never reach the hands of strangers. Whoever they might be."

"Why are you showing it to us?" Regulus asked suspiciously. "Why now?"

"Because of Lord Voldemort," Sirius said, his eyes fixed on Orion. He was mildly surprised how spot on his son was; but Sirius had always been strangely intuitive, if not as highly logical as Regulus. "He doesn't want Him to have access to this information. And we all know there will be conflict, if not a full blown civil war, and if he and grandfather dies, you and I will be the Patriarch and the Heir," Sirius continued as his eyes turned to Regulus. "It's preparation."

Orion sighed.

"Yes, well, thank you, Sirius," he said. "For explaining it. You are quite right."

"What about Grandpa Pollux and Uncle Cygnus?" Regulus frowned. "They are older, surely they are-"

"They aren't raised by Lord Black and his heir. You are."

Sirius, Orion observed, had paled. Orion didn't blame him. He was proud to notice that it was the only sign that Sirius had shown that proved that the idea terrified him. His just nodded once, his swallow only slightly noticeable.

"Not like this is a surprise," Sirius said, voice still unwavering. "I'd just thought -'tis a bit early."

"Are there dark spells in there?" Regulus suddenly asked, changing the subject. Orion was rather glad that to topic was back to where it should be: teaching.

"What is a dark spell, Regulus?" Orion asked his son.

Regulus wasn't expecting the quiz, apparently, because his eyebrows rose with surprise before he frowned considering the answer.

"I suppose we could argue that they are the ones that ministry has classified as such," he said.

"What method does the Ministry use to determine which spells to classify as dark?" Orion asked.

"Harm," Sirius answered this time. "If the purpose of a spell is to harm a living being, and that is its sole purpose -or if a spell needs to inflict harm to be performed, I suppose Ministry would classify them as dark."

Regulus seemed to agree with his big brother, because he nodded.

"That is a very good explanation," Orion said. "Yes, there are dark spells there. There are spells the Ministry surely would ban if they were to know their existence. But there is more than that. After all there were dark curses, hexes, jinxes, enchantments even before the Ministry, and there were Dark Witches and Wizards then, as well. Spells that were taboos, that inflicted fear, people that others stayed clear of. How do you think they were classified as dark back then?"

"Why would they need to classify it?" Regulus wondered. "I mean, if a wizard is going to harm me, I wouldn't really care if he was to do it with a dark spell or a basic level charm, would I? I'd try to defend myself, or run and hide."

"That's not the point," Sirius cut off his brother's idea. "The point is they did, apparently, whether it was necessary or not. Right?"

Orion nodded. "They certainly did-" he started, but Sirius cut him off as well.

"Fear, then," he said, assured that it was the right answer. "They called the spells dark because they were afraid of them."

Orion accepted his answer with a nod. "Very good conclusion. Fear has always been the reason when ordinary witches and wizards name things. It is a scale they use in almost every classification of a spell. When ordinary witches and wizards rule the magical world, or gain political standing, they allow their fears to judge for them.

"But there is a difference," Orion continued. "Difference between a spell that is called dark, and a spell that is actually Dark. Do any of you know what that difference is?"

Orion could see that his sons were trying to reach an answer that worked well with the fear theory, but he also knew that would not aid them in finding the right answer. He still waited patiently for them to think it over and develop some ideas.

"If they named ordinary spells dark because of fear, it would mean they often classified them wrong?" Regulus questioned, and Orion could see that changed the route Sirius was thinking almost instantly.

"So what would classify a spell as Dark when it is the right category?" he asked aloud. "Not intent, obviously, since that works well with the idea of fear - which is not the right method."

Orion could almost laugh with glee at his sons quick thinking. They were closer than he had hoped.

"What are the Dark spells we know?" Regulus asked Sirius. "The Unforgivables, Inferius-"

"Fiendfyre, Necromantic spells," Sirius continued. "They must have something in common."

"There is something in common," Orion said, deciding to help them a little.

"They all have different intents, and no matter what the intent they are still considered Dark," Regulus said. "So you must have been right that it is not about intent."

"Yes, I know," Sirius said, waving Regulus off. "And I think I know what they have in common."

"Oh?" Orion was curious. He had a feeling his son would be spot on and he was already proud of that fact.

"Soul," Sirius said and leaned ahead in excitement. "It always comes down to that, doesn't it? It requires will, focus, but also the caster. The other spells may get their force from the caster, but a truly Dark spell uses the caster's own soul, doesn't it?"

This time, Orion laughed.

"You two," he said. "You two couldn't make me more proud of you. That is correct. The theory is that a rightly named Dark spell will use the caster's own soul, fracture it, drain it, take from it. These spells are Dark, not because they harm an enemy, but because they are believed to harm magic itself ."

"After all, harm and good means nothing on a greater scale," Regulus breathed out. "Death or life, good or bad-"

"Means nothing to magic," Orion finished his son's words.

"How can magic be harmed?" Regulus wondered aloud. "Or soul be fractured? How do you break your soul? Everyone says this like it's so easy to understand, but I never have, not really."

Sirius didn't look at his brother or Orion when he absentmindedly added: "And even if you can," Sirius started. "Why is it such a bad thing?"

This debate interested Orion greatly. These were good questions, hard to answer and required careful thinking.

"Mostly the effects will be instability and it develops a certain addiction to the Dark Magic. It creates a void, I suppose you can name it, and that void can only be filled with similar magic."

His boys remained silent for a while, processing the new information.

"Yes, but," Sirius started with a strange glint in his eye. "Why is a broken soul a bad thing?"

Orion turned to him, unsure of the question. Sirius must have understood that he needed to elaborate.

"I mean, what does a fracture really does to a soul? No, I know - I get that it creates a void; it's fine. What I really want to know is… Let's say -let's say that I broke a plate, right? It's no longer a plate. But from a magical standpoint, it's still a thing. Even though its use has changed, it isn't less of thing, is it? It may not be the same thing anymore, but if it still exists why would we care that it's broken? Aside from our attachment to that item, it doesn't really affect much, does it?

"Why would a plate care because its purpose and shape has been altered? Why would soul? Everything changes. Everything in this universe gets constantly broken, reshaped, reused. Why is it a bad thing for your soul to gain a new shape, a new form? It's just -a void is a void. Why should we be afraid of it or of our need to feed it?

"Even a mad mind is a mind, and it still can be a strong mind. Just -I'm sorry but just look at Trixie, yeah? She is half mad and there is no denying she uses Dark Magic with her afternoon tea. But you can't call her weak, or stupid, and you can't ignore her will-power nor her usefulness.

"Why is one thing bad and the other is not. Why would magic care if your soul is whole or not? Isn't everything already connected, where magic is concerned?"

Orion listened to his eldest son, still too young to be thinking these things. He had no definite answers to give him, and he wasn't sure if Sirius needed one. These were not questions that could be answered easily, but to ponder upon. How did a sixteen year old had developed these ideas, and he wasn't sure if he should be afraid for his son or proud of him.

He was disappointed when his son stopped talking when the familiar crack of the House-Elf of the Grimmauld Place appeared inside the study.

"Mistress calls for you, Master," Kreacher bowed low.

Orion looked at the clock on the wall to check if they were late. They weren't. He couldn't fathom why his wife would interrupt their meeting.

"Where?"

"The drawing room, Master."

When Orion entered his wife's drawing room he found her pacing and mumbling angrily. His initial instinct was to search his memory to find a reason that he'd be the cause of her agitation, and the next was trying to see if it was any reason caused by their sons, which was unlikely since today they had been with him mostly.

"Traitors… the lot of them… how dare... "

He barely heard the words dropping from his wife's mouth.

"You have called for me?" he asked politely. He had learned to tread carefully when his wife was angry.

Walburga turned towards him, her robes flying, and Orion could swore that her eyes sparked.

"Orion!" she exclaimed with her high pitched voice. "You will name James Potter your ward!"

Orion halted and looked at his wife more seriously. Something must have happened.

"I believe you will explain the reasons why you think I should do that?"

Walburga scoffed and continued her pacing.

"Isn't it enough the poor boy is being raised by blood traitors?" she said. "Surely that would be enough to drive you to do something about it! And now they have gone and attacked him! Salazar knows how long that was going on! They hurt him! He had to fly on his broomstick, Orion, to come here! At this weather! A pureblood boy running from home in that condition! Unacceptable!"

Orion tried to filter all the information being sent by his wife to try to make sense of the situation.

"So James is here?" he asked.

"Of course he is here! Would I send him back, you think?"

"And he ran away from the Potter's house?" he asked, ignoring his wife.

"That is what I am telling you, isn't it?" Walburga yelled. "Aren't you listening to me?"

Orion sighed, his wife needed an answer. Of course he'd ward James Potter, that wasn't even a question. Nevermind that it would be a favourable move that would benefit his House in the future, but he also liked the kid. With all the mischief and recklessness he had in him, he was smart and surely to be a great wizard someday.

He had been a great friend for Sirius, too. They were already like brothers.

"Walburga, I am not refusing your request," he explained. "I am merely trying to understand the severity of the situation."

That made Walburga stop and nod.

"So, Potters have hurt the boy, and he found the solution in running away on a broomstick on a December night?" The weather was frigid. The poor boy must have been cold to the bones. "Is he being taken care of?"

"Of course," Walburga said. "He is having a warm bath now."

"Good," he said and ignored Walburga's scowl. "I will send an owl to father. I'm sure he'll be most pleased. Do not worry, dear. I will not send the boy back."

"You can't anyway," Walburga said, her shoulders stiff and her nose upturned. "I made a promise."

Hello again,

As always million thanks to Calebski for her help and reassurance, also congratulations my dear!

Another background chapter, another look into the lives of young Marauders!

I hope you enjoyed it, if so, please let me know!

I love you all, and see you next time!

Synoir

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