⋆ ˚｡⋆ ✧──────────────✧⋆｡˚ ⋆

❨ chapter seventeen. ❩
❛ changing tides ❜

⋆ ✧ ⋆

    FRANK LONGBOTTOM FELT his return to the Auror Office was far more dismal than he had predicted. True, they were currently severely understaffed, and the uproar caused by the attack on King's Cross station had not quite abated yet either, but Frank had assumed things might be closer to normal by now, if a bit more strained and busy.

    "As if," he grumbled to himself, huffing as he pulled another stack of files towards him and began rifling through them.

    Mad-Eye Moody had managed a cursory hello there before he told Frank to sort through the new (and so far, unfortunately, largely ignored) missing persons cases and prioritize them. There was also a stack of witness reports waiting for the younger Auror — was a job getting witnesses to speak about what they saw and who they might've seen at King's Cross that day, Moody had told Frank gruffly, scared witless, I suspect, the lot of them. Damn those Death Eaters.

    To Frank's dismay, this tedious paperwork came in addition to his existing duties – handling interdepartmental communication, drafting press releases for Moody's cases, arranging meetings with witnesses, etc., etc.

    "Keep your face like that any longer, Longbottom, and I bet it'll be stuck that way forever."

    Frank looked around at the sound of the mellow, amused voice and saw Alice Fawcett peering over the edge of his cubicle. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her hair was pulled into a braid that was coming apart generously by now. She looked exhausted, but she was smiling nevertheless.

    "You reckon so?" he asked, the muscles in his face relaxing as he sat up straighter.

    She nodded, surveyed their surroundings, then added in a whisper, "How else do you explain that scowl Scrimgeour and Mad-Eye have always got?"

    "Ah, no," Frank grinned back, "I thought they were saving it for me special. They've been leading me on then."

    Alice gave a short laugh, her cheeks turning pink, but said nothing further.

    "Good to see you, Alice," he added after a moment's awkward pause.

    "Likewise. I'm very glad you're here — out of the hospital, I mean. And here too, of course," she blustered, blinking down at him with an abashed expression. "The office has been so empty lately. . . anyways, I hope you're feeling better."

    Frank ignored the flush creeping down her neck and cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm loads better now, thanks. My leg's still seizing up a bit, but the Healers say it'll be gone within the week or so."

    "That's really good," she told him earnestly. Frank thought there was something else on her mind, for she seemed to be, in what seemed to be a rather uncomfortable experience, steeling herself before his eyes.

    Hoping to ease her mind, he gestured to the seat across from him, a silent invitation to join him.

    "Oh, thanks," she replied, looking grateful, then she ducked and disappeared from view momentarily before rising up again and stepping into his cubicle.

    She was carrying a large leather satchel in one hand, a tray bearing two lidded cups was balanced in the other. Alice settled herself across from him, then pushed a cup of what Frank could now tell was coffee towards him.

    He raised his brows, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

    "Well," she shrugged, looking half-embarrassed, half-pleased with herself. "You did promise me a 'riveting tale' over a cup of coffee, remember?"

⋆ ✧ ⋆

    THE BRILLIANTLY GREEN and orange sign creaked in the slow summer breeze, its golden letters shiny as ever:

GAMBOL AND JAPES
Wizarding Joke Shop
— Est. 1732 —

    Sirius could not help but grin at the sight of the familiar shop. How many days had he and James, accompanied frequently by either Remus or Peter, whiled away the summery hours poring over the latest inventions housed by the joke shop? They had come a long way since. . .

    A bell tinkled somewhere deep within the shop when Sirius pushed the door open. He had barely stepped over the threshold when a short, middle-aged witch came tottering from behind a shelf that was laden with hair-hexing chews, itch powder, giggle water, and dancing, fake tattoos.

    "Who is it?" she asked almost frantically, her wispy blonde hair escaping the severe bun atop her head. "What do you want?"

    Sirius looked at her, taken aback. "Um, hello," he said cautiously, approaching her with a caution that was more appropriate to the kind shown before an agitated hippogriff. "I'm here to inquire about a job. Assistant Merchandise Developer? I saw an ad about it in the Daily Prophet last week."

    "Oh," she breathed as she walked to stand behind the counter. She seemed to deflate before his eyes as she leaned against the counter and wiped her forehead. Giving him a bright smile, the woman said, "Here for a job, are you, son? Well, good of you come. Good of you."

    "Er, thanks?"

    "Of course," she said in a falsely airy tone, gesturing for him to come forth. "Right. Now, what's your name, dearie? I'll jot it down and Mr. Quipson – he's the owner of the place – can talk to you about the position, see if you'll be a fit for the job. He's just in the back, buttering crumpets, I believe. Nothing to fret about! He's a very kindly man, you'll see." She said all this very quickly. Grabbing a piece of parchment and a tattered old quill, she went on, "If deemed suitable, we'll get back to you within a week, yes? If not, well, we'll still get back to you within a week. Sound alright, dear? Any questions? Lovely. Now, what did you say your name was again?"

    Sirius bit back a laugh, imagining the look of incredulity on Peter's face if he ever met this woman. Or James' and Remus' equally intense amusement. It always was a wonder, really, how Gambol and Japes always managed to hire the chattiest, most annoying middle-aged floor assistants.

    Clearing his throat, he answered, "It's Sirius. Sirius Black."

    The woman's quill halted. She glanced up at him, surprise evident in her face, and Sirius felt his insides churn.

    "Black?" she repeated.

    "Yes," said Sirius through gritted teeth, sounding much more firm than he had intended. The witch's eyes grew wide for an infinitesimal second before she regained her composure and smiled at him, a little too warmly.

    "Right, then," she exhaled, scribbling his name across the parchment. "Right, well. . . I'll just go find Mr. Quipson and let him know you're here, alright? I do hope he's free – very busy man, he is. If he's otherwise occupied, we'll, ah, be sure to set up an interview for a later date. Sound alright, dearie?"

    Sirius nodded, restraining himself from pointing out that until two minutes ago, this Mr. Quipson was doing nothing but buttering crumpets.

    He watched the witch totter away and wondered vaguely how long it'd be before she returned to tell him that the owner of the shop was, most unfortunately, busy with another task of utmost importance. We're sorry about that - shall we schedule the meeting for another day? Leave us your address, and we'll owl you a new date and time soon!

    And sure enough –

    "Mr. Quipson is, unfortunately, writing a letter to the Ministry. He got fined yesterday for selling doxy-venom imbibed water balloons – they weren't dangerous, no, but those Ministry sods just needed an excuse to get money out of us, I expect."

    He let her ramble through her excuse without any interruptions; he knew perfectly well what had brought about this.

    ". . .So if you just leave your name and address here, I'll send you an owl to arrange a meeting with the owner, alright?" the assistant finished, slightly out of breath, sliding a square of parchment across the counter towards him.

    Sirius scribbled his new address on the piece of lime green parchment and handed it back to the witch, who took it with a taut smile and ushered him outside the shop.

    There would be no owls, he knew. There never were.

    It had been the same way for nearly every other job he'd sought over the past few weeks. No matter how many times he dropped by stores or offices, no number of inquiries he made could encourage people to offer him — who carried the name Black, a family known to be allies of You-Know-Who — any work.

    He supposed this knowledge would amuse his darling mother greatly – she definitely would see this as his rightful punishment for abandoning the family. Only now was it dawning on him, the implications of his abrupt departure that summer. Would it be like this for the rest of his life? People scurrying around him, avoiding his gaze the instant they learned of the name he carried? Would he never be able to escape the shadows cast by his family's reputation?

    "Sirius?"

    A wheezy voice sounded from behind him, pulling Sirius away from his tumultuous thoughts and forcing him to glance around.

    "Professor Sterling!" he exclaimed, catching sight of the short, balding man that had until recently been his Ancient Runes professor. "What a pleasant surprise to see you here."

    "Likewise, my boy! Likewise, indeed." Sterling extended a hand and shook Sirius' fervently. "How are you?"

    "Good," replied Sirius, a little overwhelmed by Sterling's rather enthusiastic manner. "What about you, sir?"

    "Oh, you boys know me," he answered airily, "Come hell or high water, I keep my chin up and my research going."

    "And acquiring increasingly difficult rune scripts for your students to decipher," Sirius added, grinning.

    Professor Sterling laughed jovially, albeit looking slightly sheepish all the same.

    "Oh, I am going to miss you, come next semester," he said, watching Sirius with his keen eyes. Then he glanced at his watch and asked, "Do you have a few minutes, my boy? Shall we grab a drink? Come, it's on me."

    Sirius was taken aback but pleased at the offer nevertheless. He had always liked the blustering yet shrewd Ancient Runes professor.

    He nodded. "Oh, uh, sure – thank you, sir."

    And so, half an hour later, Sirius found himself sitting across his former professor at a rickety wooden table in the corner of the Leaky Cauldron. The place wasn't empty per se, but the popular pub was far less crowded than he'd ever seen it yet.

    "Here we are," announced Geoffrey, the barman, as he approached their table, a tray balanced on one arm. "One Bungbarrel Spiced Mead-"

    "Ta, Geoff," said Sterling brightly, accepting a glass of dark, burgundy liquid.

    "So you'll be the cuppa," said the barman to Sirius, placing a cup of steaming, dark tea before him. "Strong. Two sugars. No milk."

    "Perfect," said Sirius, accepting his cup of tea. "Thanks, Geoffrey."

    "I'm surprised you aren't going for something stronger," remarked Sterling, sounding amused. "A strapping young man like you."

    "Does my reputation precede me?" Sirius grinned. "No, I know what you meant, sir! Forgive me, a small jest," he added as Professor Sterling looked highly apologetic. "I have an appointment later today at the Daily Prophet, you see, and I'd rather not show up tipsy."

    "Ah, I see," smiled Sterling kindly. He sipped his mead, watching Sirius over the rim of his glass. "I never took you as someone to have an interest in journalism, you know."

    Sirius felt heat creeping up his neck. Playing for time, he took a swig of his tea.

    "I've never been particularly enthralled by it, sir, no," he said finally when he could no longer avoid speaking, "But it might be a. . . an engaging field. Fruitful work, I expect. I'm still exploring my options, as they say."

    There was a rather knowing look on Professor Sterling's lined face as he said, "Hmm."

    The older man looked away as he took a sip of his spiced mead, eyeing the bustling street beyond the grimy window beside their table. Sirius, unsure of what else to say and now heartily wishing to escape this awkward conversation as soon as possible, took a few more gulps of his tea, feeling it blistering his tongue as he did so.

    Rather abruptly – and bluntly, Sirius would later reflect as he mulled over their conversation at night – Sterling turned to Sirius and asked, "I assume it has not been easy, has it? Landing a job in such times, especially given your – ah, background?"

    Sirius, now certain his face was red (whether in embarrassment or fury, he was not entirely sure), shook his head.

    Professor Sterling gave a curt nod and added, "Yes, I wouldn't have thought so. Things are. . . well, let's just say there isn't any soul alive that has not been touched by the war, and leave it at that, shall we?"

    Sirius did not know how to respond to this, so he opted for a small smile and extended silence. They sat like that, quiet and reflective, for a long moment, with Sirius continuing to sip on his tea with growing urgency, whilst Professor Sterling's glass of mead lay largely untouched, the man in question seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts.

    "What is it you want to do, Sirius? Really, actually want to do?"

    Not have this conversation, thought Sirius, especially not with old professors known for their too frank remarks.

    He looked up from his empty teacup to find Professor Sterling still glancing outside the window. Sirius too focused his gaze on it, watching condensation trickling down the murky glass panes.

    "I thought you wanted to be an Auror," prompted Professor Sterling, and Sirius let his eyes close for a fleeting moment.

    "I did want to be an Auror," he admitted quietly.

    "Why an Auror?"

    Sirius contemplated the question. Why had he wanted to be one after all?

    "It seemed about the only thing worth doing, really."

    "How do you mean?"

    Sirius sighed deeply, sounding weary as he began, "I don't know, sir–"

    "I merely wish to understand what you hoped to achieve becoming an Auror. You have many skills, Sirius. I stand by what I said near the end of term – you would be a valuable asset to any field. Any office."

    "Thank you, sir," replied Sirius flatly, "But I care much more about doing something for the war, something real – I can't sit in offices and spend my days in a cubicle."

    "No, I don't suppose you could. So what are you going to do about it?"

    "What?"

    Sirius stared at his former professor, perplexed. Professor Sterling, however, had seldom seemed more alert, and Sirius could still clearly recall the time that the man before him had deftly guided his class to safety when a pack of spell-resistant fireworks Peter and James had let loose accidentally set the room ablaze.

    "Professor, what are you. . .?"

    "It's a simple question, my boy. You weren't accepted into the Auror program: what are you going to do about it now? How are you going to help in the war?"

    Sirius gaped at him.

    "I don't-" he stopped himself, thinking of the smoke-leaden platform and the black hood slipping to reveal Bellatrix's face looming above him. He thought too of his mother's final, vile words to him as he sprinted out of Grimmauld Place. Of his father's indifference. Of Regulus' firm belief in Voldemort's creed. The dozens of rejection letters he'd received, and the many wary looks his last name invoked. Sirius' hands curled into fists.

    Taking in a shuddering breath, he said in a tone dripping with a calmness he did not feel, "I'm not entirely sure how to answer your question, sir – not yet. I know I want to help defend the Wizarding World against Lord Voldemort." Professor Sterling jumped slightly, but Sirius ignored him. "And in the meantime, I want to take down as many Death Eaters as I can. I want to do my part for the war, and I'll find a way soon enough."

    Professor Sterling offered neither encouragement nor disappointment at his words. Sirius shifted in his chair, afraid he'd said too much. A throbbing pain was growing at the corner of his temples, and he resisted the urge to press against it.

    Finally, Professor Sterling glanced away, picked up his glass of mead, and drained the burgundy liquid in one. He choked slightly, then coughed.

    "Excuse me," he said gruffly, then fixed Sirius with a look. "I wish to say something, and I hope you will listen without much interruption."

    Professor Sterling waited for Sirius to assent, who nodded, perplexed.

    "I had intended to speak with you sooner regarding a matter of utmost sensitivity, whilst you were still at Hogwarts this year. But some pr-people felt it was not the right moment," the aging professor revealed slowly, running a finger absentmindedly around the rim of his glass. "However, seeing as you are of age, have formally left Hogwarts now, and show an interest in the matter. . . well, I believe you should be given the option, to do with as you wish."

    When the man did not continue, Sirius prompted him, now more curious than confused, "I don't – I'm not sure I comprehend what it is we're talking about, sir. What option are you talking about?"

    Bartholomew Sterling had oddly bright, golden eyes, which were at the moment focused intently upon Sirius. The man seemed to be doing some very fast thinking, and Sirius had a distinct impression that he was measuring Sirius up.

    At long last, Sterling leaned forward and said softly, "If you are willing, then I may have a job in mind for you, Sirius – something that will offer you a chance to make a difference in this war. To join the resistance against You-Know-Who and his supporters."

⋆ ✧ ⋆

    THE HEADMASTER'S OFFICE was unusually loud that evening. Not that it ever was silent, truth be told. Jaded by the mundanity of life as a portrait, no doubt, the previous Headmasters and Headmistresses spent most of their time flitting through each other's portraits and chattering the hours away. Still, they seemed unnaturally talkative tonight, swapping theories on the latest disappearances and debating the competency of the Minister for Magic. Fawkes seemed agitated as well, shrieking from his corner every few minutes.

    "Forgive me, but old age has not done many wonders for my hearing," Dumbledore remarked dryly, turning over a page of the latest report he'd received from Dedalus Diggle, who had been marking Death Eater activity in Dorset. "Some silence would do me good."

    Most of the other portraits fell silent at once, though some others continued their conversations in hushed whispers. Phineas Nigellus Black, however, gave a dry laugh.

    "Oh Albus, you're losing your hearing as surely as the Dark Lord is losing this war," he remarked, inviting outrage from some of the other portraits. "In other words-"

    But his words were drowned by the sound of the other portraits crying out.

    "Impertinence, Phineas," scolded Dilys Derwent.

    Eupraxia Mole spluttered, "Such a brazen display of insolent manners, I would not have thought possible!"

    "You forget yourself, sir," wheezed Armando Dippet.

    "Thank you," interjected Dumbledore, raising a hand to silence the other Headmasters and Headmistresses that had joined in on admonishing Phineas Nigellus, who looked rather pleased with the reactions his words had invoked. "We shall debate this at a later date, Phineas."

    "If you wish," drawled Phineas Nigellus, leaning back in the emerald velvet of his chair and steepling his fingers together.

    Dumbledore returned to the sheaf of parchment he was perusing. Three Muggle families attacked in broad daylight. Two missing witches. One Muggle couple found dead — killing curse suspected, Diggle had noted in his loopy writing. One Inferi sighting. The last one troubled Dumbledore the most.

    If his sources were to be trusted, and Dumbledore wholeheartedly believed in the accuracy of their claims, then Voldemort was indeed amassing a following of Inferi. But how? He was at a loss to see how Voldemort might be achieving this; Necromancy was a notoriously rare branch of magic, one practiced mostly by those that had been gifted certain powers. It was not unlike the sight Seers often boasted of, yet Dumbledore thought Necromancy, at least, could be learned. Perhaps. There wasn't much information on the topic. If Voldemort had indeed learned how to revive the dead to do his bidding. . .

    "Dumbledore?"

    "A moment, please, Phineas."

    "No, really, Dumbledore."

    "A minute."

    "You just said a moment."

    "Phineas."

    "Fine," he huffed, clearly irked, "let that owl flutter outside till you finish that monstrosity of a report."

    Dumbledore looked up sharply. Phineas was smirking down at him. Armando Dippet, from his frame behind Dumbledore, added quickly, "The window on your right, Albus."

    And sure enough, there it was: a large, tawny owl bobbing in mid-air right outside the misty window.

    Setting aside the parchment he was holding, Dumbledore hurried to let the owl inside, noticing the tiny scroll attached to its leg.

    "And who might have sent you this late, hmm?" he asked the owl as he untied the scroll from it. The owl hooted softly, and when Dumbledore had relieved it of its letter, fluttered away to the fireplace, landing beside Fawkes' perch.

    With a sense of foreboding, Dumbledore unrolled the scroll, smoothed it out, and frowned at the hastily scribbled message he found:

If it is not too late, I wish to accept your offer. How may I be of assistance?
—J.  M. Harte

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ✧──────────────✧⋆｡˚ ⋆

✦ END OF ACT I ✦

A/N.
And with that. . . can you believe it. . .
we've reached THE END OF ACT I!!! I
never thought I'd get so far in the story,
but here we are. As you have probably
noticed by now, Act I was about set-up
and showing how the main character(s)
end up in the Order and what the First
Wizarding War was like. Also, will you
believe me if I say Juliette & Sirius
finally meet in the next chapter??
because they do — yay!

don't forget to vote and (if you can) —
comment on the chapter!! Your support
and reviews really motivate me
to write this story :)