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A Souvenir
Minerva McGonagall has never met a student she couldn’t tame. Many of them have pushed her buttons, tested her patience, and grated on her nerves, but in the end, she’s made all of them bow their heads, mumble their contrition, and learn from their mistakes.
Yet the girl sitting in front of her now is something new entirely. She is wild, untamable, so much older than her thirteen years, and much more hardened than her childish frame would reveal.
Minerva takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself before she begins this conversation. It’s only September, and if this keeps up all year, she’s not sure how she’ll be able to handle it.
“You used an illegal hex on another student,” Minerva declares, staring intently at the girl sitting across from her.
“I did,” she agrees easily, voice emotionless.
Minerva’s brow furrows. Most students would deny it at first. Give an excuse for why they needed to do it, or claim that the other student started it, or that they didn’t know it was illegal.
But not this girl. She just stares right back at Minerva, taking full responsibility for her actions without a hint of penitence.
Minerva isn’t sure where to go from here. She’s not usually the one disciplining this student, as she’s not in Gryffindor, but the hex happened in Transfiguration this time and now it’s Minerva’s problem whether she wants it to be or not.
“Very well,” she says, just to have something to say. “Detention for two weeks.”
The girl nods immediately, her long black hair swaying a bit with the motion. “May I go now?” she asks, voice still empty.
Minerva sighs, but she doesn’t have any reason to keep her here longer, so she assents and begins to tidy up the parchment in front of her as the girl stands and snags her textbook from the desk between them. As she lifts the book up to clutch it against her chest, the sleeve of her robes falls down a bit, revealing an angry red handprint burned into her forearm.
Minerva doesn’t stifle her gasp in time, and the girl looks sharply down to see what the issue is, tracking the professor’s eyes to her arm and letting the color drain from her face, making her even paler than usual. She stares at the mark, but makes no effort to cover it back up with her sleeve.
“What is that?” Minerva hears herself asking, the words slipping unbidden from her mouth, her surprise getting the better of her. It just looks so gnarly, so painful. The skin of the scar is raised and inflamed and shaped exactly like squeezing, threatening fingers.
Several emotions flicker across the girl’s face – fear, hurt, disgust – but she settles on an aloof sort of smugness, her eyes taking on a crazed glint. Her gaze shifts from her arm back upwards, meeting Minerva’s with a newfound intensity.
“A souvenir,” she breathes, the words dripping like blood off her tongue.
This time, Minerva manages to stifle her inhale in time.
“If someone is hurting you, Bellatrix,” she implores, watching the girl’s mask crack for a moment at the sound of her name, at the care it’s said with, and seeing the girl’s eyes fill with distress as her mouth twists with a discomfort that Bellatrix fixes quickly back in place, her features going blank once more, “you can tell me.”
Bellatrix stares at her for a moment longer, her face unreadable.
“I’ll see you in detention,” she says eventually, her mouth contorting into an unnatural smirk that makes chills race up Minerva’s spine.
That’s the first time she truly sees it: the cruelty of the Black family.
***
There are four first-year boys standing in front of her desk, all with varying expressions on their faces. The tall one on the left looks bored, the bespectacled one in the middle looks sheepish, the short one on the right looks frightened, and the long-haired one who has placed himself slightly in front of all the others looks defiant, his jaw set and his eyes narrowed.
Minerva can’t say she’s surprised at his stance. He is Bellatrix’s cousin, after all.
She sighs out, long and slowly, tapping her fingers once against her desk.
“Mr. Filch caught you all charming the floor of the Great Hall to squeak each time it is walked upon,” she explains.
If she’s being honest, it is kind of a funny prank, but that still doesn’t mean she can condone it. Especially with a mischievous group of first-years like this, she must put a stop to their pranks before this turns into a larger problem in years to come.
Remus Lupin, the tall bored-looking one, snorts slightly at this, as if he is amused by the effect of the prank, before Peter Pettigrew’s distressed eyes put a stop to it.
“Do you have anything you’d like to say for yourselves?”
James Potter’s downcast gaze raises at this, his mouth opening slightly to likely express his penitence, but before he can utter anything, Sirius Black’s defiant face swivels around to glare at the other three boys until they fall silent.
Minerva waits a beat longer to see if anyone will protest, but no one does.
“Very well,” she dismisses. “Pranks will not be tolerated at Hogwarts, and there must be consequences for them.”
The fingers of Sirius’ right hand twitch by his side.
“Since this is your first transgression,” Minerva continues, “I’ll give you each one night of detention and take away ten points from Gryffindor.”
Sirius’ eyes go from narrow to wide in an instant.
“That's all?” he asks, surprised.
“Did you want more?” Minerva replies dryly.
Sirius’ eyes turn back to glaring, but he seems to be battling with himself. He glances over at the other boys again, but they don't seem to understand his struggle, returning his questioning look with their own confused glances.
“That’s all?” He asks again, but this time his tone is more skeptical, as if he doesn't believe his professor’s words, as if she’s going to tack on something extra when he’s not expecting it. As if he’ll show up to detention and there will be a torture chamber in the room.
“This time, yes,” Minerva tries to assuage his fears.
The other boys seem relieved at this, their shoulders slackening and their eyebrows dropping, but Sirius doesn’t relax, his fingers playing some unheard piano melody in the air.
“If this behavior continues though,” she cautions, “I will have to take other measures.”
“What measures?” Sirius demands immediately, his entire frame tensing, and Minerva can finally recognize the thrum of nervousness running under his facade of defiance. It isn't a childlike fright like Peter’s though, it’s something deep-seated, a resigned sort of fear that only comes with years of feeling its acrid sting.
Minerva tries to choose her next words carefully.
“Restrictions from attending Quidditch games or joining school clubs, to start.”
“And to end?” Sirius asks. Remus and James aren’t looking at Minerva anymore, they’re just watching Sirius, confusion and concern growing in their expressions as they see him twitch and tense.
Minerva sighs again.
“I’d write to your parents. Invite them here to have a chat with you and I about your behavior.”
She has barely finished the sentence before Sirius’ face falls drastically, a cyclone swirling in his eyes as his breathing ramps up and his chest expands and constricts alarmingly.
It looks so odd, to see such panic on the face of a child so young. The baby fat on his cheeks shivering with his dread.
He is deadly silent, screaming only with his spiraling eyes and his agitated fingers. If she only looked away, Minerva would never know how he was whorling.
But she doesn’t look away. She looks directly into the twister of his gaze, far back behind the billowing winds and the raging clouds until she can see the sparks of betrayal crackling over the storm. He is looking at her as if she has abandoned him.
Minerva thinks of the scar on Bellatrix's arm. Of the words the girl had used to describe it.
A souvenir.
Something to remember her by.
Minerva thinks about Sirius’ childlike body – all awkward limbs and soft features. She wonders if he has any souvenirs of his own.
They are cousins, after all.
***
When Remus Lupin finally stumbles out of the Hospital Wing and up to his dormitory after another morning of post-moon recovery, he expects to ignore all his pending assignments and sleep himself into oblivion until Sunday evening.
What he doesn’t expect is Sirius Black – who is supposed to be in detention – shaking on the floor of their dorm in a puddle of his own sick.
Remus’ limbs are screaming at him. It hadn't been a bad moon with Padfoot and Prongs and Wormy, but he’s always achy after no matter what, and losing a full night of sleep never does him any good. It’s a Hogsmeade day today, and he had assured James and Peter that he’d be fine to doze away the morning in hospital and study during the afternoon while they went to the village and Sirius went to his detention. Remus can’t remember which professor Sirius’ punishment was supposed to be for.
All this is to say that Remus finds himself looking down at Sirius’ bloodless face on the ground, halfway towards unconsciousness, and knows there is no one else to help him move Sirius or heal him or figure out what happened to leave him in this state. It is Remus and his exhausted body solely responsible for the salvation of Sirius Black.
Luckily for him, Remus Lupin has always been spurred on by a dormant – yet deadly – anger and a boundless determination to prove his independence. Not to mention the spark of protectiveness raging through his core at the scene before him.
Seeing Sirius splayed out on the ground, small and quivering, helpless against his pain, makes Remus’ very bones grind against themselves. How dare someone do this to him! How dare someone leave him like this! How dare someone reduce this shining, larger-than-life boy to something nearly lifeless! Something dull and tarnished.
Remus wants to find whoever did this and rip the veins of their neck out with his bare teeth.
He is by Sirius’ side in seconds, ignoring the pain that lances through his own joints and the vomit that leaks into his jeans as he kneels beside the shivering boy. He can handle it. Sirius is much worse off.
“Sirius?” he whispers, trying to keep the fury out of his voice.
All he gets is a frightened whimper in response. Sirius’ eyes are squeezed shut.
“Sirius?” he repeats more frantically, because he needs to hear the other boy’s voice, needs Sirius to know that he’s safe and that Remus will fix it all, will fix everything. Will make sure he never has to hurt again as long as he lives.
Sirius’ only reply is a full-body shiver, almost as if he’s being electrocuted by the suffering running rampant through his battered, broken body. Remus can’t see any visible wounds, but something is clearly wrong, something unseen and ravaging. Something deadly.
He feels his anger spike, the wildfire in his core consuming all the earth in its path, scorching everything until only burning smoke is left behind to choke on. It leaks out of his ears and his fingertips, clouding the room with its asphyxiating fumes.
“Who?” Remus demands suddenly, a fresh wave of dread pooling in his stomach. There are barely any students in the castle today, no professor that would do this.
“Who?” he insists.
With Sirius’ answering sob, Remus has his confirmation.
He springs into action, because Sirius is always the first priority. Always . Before revenge and justice and Remus’ own well-being. Sirius is everything.
Remus vanishes the throwup, casts a warming charm over Sirius, and tries to decide whether the other boy would have the capacity to walk right now (he would not, Remus decides). Remus needs to get Sirius to Madam Pomfrey, but as soon as he begins to levitate Sirius, the other boy begins to fight against the spell as best as he can in his diminished state, slurring out a “No hos’tal.”
“I have to get you to Madam Pomfrey. I can’t heal you myself,” Remus tells him desperately, the urge to get Sirius to safety outweighing the want to not cause Sirius more hurt. Remus doesn't bother mentioning that he wouldn’t even know how to heal Sirius because he’s not sure what horrific, invisible spell they used on him.
Sirius whimpers and whines the whole way there, but they make it to the Hospital Wing, Remus thanking his luck that the corridors are em pty. The levitation spell is a tricky one, especially when being used on something animate, and Remus spends all his concentration navigating Sirius safely, despite the aches in his own body and the exhaustion clouding his mind.
Remus drops him off at Madam Pomfrey’s despite Sirius’ slurred protests and mumbled pleas for Remus to stay by his side, to not leave him alone in the Hospital Wing. Remus is relieved that Sirius is coherent enough to be aware of his surroundings and want company, but that doesn’t change the fact that his words stab jagged axes into Remus’ swollen heart.
“I’ll come back, I promise, I’ll only be a second,” Remus swears, wrapping the blanket tighter around Sirius' trembling shoulders while Madam Pomfrey conducts diagnostic spells next to him. Sirius lets out another little sob, his face losing even more color in a way that Remus didn’t think was possible.
“I promise, I promise,” Remus chants, hearing the tears creep into his own voice. “There’s just something I have to do first.”
And before Sirius can whimper anything more, before Madam Pomfrey can give him a disapproving look, Remus is charging through the corridors once more, all that anger and wrath and fury collecting in a gathering storm behind him.
He pictures Sirius’ body – all lean muscles and long limbs – weak and pale and shaking on the cold stone of their dormitory. Sees the crusted vomit at the corners of his mouth, knows the way he must’ve choked on his fear as he spat it up. Hears the echoes of his whines, the pathetic little noises involuntarily escaping him, and recognizes them for the last-ditch effort they were to stay conscious, to cling desperately onto those last slivers of life until someone found him.
By the time he is at the door to Professor McGonagall’s office, his rage is boiling over. He kicks the door open, and it cracks against the wall with the force of it. McGonagall looks up sharply and Remus meets her gaze head-on.
He stares at the professor he trusted. The professor Sirius trusted.
“Someone wrote to his fucking parents!”
***
Remus Lupin’s face keeps flashing in Minerva’s mind as she rushes to the dungeons. He’s wearing the same look she saw three years ago on Sirius’ face as he stood panicked before her in her office: one of abandonment and betrayal. The nausea it induces in her spurs on her frantic steps.
She barges into the Potions office without knocking, startling Slughorn so badly that he drops a vial of something viscous and dark onto the stone floor, jumping as droplets of the substance leap up and coat the hem of his robes.
“Min–Minerva!” he stutters out, shocked.
“Horace,” she responds forcefully. “Did you give Sirius Black detention today?”
Horace, for his part, still looks stunned and affronted by Minerva’s entrance, but he manages to make a noise of affirmation. Minerva’s teeth grind against themselves, the tendons in her neck bulging with her anger.
“Did you write to his parents?” she demands. “Did you let them Floo here? Did you leave them alone with him?!”
Horace seems to finally remember he’s a wizard, grabbing his wand and scourgifying the bottom of his robes.
“Yes,” he answers meekly, busying himself with the spell and avoiding her gaze.
Minerva knows how intimidating she can be. Knows that her disapproval shines out so clearly on her face and her tone brooks no backtalk, but she doesn’t mind that so much now. Horace should be intimidated. She wants him to quiver, to shake and shiver like Sirius was doing when Remus found him.
“Why?” she hisses, and it’s deadly.
Slughorn sighs, his eyes finally rising to hers, a wary look held within them.
“He’s a Black…his family is…they’ve got power, Minerva,” he urges, and his pleading face makes her want to slap him. Instead, she purses her lips and waits for more. “They’ve always responded favorably when I’ve shared Regulus’ accomplishments with them. I’m really starting to develop a rapport, and – and they’d want to know if their heir did something improper! They’ll remember that I told them about it! They’ll be appreciative of me!”
Minerva rushes forward, crowding Horace against the wall until his back hits it with a loud thump , until he’s cowering before her, his beady eyes frightened and ashamed.
“You blithering idiot!” she says sharply. “You absolute fool! Do you really care about nothing else besides your own misguided grabs for fame?” Minerva’s chest is clenching tightly, the restrained rage in it battling to get free. “You are a disgrace to this institution and a failure to its students! And I can assure you, Dumbledore will be hearing about this!”
“That’s – that’s not necessary!” Slughorn protests, his face getting redder with his alarm.
“Poppy thinks they used the Cruciatus curse on him!” Minerva spits back. “Don’t you ever – ever – write to his parents again! Do you understand me? He’ll be serving every detention with me from now on!”
She waits until Horace gives a shaky nod before she turns on her heel and sweeps out of the room, not wanting to hear one more second of his stuttered excuses and pathetic groveling.
When she arrives back at the Hospital Wing, Sirius is asleep, but still fitfully, despite the loads of pain potions Poppy has supplied him with. Minerva feels her heart rate start to calm as she sees Remus sitting by Sirius’ side, running his fingers delicately through the other boy’s hair and murmuring softly to him.
She watches them from the doorway, until all the anger has drained out of her, disappearing into the cracks of stone beneath her feet. It is replaced by a persistent tiredness, one that settles deep into her bones and lingers there. Poppy comes over, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder and squeezing.
“I think he’ll be all right, after a while,” the healer says.
Minerva swallows thickly. “I’m never letting them near him again.”
They both know it’s not true, that it can't be helped because Minerva can’t really control whether Sirius goes back to his parents, can’t win a single-handed fight against the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
But she can try, and she will. She owes it to Sirius. And to Bellatrix. And to every other student that has passed through the safe refuge of her office and begged with their eyes what their mouths could not.
She owes it to them, because now, Minerva McGonagall truly understands it in all its horrific depth and all its boundless agony: the cruelty of the Black family.