The sky was slowly going pale blue and the streetlamps had already been put out. The small, miserable square could barely be seen by the dull light of dawn, and the neglected buildings that rose all around it looked dark and somehow sinister. The postman was standing on the pavement in front of number ten, yawning and cursing the chilly breeze. He was really cold, and what’s more he didn’t like that place at all; it was quite creepy. Call this a job, getting up so damn early when everybody else was fast asleep, enjoying their holiday…
The postman suddenly shivered, and decided to start now, so he would be through more quickly. There was definitely something wrong about this place, and he wasn’t thinking about the dirty walls and the bins and rubbish that scattered the pavement. Something was not right. The sooner he would leave, the better, really.
Okay, number ten… Only three letters for number ten. He stuffed them unceremoniously through the letter box. He usually took his time to read the addresses, because he hoped to find some funny, or foreign-sounding names; then he would have fun picturing Mrs Sprouty (how he had laughed at this one) or Mr Papadopoulos (that one was actually Greek! He had never seen a single Greek in his whole life).
But not today. Today he would hurry. God, when he thought about his wife and sons, warm and safe in their beds…
Number eleven… number twelve… Only one letter for number twelve. For miss Adelaide Pingsty.
He raised his head, and found that he had gone too far: from number eleven he had walked straight to number thirteen. That was curious, as he had only taken a few steps. He turned and walked a short way, but stopped dead: he hadn’t gone too far, after all, number eleven and number thirteen were only at a few steps’ distance. Actually there was no number twelve between them.
He looked down at the letter again. The address was clear: Miss Adelaide Pingsty, 12, Grimmauld Place, London. He looked into his bag to see whether there were other letters for Miss Pingsty in Grimmauld Place.
There it was. There were two bills and one parcel for Miss Pingsty, 21, Grimmauld Place, London. Just a mistake then.
But as he passed to number thirteen, he slowed down and stared at the two buildings, which stood firmly next to each other. There was no room even for a straw between number eleven and number thirteen, let alone an entire house.
It was just not normal. There should be a number twelve. It was insane.
The postman shivered again, though it was not so cold now, as the sun was finally rising, casting a golden light on the top of the tallest buildings. He delivered with trembling hands the letters for number thirteen, then hurried to number fourteen. Now he was really eager to leave the place.
The postman was bent over the letter box outside number sixteen, when an owl suddenly flew out of a dark, narrow street and into Grimmauld Place. It soared straight to numbers eleven and thirteen, apparently heading for the drainpipe that was the limit between the two buildings. Just before crashing into it, however, it abruptly disappeared as if an invisible hand had snatched it out of the air.
****
“Sit up straight,” snapped Mrs Black to her eldest son Sirius.
Sirius grudgingly straightened a little in his chair, putting as he did so both elbows on the wooden table of the underground kitchen. His mother glared at him and he regretfully withdrew his elbows from the table.
To his left, his nine-year-old brother Regulus had jumped at his mother’s command before hastily sitting up as straight and stiff as a broomstick, not even daring to lean against the back of his chair. And of course he had not put his elbows on the table.
Sirius resisted the temptation to roll his eyes with extreme difficulty: his mother’s order was of course directed to him, not to beloved Regulus, yet the little git, as usual, had made obvious he obeyed much better and quicker than his older brother. Probably just to show what a better son he was. As if anybody needed reminding, when each and every one of the inhabitants of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, from his mother to the house-elf Kreacher, never missed an opportunity to point out the differences between good, loving Regulus and cheeky, restless and stubborn Sirius.
An owl suddenly entered the kitchen and dropped the letter it was carrying in front of Sirius. It went as quickly as it had come, without pausing for a gulp of water, as owls usually did. Clearly, the letter was an official one. Sirius’ heart leapt. He had been waiting for it so eagerly, ever since he had celebrated his eleventh birthday. He made to grab the letter, but his mother beat him at it. Sirius felt a burning anger rising in his chest: how dare she read his mail?
He forced himself to calm down. He knew he could not control his anger, if he didn’t stifle it immediately he would start shouting - and if Regulus was stupid enough to open his arrogant little mouth, he would probably not resist the urge to make him shut up with a good hard blow. This was what had happened the last time he had lost his temper, and the experience had been nasty enough for him not to want to relive it.
Looking completely unaware of Sirius’ inner struggle, Mrs Black ripped open the letter and read it, before announcing:
“Hogwarts. The usual: school begins on September the first, train leaves at eleven at King’s Cross, Platform nine and three quarters. That’s three weeks from now, a bit late to send those letters, don’t you think?” she added, talking to her husband. “Maybe that Muggle-lover, Dumbledore, is losing his grip after all.”
“I don’t think so,” said Sirius’ father in a bored voice. “He’s had much more trouble this year to find a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. There have been some rumours about it at the Ministry…”
Sirius’ father was rather keen on reminding everyone how influent he was at the Ministry of Magic, and indeed he was often to be seen there, talking with important Ministry wizards “ including the Minister herself.
“Well, that doesn’t leave us much time,” said abruptly Sirius’ mother, “but we can’t afford not to give a little party for Sirius’ beginning at Hogwarts. He is, after all, the heir of the Black family.”
At this, she seemed to glower with pride. Sirius scowled and put his hands in his pockets, looking mournfully at his unfinished toast. He was not really hungry anymore. His going to Hogwarts was easily the best piece of news he had heard in years, because it meant that he would finally get away from this place; yet he hated the idea of being introduced to a whole lot of nice, pure-blood families, whose children would be asked to become his friends and probably to keep an eye on him at school. Help him to become a “true Black”, would say his mother.
Sure enough, Mrs Black was now making a list of families to invite, and every name she uttered was familiar to him as belonging to the most ancient pure-blood wizarding families in the country.
“Of course, your brother Marcus is to come, along with his daughters. Well, at least, Bellatrix and Narcissa… Narcissa is beginning at Hogwarts, too, and I think Bellatrix is starting her fourth year. I’m not letting Andromeda in this house, though, did you hear she started hanging around with a…a Muggle-born? God, a Black with a Muggle-born… I wonder how Marcus can bear the mere idea…”
Great. Now Andromeda was not coming. The only decent person in that family wasn’t allowed here anymore. That was just great.
“The Malfoys… Maybe the Macmillans, too, though she’s so dull… Well, that’s hardly surprising, I’ve heard she used to be in Hufflepuff. The Notts…”
“What about the Potters?” said his father indifferently. His saying anything was rather surprising, as he still looked deeply bored with the subject.
Sirius raised his head, frowning. “Potter” was not a name he was familiar with.
“The Potters?” repeated his mother, looking thoroughly unconvinced. “But… I mean, all right, they’re pure-blood, but they’re a Gryffindor lot. Margaret’s family has been in Gryffindor for centuries, and so has her husband’s. And they’re at least ten years older than us.”
Ugh, thought Sirius. His own parents were not exactly young themselves; those Potters were probably old enough to be his grandparents. Why on earth did his father want to invite them?
“They’ve got a son who’s starting Hogwarts this year, too,” replied his father in his usual bored voice. “Griselda Marshbank told me about him yesterday, she’s an old friend of the Potters’. I’ve been told that he’s an extremely polite, well-bred boy, who is used to seeing pure-blood wizards and knows perfectly well how to behave in society. Exactly what Sirius needs, in fact.”
Sirius’ mother didn’t seem much tempted by the idea. Obviously a “Gryffindor lot” was almost as bad as a Muggle-lover to her.
“Narcissa’s his age, she could…”
“Narcissa and he don’t get along well, you know that. From what Marcus told me, Narcissa already has her own circle of friends, and they’re all girls older than her.”
Sirius’ father took a sip of tea, as if the matter was settled, but then, spotting the still unconvinced look on his wife’s face, he said in a stern voice:
“There is not a single boy the age of Sirius in all the families you’ve decided to invite. Better for him to have friends his own age, rather than older students. You know him, he hates being treated like a child, he will do his best to contradict any advice coming from his cousins.”
As usual, they were talking as if he was not in the room.
Sirius was beginning to feel rather confused about his father. He was undoubtedly as narrow-minded as his mother about the so-called purity of blood, but until now he had never given him the impression of knowing what sort of boys Sirius and Regulus were. He was beyond such matters. He actually looked rather bored whenever the conversation dwelled on the Black boys’ upbringing.
Come to think of it, he was not wrong. A boy his age would be quite a nice change after suffering for years endless advice from his older cousins. And he had never met a Gryffindor before, that could be interesting, given that his mother worshipped the house of Slytherin, where all the Blacks had gone for centuries. And Gryffindors had always been Slytherins’ natural enemies.
On the other hand, his father’s description was anything but tempting. He didn’t need another Regulus, thank you very much.
“How pure-blood are they?” asked finally his mother.
“You can’t find a purest blood,” his father said serenely. “Their family is as ancient as ours. And they’re quite wealthy, by the way. Most of their money is inherited, of course.”
This seemed to convince Sirius’ mother.
“Fine. I’ll set the party here in two weeks.”
“Can I have my letter now, please?” asked Sirius. He wanted to read himself the letter that was finally setting him free.
His mother looked at him as if she had just realised he was there.
Then her reply came.
“Get your hands out of your pockets and sit up straight.”
****
“Let’s have a look at you.”
James Potter obediently stood up, and his mother observed him for a minute or so, frowning slightly. The boy had spent the summer flying on his broomstick from dawn to sunset, and was more tanned than an Indian. That was lucky, because he was so skinny he usually looked rather unhealthy, and Margaret Potter strongly suspected her friends to think he was under fed. The biggest problem was of course his hair: whatever spell she would try on it, it simply wouldn’t lie flat, and as a result, James often lacked the elegance expected from a boy of his social class.
Not that the Potters cared much about purity of blood: they knew they were not very far from being considered as “blood traitors”, as they had never really scorned half-bloods the way most pure-bloods did. But even if they didn’t share their peers’ opinion about pure-blood supremacy, they were rather keen on keeping their rank among wizards, as their own parents had always done.
Margaret didn’t understand why she was dreading so much the Blacks’ party; after all, they had no cause to be envious of the Blacks, and James would know how to behave. He knew his part well. For a few months now, she had been receiving invitations for her and James to come, from those of her friends who had children his age. Most of these parties had been quite enjoyable, but one or two had really been a torture: some of the guests had not stopped claiming (so loudly she was pretty sure the kids in the next room had heard every single word) that the country was going to the dogs, merely because a half-blood had become Head of the Department of Mysteries. (“Can you believe that, Margaret? A filthy-blood keeping the most treasured mysteries of wizardkind? What an outrage!”).
It was unwise to upset those people, because most of them were very well-connected and powerful. That was why James had to know what to say and how to behave in front of them. God, they would be capable of endangering his career if, as a boy, they had heard him say something that disturbed them!
“It’s some sort of game,” she had told him. “Those people play a part whenever they meet.” He had to understand this part was not reality; she didn’t want him to become like these women’s children, who were so snobbish they hardly looked like kids. It was a relief to come back home after acting the respectable, pure-blood family for a few hours, and to have a laugh imitating all those “pure-blood monkeys”, as James and his father called them. She tried to keep James away from those parties, as she felt it was not good for him to make him play that sort of part too often, but sometimes she simply didn’t have a choice.
Today was one of these times. They were supposed to meet young Sirius Black, who was going to Hogwarts this year, which meant he would almost certainly end up in Slytherin; as for James, he was likely to go to Gryffindor, like every one in his family. Slytherins and Gryffindors didn’t get along well, and Margaret wondered how they were going to handle a long afternoon with an all-Slytherin crowd that would keep raving about purity of blood.
“Now, you may find the Blacks’ son arrogant and scornful, but don’t lose your temper,” she said to James. “It’s just for an afternoon, it will be over quickly.”
“After all,” added her husband, suddenly entering the living-room where they had been waiting for him, “the boy will go to Slytherin, which mean you just have to be polite with him until the Sorting. After that, you are entirely free to hit him with whatever curse comes to your mind. It’s an old tradition between Slytherin and Gryffindor.” The two of them laughed, and Margaret joined them in spite of herself.
“Well, let’s not keep the pure-blood monkeys waiting any longer,” said finally Robert Potter. Then he took a pinch of Floo Powder from a bowl on the mantelpiece and threw it in the fire, which turned emerald-green. Stepping into the flames, he shouted: “Number twelve, Grimmauld place, London” and disappeared.
James followed.
He was spinning in the fire, his eyes shut, and he outstretched his hands in front of him when he felt himself slowing down. Yet he shouldn’t have bothered: he landed smoothly on a fine hearthrug, as if invisible hands had guided him out of the fireplace. Opening his eyes, he stepped away from the fireplace to let his mother come out of it. As he did so, he noticed a silver object on the elaborated mantelpiece: a thin cylinder, from which erupted two sort of silver claws gripping the mantelpiece. He recognized an Out-Chimney, which explained at least why he had come out so smoothly instead of landing face down on the floor. This was a very expensive instrument, even his parents didn’t have one.
He was in a small hallway, in which the only furniture was the large fireplace and a few paintings on the walls. A golden chandelier hanging from the ceiling was casting a warm light that made the rich frames of the paintings glimmer. This was probably a secondary hallway for visitors travelling by Floo Powder.
“May I take your cloak, young sir?” croaked a voice from somewhere near the ground. James jumped and looked down, to see a house-elf with a rather snout-like nose, wearing a snow-white tablecloth tied around his hips, his hands outstretched.
He nodded, unfastened his cloak from his shoulders and gave it to the house-elf. The creature disappeared at once with a loud popping noise.
James was beginning to wonder why his mother hadn’t arrived yet. He didn’t want to go alone out of the hallway and into a house he suspected very big, given the Blacks’ wealth. As he stood there, uncertain about whether he should go and join his father or wait for his mother, the door facing the fireplace suddenly opened.
A woman stood there in the doorway, looking forbidding in her formal black dress, her fingers glittering with expensive rings. She wasn’t wearing any other jewel. She must have been a little younger than James’ parents, as her hair was still dark, occasionally streaked with grey, and her face was not yet wrinkled. She considered him for a few seconds, an eyebrow raised in surprise, and James suddenly realised he was not supposed to stare back.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
The corners of her mouth twitched, but she didn’t smile. She moved into the room, leaving the door open.
“Good afternoon,” she answered coolly. “You must be James Potter.”
“Yes ma’am.” The woman surveyed him imperiously for what felt like ages. James felt stupid, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say, she was much too intimidating. He wished his mother would arrive, to get him out of this embarrassing situation.
“Well, James Potter, I’m Sirius Black’s mother,” said finally the woman.
She moved nearer and held out her hand, watching him closely as if she was testing his reactions. James took her hand in his own and bent slightly over it (he didn’t need to bend very low, as she was so much taller than he was), feeling like a complete idiot, as he always did when he had to do that. Yet Mrs Black looked satisfied and her voice was a little warmer when she spoke to him again.
“Your father is in the drawing room, and I was wondering whether you had got lost in the Floo Hallway.”
James felt himself going red.
“Sorry ma’am,” he said hastily, “but I was waiting for my mother. She was just behind me, but “ ”
“I think your mother is old enough to know how to use Floo Powder, James. She will join us in a few minutes.” Her amused smile made James feel even more embarrassed.
She made to the door, then turned and looked enquiringly at him. James nodded and hurried forwards.
She led him out of the secondary hallway and through a pair of long curtains, masking the door, into a much bigger hallway. The front door was on his right, and another smaller door was facing it at the other end of the hallway. As he watched it, the house-elf that had taken his cloak came out of it, carrying a heavily loaded tray. The followed the house-elf up a flight of stairs, and into the drawing room on the first floor.
The drawing room was a long and high-ceilinged room, packed with witches and wizards chatting in groups of three or four. There seemed to be mostly adults, which James found very surprising given that this was supposed to be a party for eleven-year-old Sirius’ beginnings at Hogwarts. He caught a glimpse of his father, in deep conversation with a Ministry wizard called, he was pretty sure, Rookwood. He tried to catch his eye, but Mrs Black pushed him firmly towards a group of youngsters, gathered in a corner.
“Here, they are your future classmates, maybe you’d like to meet them… Now I’ll leave you here, all right?” He thought she must have been rather eager to be rid of him, though nothing in her expression or in her voice suggested it. He thanked her, then walked uncertainly towards the teenagers. They all looked at least fourteen or fifteen.
As he moved closer, a tall boy with long and sleek blonde hair looked down and met his eye. James experienced a wonderful wave of relief: he knew that boy, he was Lucius Malfoy, a distant relative of his. Usually he would not have been so happy to see him, as Lucius never missed an opportunity to make him feel like an ignorant kid. But it was good to see a familiar face in that crowd of strangers.
“Why “ James! James Potter, proud defender of the Gryffindor cause! What a surprise, I didn’t expect you to come here… That place is packed with Slytherins! Don’t you feel a bit lost? Where are your parents?”
James smiled rather nervously. Lucius was a sixth-year Slytherin, and he was used to teasing James about his family’s belonging to Gryffindor. Of course James never felt more like a fool than when he tried to argue back, and was silenced by Lucius’ contemptuous looks. Actually the only field where he easily surpassed Lucius was flying. As a result, he usually coped with Lucius’ occasional presence by forcing himself to think about Lucius’ anger at being left behind at Quidditch by an eleven-year-old. It worked quite well.
At Lucius’ last question, that James had chosen to ignore, the other teenagers sniggered and looked around.
“You’re in Gryffindor?” asked what seemed to be the youngest of the lot, a girl with long blonde hair. “I would never have said you were already at Hogwarts, you look even younger than me, and I’ m starting this year.”
Well, James would never have guessed. She was thin and a bit taller than he was (though, admittedly, that was not difficult as himself was small for his age), she could easily be thirteen, at least.
“I thought there were no pure-bloods in Gryffindor,” she said indifferently. “You are a pure-blood, aren’t you?” she added suddenly, frowning.
Lucius smirked.
“Come on, Narcissa, do you really think your dear Aunt Lenora would let a half-blood in this house?”
The others laughed again. Lucius looked like some sort of leader they were all following.
“James is not yet in Gryffindor,” went on Lucius. “He’s starting this year, too.”
“Then he might not go in Gryffindor.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure I will end up in Gryffindor,” said James, speaking for the first time. “My whole family has been there. Are you all in Slytherin?”
They nodded, still watching him curiously. James was growing tired of being stared at as if he was a circus animal.
“Okay,” he said, breathing deeply. “You all know my name, and I would be rather keen on hearing yours. The only person I know here is Lucius “”
“That’s right, we are failing to every rule of politeness,” said Lucius, cutting across him with that indulgent smile James hated so much. “Here are Bellatrix and Narcissa Black, whose cousin Sirius is starting at Hogwarts too, and we’ve got Petrus Nott-” (a skinny boy with light-brown hair nodded) “-Anthony Goyle and George Crabbe-” (two boys the size of gorillas looked round when Lucius said their names) “and Eleanor Takhild.”
The latter was a plump girl with glasses and the thickest hair James had ever seen: it was plaited, but seemed to threaten to burst free any minute. Her plait was as thick as James’ arm. She merely scowled when Lucius said her name and looked away.
Now that he had been told everything he needed to know, nobody looked interested in him any more. The Black sisters resumed their chatting with Lucius and Nott, Crabbe and Goyle their gazing stupidly into space, and Eleanor Takhild just sat on the window-ledge with her arms and legs crossed, looking furious at every one.
James turned away and walked towards a huge tapestry he had noticed earlier, which showed a family tree. At least he could read it until he would be asked to meet that Sirius Black.
The tapestry was highly interesting; the Black family was indeed one of the most ancient wizarding families, and seemed very proud of it. The tapestry was labelled The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, which was followed by what James guessed was the family motto: “Toujours pur”. The Blacks were related to almost every pure-blood family he had ever heard of, the exceptions being his and Lucius Malfoy’s. The most curious things about the tapestry were the small black holes here and there, where there should have been a name. He wondered why some members of the family had been blasted off the family tree. He spotted Narcissa’s and Bellatrix’ names, on either side of a third name, Andromeda. The third Black sister was around eighteen, according to the date of birth, and he thought it was strange she had not been invited. Then he spotted Romulus Black’s name, linked to Lenora Black’s by a golden line. Apparently Mr Black had married his own cousin. They had two sons, Sirius, who was born a few months before himself, and Regulus, who was two years younger.
“Welcome in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,” said a sarcastic voice just behind him.