Chapter Text
Sirius’ gaze swept over his desk.
Cluttered, James had called it. Impressive, considering the short time
He wasn’t wrong. Strips of parchment peeked out from under a heavy tome covered in golden runes; letters he was supposed to answer (but intended to ignore) were stacking up beside his ink bottle; and the latest issue of Witch Weekly had been shoved to the far edge of the desk.
Sirius grimaced.
They’d sent it unsolicited, to inform him he’d won Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award. Again.
How, Sirius wasn’t sure. He’d been trying to sneer lately, to avoid exactly such an outcome.
James had joked it was time he got settled. Not least to avoid Witch Weekly’s other regularly awarded title — Most Eligible Bachelor.
That would spare Sirius a lot of trouble. But there was a bit of a phoenix-and-ash problem.
Whenever he went on dates, it went awry — thanks to his looks and Witch Weekly — and soon it’d veer into territory too crude, even for him.
Not that he minded a bit of fun, now and then. But as time passed, he found the fun tainted, people fixed on the way he looked and nothing else.
It was boring. Not worth it.
There were things more important than dating, anyway.
Coming back to the UK to help with James’ broom workshop was one of them. Another was to ensure Harry would have at least one Defence professor who stayed.
He’d told James as much, then ignored the slightly patronising smile James had put on — like he knew something Sirius didn’t. But just because James had found the love of his life didn’t mean everyone else ought to go searching.
No, honestly, Sirius thought most people were better off without a partner. Finding a Lily to your James seemed about as likely as surviving the Defence Against the Dark Arts post for more than a year.
Sirius preferred to take his chances with the latter.
Dumbledore’s note had come at the right time. Then Harry’s disappointment about losing his latest Defence professor had been the final nudge.
Sirius was ‘uniquely suited’, of course, having fought in the war that had brought down Voldemort, followed by a career as a Curse-Breaker that had taken him all across the two American continents.
Hogwarts needed stability. They needed someone who knew what he was doing.
Lily kept joking that he was ill-prepared regardless.
‘You should be scared, Sirius. Curses are easier to handle than a bunch of teenagers. I doubt they’ll be much impressed by your smile…’
He doubted that. Harry seemed excited enough for him to start at Hogwarts. Relieved, almost.
Well. No surprise there. It seemed the bar was on the floor. All he had to do was not stumble over it. If there weren’t that other tiny issue. Or should he say challenge?
The job was cursed.
Sirius loved the irony.
For decades, not a single professor had managed to hold down this position for more than a year.
The curse was another reason he was perfect for the job. Curses were his speciality; not one he’d failed to break. There were always signs, for those who knew what to look for.
He’d do what he always did. First step: gather as much information as possible. Same old procedure — only this time the clues were in people, not runes or traces of spells that had long since fallen apart. Then, and only then, look at the big picture.
He ran through the list of his own Defence professors:
First year: resigned, after accidentally injuring a student.
Second year: died of age.
Third year: wanker (bigot). Sacked (rightfully).
Fourth year: decapitated by magical beast.
Fifth year: murdered.
Sixth year: murdered (though officially ‘an accident’).
And so on.
That had been twenty years ago. More recently, professors had been sacked for getting involved with students (sleazy), had left for family reasons (fair), or to pursue prestigious new job opportunities (boring).
A man called Remus Lupin had been the last one to hold the job — his immediate predecessor. Sirius would write to him first.
He yanked a piece of parchment free, summoned his quill, and penned a brief letter:
Dear Mr Lupin,
My name is Sirius Black. I am writing to you because, in September, I will take on the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor at Hogwarts — a job which, as I understand it, belonged to you until recently.
It has been brought to my attention that this position in particular proves difficult to keep. Perhaps you might be able to provide more insight on the matter.
Please let me know whether you would be amenable to meeting up. I look forward to receiving your owl.
Sincerely,
Sirius Black
And Sirius waited.
Mostly while hanging around at the Potters’.
James had turned the shed into a small racing-broom workshop when Harry had started at Hogwarts three years ago. Custom racing brooms, racing-broom improvements, broom repairs. James was the best. And only now that he saw him daily did Sirius realise how much he had missed him.
However, James was also an idiot.
Blinded by his passion, he had bitten off a lot more than he could chew. Which was saying something, considering his big mouth (and skills). But the truth was, James was struggling. He had yet to turn down a request.
It was a good thing Sirius had been sick of travelling. Spending time in the workshop, musing about acceleration and drifting, reminded him of their Hogwarts years. Of looking for new challenges when their classes failed to provide them. And, eventually, of brooding over leather-bound tomes, trying to piece together the Animagus process.
Nearly six months of their sixth year they had spent on that project. Luckily, racing brooms weren’t as time-consuming.
Sometimes Harry would join them in the shed, his best friend Ron Weasley in tow. For the most part, though, they seemed content on their own.
‘Let’s face it, we’re losing touch,’ James said one day, staring after Harry, who had left the shed with an eye-roll and a groaned, ‘Dad,’ followed by a mumbled apology directed at Ron.
James ran a hand through his already messy hair as he regarded the broom he had taken apart. The handle was still glowing with the spell he had cast on it. Something was wrong with its altitude sensitivity.
‘One second you’re cool, the next your kid tells you to shut up because you’re embarrassing him.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Sirius with a grin. ‘He’s never told me that.’
What was it Harry had said? Sirius knows how to fix things. A cheeky dig at his own father, when Sirius had managed to lift the curse from a client’s broomstick. Nevermind the unfair advantage.
James huffed. ‘Yeah, ’cause you don’t tell him to clean up his room.’
Sirius laughed. He was about to tell James to leave the kid alone when he realised Lily stood in the doorway.
‘I don’t think either of you were ever cool,’ she said. ‘Messrs Padfoot and Prongs.’
‘She’s just jealous,’ James mouthed silently at Sirius.
‘It’s a good thing I never cared for cool,’ Lily added, her gaze dragging over the shed’s walls, taken up with tables and diagrams detailing James’ favourite Quidditch team’s chances to win the league (slim).
James coughed and it sounded suspiciously like: ‘Snape.’
As far as Sirius was concerned, real was cool. He’d always loved James for being passionate about the things he loved, especially when that passion was considered ‘too much’ by some. Which was an impressive feat, considering everyone loved Quidditch. But Lily was right. Being popular was overrated. Fucking Witch Weekly.
Worrying about other people’s opinions was a waste of time.
Ironically, wasting his time became his new speciality.
It seemed Remus Lupin was, in fact, not willing to schedule a meeting. Or even pick up a quill and reply.
After a week, Sirius decided to try his luck with one of the others.
‘What were your other professors’ names?’ he asked Harry one evening when he stopped by for dinner.
‘Are you actually going through with this?’ James asked. ‘I thought you were joking.’
‘Curse-breaking is no joking matter, Jimjams,’ Sirius tutted.
James snorted. ‘No, I can see it’s not.’
Sirius shot him a grin. ‘I’m a very serious man,’ he said, before turning to Harry. ‘I think Harry deserves a Defence professor who outlasts the year. So — what are their names?’
‘Quirrell,’ Harry said. ‘And Lockhart. But I wouldn’t meet up with Lockhart, if I were you. Or anyone else.’ He scrunched up his face.
No. Sirius wouldn’t start with Lockhart. He’d picked up one of his books already, and half his brain had died.
Quirrell, then.
The sun was setting when Sirius arrived at the narrow house that seemed to be Quirinus Quirrell’s residence. It was squashed between the edge of a forest and a small footpath that wound around it and disappeared between the trees.
At the edge of nowhere.
Sirius wondered whether the Muggles even knew it existed. The trace of magic around it was unmistakable. But it wasn’t the usual signature unique to every magical place. This was something else, something deliberate.
Someone — Quirrell, probably — had placed so many protective and detection spells on it that Sirius pictured them as a net blanketing the property. However, he hadn’t done a very good job.
The net had more than a few holes. It would take less than ten seconds to make it wobble, then tear apart.
Plus, those protection spells were too flashy. And flashy simply wasn’t something you wanted in a good protection spell.
And yet they seemed to alert Quirrell to Sirius’ presence.
Sirius waited patiently, heels sinking into the damp grass, as he watched a shadow flit past the window. Easy though it might be, it wasn’t on to take down someone’s protective spells.
The door creaked, but something seemed to be holding Quirrell up.
Sirius considered the house — all curtains drawn shut, runes carved into the wooden door, rocks scattered on the ground in distinctive shapes. A single rooster pecking at the grass.
A picture had been forming in Sirius’ head since Quirrell’s reply, and now it sharpened.
A strange reply it had been — oozing with urgency, as though Quirrell had desperately been waiting for Sirius’ letter.
Dear Mr Black,
Of course I know who you are. There are not many experts on creature-bound curses. I am free this afternoon. Please follow the instructions laid out in the attached note.
Yours sincerely,
Quirinus Quirrell
The attached note had seemed to be a rough sketch of a forest, but when Sirius had taken a closer look, it had flashed and transformed into a perfect drawing of the house he was now staring at.
Not five seconds later, it had caught fire and shrivelled to dust. By then, Sirius had already dropped it. He knew where he needed to go.
At long last, the door opened. A man appeared.
Quirinus Quirrell was dressed in a plain set of black robes, lined with so many creases he probably slept in them. He was pale and thin, like someone who struggled to find time for eating or taking a walk outside.
Wand in hand, he cast a quick glance to either side, then at Sirius.
‘Mr Black.’ He rushed out in one breath. ‘A pleasure. Do you recall my missive — what kind of curses was I mentioning?’
Sirius had to stop himself from raising his eyebrows. This was going to be a waste of time; he could feel it.
‘Creature-bound.’
Quirrell was eager to usher him inside.
The door closed with a soft click, followed by the jangle of chains and a rushed incantation.
Sirius turned around.
The house smelled strongly of dittany. Mirrors covered almost every surface, though most of them had turned blind — or were about to. A glass jar, almost a yard in height, was tucked into the far corner. A firestorm was raging inside it. A smaller jar, holding something silver, was sitting above it.
‘You didn’t happen to spot the Hidebehind?’ Quirrell inquired no sooner had he finished his spellwork. He peered at the window. ‘It’s coming closer.’
‘I did come across one,’ Sirius said, and Quirrell jumped. ‘In North America,’ he clarified. ‘They aren’t native to Europe, are they?’
The question was pure politeness. Hidebehinds — nocturnal, spectre-like shapeshifters that could hide behind anything — had never been spotted in the UK. But considering the wards, Quirrell’s choice of furniture, and even the small kneazle now stalking into the room, Sirius didn’t suppose the man bothered with probability.
‘So they say,’ said Quirrell. ‘They also said the job was safe.’
Quirrell let out a breathless, nervous laugh without meeting Sirius’ eyes. He was fixedly gazing at the kneazle as it sneaked over the frayed rug.
‘Quail hates everyone but me,’ said Quirrell. His voice held surprise as Quail, the kneazle, pressed against Sirius’ leg. ‘Not very useful for a kneazle, but I couldn’t bring myself to part from him.’
He bent down to pet the frail creature. When he straightened again, he slipped his wand into the belt securing his robes.
‘I tried my hand at wandmaking. Quail was so kind as to lend one of his whiskers.’
Amateur wandmaking. That explained a lot. Kneazle whiskers made for inferior wands, as far as Sirius knew.
Though there was something to be said for Quail. More than for Quirrell, at any rate.
‘Do you get many visitors?’ Sirius asked, though he knew the answer — and didn’t care much either way.
Small talk.
At one memorable Slug Party, James had challenged him to a bet: be rude to people without them noticing. He wasn’t proud of that now; he’d been a bit of an idiot back then. (Though if anyone deserved it, it was people attending Slug Parties.)
But he’d been so good at it.
‘Not anymore,’ said Quirrell vaguely.
Right.
Unfortunately, Sirius hated small talk at thirty-four just as much as he had at sixteen. But he wanted something from Quirrell.
Quirrell, who wasn’t looking at him.
Without warning, Quirrell darted past him and hurried to the window, pulling back the curtains — just a few inches, just enough to peer outside. There was a gust of cold air, and a strong smell of garlic washed over Sirius.
‘Twilight,’ Quirrell murmured. ‘When the shadows start to walk freely, the vampires come out to play.’
He turned back, staring blankly into the air. Sirius noticed a strange, muffled ticking filling the room. The smell of garlic grew stronger.
‘I warned them about it. Things kept happening, and that one defensive spell, backfiring. It shouldn’t have — it shouldn’t… But–but the Headmaster wouldn’t listen.’
The smell of garlic was unmistakable now. Had Quirrell stuffed his turban with it to fend off vampires?
Sirius pressed his lips together. This wasn’t funny.
He glanced over the strange assembly of furniture. Mirrors, the rooster, garlic, dittany, silver, a raging fire.
Vampires, basilisks, werewolves, inferi — all covered.
What else?
Quirrell shook himself out of his stupor. ‘Perhaps a Gillywater, Mr Black?’
Sirius had been right in his assumption: this visit was a waste of time.
It didn’t take a genius to suss out why Quirinus Quirrell had been sacked. Though he insisted the decision had been mutual.
The man was erratic in his speech. He paused to listen to the rustle of trees outside, then jumped to another topic entirely. He was obsessed with dark creatures. Tied up in facts and superstitions alike, his fears wound so tightly they were choking him.
Chained to this remote life full of precautions.
Paranoid.
Perhaps he had once been a good teacher, Sirius thought. There was no way of knowing now. Could it be the curse’s doing? Had it sparked the fear in Quirrell, then fed the flame?
Sirius wasn’t sure.
He answered Quirrell’s questions on creature-bound curses truthfully, though it took a while. They were more complex than curses that latched onto people, because no beast was like the other.
Quirrell thanked him emphatically, only to rattle off a breathless warning the next second:
‘Dumbledore is — he doesn’t see, Mr Black. Not the way you and I do. Stay away from this school. Nothing good comes of it.’
Sirius had nodded, once more wondering whether this was the curse’s doing. It could be bad luck. Wariness came with the territory. Once you opened your eyes, you were bound to see something.
Perhaps Quirrell had simply been a particularly ill fit.
He would have to think on it.
When Sirius left, night had already fallen. The door slammed shut before he’d stepped outside the wards. He wasn’t keen on staying any longer, not in this place where even the mirrors were dying.
Sirius stared into the darkness of the forest. He doubted any danger lurked there.
In his experience, the curses life threw at you were much more profound and perilous than dark magic. Regret, grief, fear — all far harder to shake than a spell.
Perhaps that was why so many skilled witches and wizards struggled with Boggarts and Dementors.
Quirrell would, no doubt. He was living in a shrine to his own personal Boggart. But that wasn’t Sirius’ business.
Turning around, he considered reinforcing Quirrell’s wards, just for the sake of it. Because he felt a little sorry for the man. It wouldn’t be any bother.
But no. That wasn’t his business either.
He looked back at the flickering lights slipping through the curtains. He’d met people like Quirrell after the war. They’d survived the battle, but were eaten alive by what came after. Sometimes it was easier to make up fights than face the quiet.
Sirius couldn’t relate, but he wouldn’t judge anyone’s scars.
He was different, though. He knew what darkness looked like; he wouldn’t let it catch up with him. He certainly wasn’t surrounding himself with it.
He’d let the light back in — James, Harry, Lily.
No curse, he told himself, stood a chance against that.