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At twelve noon tomorrow, there’s to be an inquest.
An inquest is a judicial inquiry to ascertain the facts relating to an incident, such as -
That was what one of the officers from the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol had told me on Sunday when I’d asked what an inquest was, before the other one, the friendlier one, had interrupted him. We just have some questions , the friendlier one had said, in a much kinder tone than his partner’s, about what happened here today. We need to try to answer those questions, so that we’re sure we know everything. Do you understand?
I suppose so , I’d said, although I didn’t - I don’t - really.
I think I understand the impulse - to have questions, to want answers, to look for things that simply aren’t there. I’ve felt it myself a few times since Sunday, especially late at night when I’m trying to sleep. I overheard Father talking about it to Mother on Monday morning. It’s only natural , he’d told her, when someone so young dies suddenly - people want to know Why. They want a Reason, or a culprit, because they simply can’t accept that accidents happen.
Mother hadn’t replied - not that I was really expecting her to. Perhaps she’s one of those people, like the Patrol officers, who wants to know Why - who wants a place to lay blame.
But I don’t know where we could possibly lay blame, although I have turned it over in my mind a few times during the last few sleepless nights. The angle, perhaps, or the carpeting, or even simple, terrible luck. But even so, the officers have asked me to attend the inquest; they said they might have some questions for me. I’m not sure what they’d ask, as I’m not sure what I could possibly tell them that I haven’t already said.
Regardless, at twelve noon tomorrow, I’m to attend the inquest. And if they ask me there what happened, I’ll tell them what I told them on Sunday, after the coroner came and took my brother’s body away:
Sirius fell down the stairs.
*
It bothers me a little, that the officers want me to come to the inquest even though I’ve already given them my statement. It isn’t that I mind telling them again - I don’t, of course I don’t - it’s just that I can’t help but feel like they think I’m lying.
I am many things, but I am not a liar. I never have been.
Sirius hates it. There have been so many times, especially in the last couple of years, when he’s asked me to lie for him, and I just won’t do it. There are a lot of things I’ll do for him, but not that.
It’s not that I want him to get in trouble or anything - I don’t go around tattling on him. I won’t say anything, truthful or not, unless I’m asked, and usually I’m not asked. Besides, whenever I am asked about something Sirius has done and he gets in trouble for it, it’s almost always for his own good. Our parents have only ever had his best interests at heart. If he wants to mess around with his strange friends and his Muggle contraptions, that’s fine, but he’d do well not to forget that he’s the Black family heir -
I’m sorry - I keep forgetting. Past tense.
(It really doesn’t feel real. It just doesn’t. It refuses to sink into my brain. I can’t even cry, even though I want to - I lie awake at night, and I stare up at my canopy, and it feels like the grief is going to choke me unless I let it out somehow - but I can’t even cry when I’m trying to.
But I’ve gotten off-topic.)
The point is, I already told the officers what happened. I told them everything I could. I heard him trip; I heard him cry out; I heard him fall down the stairs, and I heard the thud when he hit the bottom. And then I didn’t hear him get up.
It’s really quite straightforward, so I don’t see why they need me at the inquest - unless they think I’m lying.
No matter, I suppose. I’m not a liar. I’ll tell them the truth as many times as they want to hear it.
*
The house is so much quieter since Sirius… since Sunday. I never thought I’d miss his obnoxious Muggle music, whch he always insisted on blasting at all hours of the day, but now I keep… I don’t know, hoping it’ll come on in the next room or something. I know that’s silly, but I can’t help it.
Yesterday I almost went into his room and put a record on myself; there’s this one that his friend Remus Lupin had got him for his sixteenth birthday back in November, and the song keeps popping into my head. But then I thought better of it. I didn’t think our parents would think too much of it.
Even Mother has been quieter than usual. She’s been spending a lot of time sitting in the drawing room, just staring out the window. I suppose she must be quite upset. She and Sirius didn’t always get along, I know, but still. He was her firstborn and everything. I’ve been trying to leave her alone.
Father’s been holed up in his study, as usual. I’m sure he’s very upset as well. But I know he’s a busy man, so I don’t want to disturb him. Even though - even though I sort of want someone to talk to about Sirius. About everything that’s happened. But it isn’t as though we talk very much at the best of times, anyway, so… so I suppose it’s alright. I’m alright. Really.
I mean… I can’t sleep properly, and I can’t really concentrate on anything, but I’m sure that’s all normal. Right?
It’s just that every time I close my eyes, I see Sirius.
When I didn’t hear him get up, I went out to see what was going on. I figured I’d find him lying at the bottom of the stairs, groaning and complaining and demanding I help him up. Instead, he was still and silent, his eyes wide open and his hair matted with blood. I knew as soon as I saw him - as soon as I saw the way his neck was twisted - that he was probably beyond saving. But I still sent Kreacher to get help, just in case.
It wasn’t any use, though. The Mediwitch that Kreacher brought back with him from St. Mungo’s took one look at him and called the Patrol. I’m so sorry, she’d told me and Father. There’s nothing I can do.
She said he was probably dead as soon as he hit the landing, if not before, but I still can’t help but feel like I could have… done something more, or done something sooner, or… I don’t know. I just wish I could have helped him. That’s all.
*
Father and I arrived at the Ministry a little early today. We’ve been sitting in this basement hallway for at least ten minutes now, and Father hasn’t said a word. I’m not saying I wanted us to be late or anything, it’s just that the longer I sit here, the more nervous I get. I mean - what if I stumble over my words, or forget something important? I want them to be able to close their file, or whatever the outcome of this is meant to be. I don’t want to screw this up.
Down the hall, the elevator dings, and I look up expecting to see someone official, the coroner or something. Instead, James Potter and his parents step out into the hallway.
James looks… destroyed, is the first word that comes to mind. His shoulders are slumped, and his mother has a supportive arm wrapped around him. I can see all the way from where I’m sitting that his face is all blotchy, and it’s… listen, I am no great fan of James Potter, but even still, it’s hard to look at him like this. I want to look away but for some reason I just… can’t. Which means I see the moment that his eyes land on me and Father, and - and his face drops into a murderous scowl.
He takes a purposeful step towards us before he’s practically yanked back by his mother, who says something under her breath that I can’t quite make out. Whatever it is, it stops him from struggling against her, and he finally drops his gaze.
I can still see anger in every line of his body, though. I’m just… not sure where that’s coming from. I mean, surely whoever told him about the inquest must have told him what happened, right? Or maybe not - maybe it’s confidential? Maybe he’s here to find out?
I’m not sure why he’s angry, either way. But I don’t have time to dwell on it, because right at the moment that I look away, the door next to our bench opens, and one of the Patrol wizards steps out. The friendly one.
“Alright,” he says, “thank you for waiting. They’re ready for you now.”
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I wasn’t expecting the room we enter to be so big.
It’s an intimidating room, with black stone walls and rows of benches descending towards the dias in the center, which has a single chair on it. It’s dark and cavernous, and it seems all the more cavernous because of how few of us are present. Besides Father and me, and the Potters, the only occupied seats are taken by the two Patrol wizards from Sunday; a skinny, bored-looking man wearing wire-framed spectacles, who’s sitting in a chair beside the dias in the centre of the room; and, in a separate seating area, there are five people in matching plum-coloured robes - three witches and two wizards, all quite elderly - and a stern-looking wizard with a thin handlebar mustache. His robes are all black, and as soon as I look at him, I just know he’s the head coroner. He just has that sort of look about him, like his Patronus is probably a Thestral.
He stares at me as Father and I sit down, a few rows behind the Patrol wizards and as far away from the Potters as possible. He only looks away when we’ve settled firmly into our chairs. Then, he turns and addresses the man with the spectacles.
“Well? Are we ready to proceed?”
“One witness is delayed, sir,” says the man in that overly-proper sort of tone that Half-bloods always use when they’re trying to blend in at dinner parties. “The Mediwitch who responded to the incident. She got called into an emergency procedure. I was told she’ll be along as soon as she can get away.”
“Can we begin without her? Or do we all need to wait? I don’t have all day for this, you know.”
“No - no, we can begin, we’ll just - start with someone else’s testimony.” He unravels the scroll that’s been tucked under his arm and scans it for a second before he looks up into the stands, and his eyes land on me. “Perhaps Regulus Black, the brother? It seems he was the only witness.”
“Yes, fine,” says probably-the-coroner with an impatient wave of his hand.
“Right then. Mr. Black, if you would please…”
The man with the spectacles gestures towards the chair in the middle of the dias. He still looks rather bored. I glance sideways at Father, but he’s staring straight ahead. His jaw is very tight.
“Regulus?” Spectacles prompts.
So I get up again and walk down to the dias. I didn’t think I’d be asked to testify first - but perhaps that means this will be over quickly?
“State your name for the record,” says Spectacles after I’ve settled into the chair.
I can’t help but shoot him a look - he literally just called me down here by name - but I answer regardless. “Regulus Arcturus Black, sir.”
“And what was your relationship to the deceased?”
“I - He’s my older brother.”
“Alright.” Spectacles jots down my answers on his scroll before looking back up at me. “Mr. Black, my name is Graeme Macbay and I am the prosecutor assigned to this inquest. This -” (He points at the man with the handlebar mustache.) “- is Head Coroner Duchamp. These individuals -” (The witches and wizards in plum.) “- are five distinguished members of the Wizengamot. Will you please tell us, for the record, what you saw on Sunday?”
“Well - well, I didn’t see anything, exactly - I was in my bedroom.”
Mr. Macbay frowns. “You’re in the docket as a witness -”
“Because I heard what happened. I already told the officers all of it.”
“Right, well - if you wouldn’t mind going over it again now. For the record.” Macbay sounds a little irritated now, but it’s not my fault if his notes are wrong. I never said to anyone that I saw what happened.
“I was in my bedroom, like I said. I was reading a book. I heard Sirius come downstairs - from the third floor - and then I heard him trip at the top of the second floor stairs. He kind of... yelped, and then I heard him fall. And then when he didn’t get back up I went to see what happened, and when I saw him I sent Kreacher - our house elf - to St. Mungo’s to get help. That’s all.”
“This sounds fairly cut and dry, Mr. Macbay,” says Duchamp.
Macbay doesn’t respond. “Around what time was this, Regulus?”
“Er - around 11, maybe? I’m sorry, I don’t - I was reading, like I said.”
“Alright, well - that lines up with the time of death in my notes,” says Macbay, as though he’s telling me what the weather was like yesterday. “So unless there are any questions from any interested persons -”
“What about your parents?” James Potter says from the stands.
His voice is shaking with anger, so hard it takes me a second to understand what he’d even said. But when I do, I frown. What does that question have to do with anything?
“My parents?”
“Yeah, your parents . Where were they when this happened?”
“I - I mean - Mother was upstairs, in the sitting room, and… and Father was in his study, and then Sirius came downstairs and - and - Why are you even asking, Potter? What does it matter?”
I wish that had come out more smoothly. Aloof, or even angrily. It’s such a stupid question. But I can tell that I sound… shaken.
It’s just… why would he ask that?
“It does seem slightly irrelevant to the cause of death,” says Duchamp. “Would you care to elaborate, Mr… Potter, was it?”
“It’s not irrelevant.” James is breathing heavily, and he actually moves to get to his feet before his father pulls him back down. “It’s not irrelevant, because I wouldn’t be surprised if they fucking killed him.”
My stomach plummets.
What had Sirius been telling him? Because that’s - that’s insane . He’s going to get himself thrown out. He should be thrown out, if he’s going to spout off nonsense like that.
There are a few gasps from the members of the Wizengamot, and Father rises sharply to his feet. His face has gone deathly white. “How dare you,” he snaps. “My wife and I have lost our son, and you have the audacity to come here and - and fling baseless accusations at us? You -”
“Mr. Black, please sit back down,” says Macbay, who suddenly sounds much less bored. “The young man has a right to speak his mind, if he has reason for concern. What did you say your name was?”
“James Potter, sir.”
“And what was your connection to the deceased?”
“He’s my - he was my best friend.” James’s voice breaks as he corrects himself, and he looks like he’s going to start crying again.
“Well, if you believe you have information that’s relevant to this inquest - Regulus, if you would like to return to your seat for now? The jury will hear your testimony, Mr. Potter.”
I feel like I’m in a daze as I stand up and make my way back over to Father. James replaces me in the witness chair, and I stare down at him apprehensively. I really have no idea why he seems to want to mess this whole inquest up; but perhaps sometimes people go beyond wanting a Why, and make one up for themselves instead.
“You made a very serious accusation just now, Mr. Potter,” says the coroner sternly, leaning forward in his chair. “Would you care to explain why you felt it was appropriate?”
James is clearly a bit offended by the coroner’s tone, because his response is chilly. “I felt it would be appropriate for the court to have all the facts, sir.”
“Well, young man, do you have facts to present to us? Because, although I understand that you’re very upset, I must stress that conjecture and speculation do not equate to facts in the eyes of the law.”
“Well, sir , it’s not speculation to say that his parents practically disowned him when he was sorted into Gryffindor. It’s not speculation that they hated him. And it’s definitely not speculation to say that his parents hit him.” James’s back is ramrod-straight, and his jaw is set just like Father’s. My mind is buzzing - why is James even here ? Why did they invite him, if he’s going to get up on the stand and - and -
“It’s a fact ,” James continues, “that he always comes back to school after breaks covered in bruises, and it’s a fact that I learned how to fix split lips back in second year so people wouldn’t ask him what had happened, and it’s a fact that his mother broke his ribs last summer so badly that my father gave him Skele-Gro because he didn’t think they’d heal on their own. And my parents will confirm all of that, if you want to call them down here too -”
“You’re exaggerating,” I interrupt before I can stop myself.
I know it’s not proper court behaviour, and I do feel a little chastised when Father hisses my name under his breath beside me. But - I can’t just let James sit up there lying like that. It’s... it’s slander or something. They need to send him back to his seat, if not eject him completely.
“Are you denying that your parents were ever physical with your brother, Mr. Black?” the coroner asks sharply, turning towards me; but unlike before, I can see suspicion on his face. I want to vomit. I want to cry out that I’m not a liar. But I know I have to answer the question, so I swallow hard and try to keep my voice steady as I answer.
“They weren’t… beating him, or anything like that, sir. They only - when he was really out of line he would get smacked, maybe, but that’s normal. I told him to stop provoking them.”
“They broke his fucking ribs, Regulus,” James snarls. “Sorry if that spoils your little fantasy that they just had his best interests in mind -”
“They do!” I can hear my voice rising into a higher pitch, and feel heat running up my neck into my cheeks. “If he - if he would’ve just listened to me, and listened to them, and just behaved himself -”
“Mr. Black,” says Macbay firmly. “I know you’re upset, but if you would please calm down. And Mr. Potter, I understand you’re upset as well, but if you could refrain from using foul language -”
“It’s fine,” James interrupts, still glaring at me. “That’s all I have to say. I’m done now.”
“One last thing,” says the coroner before James can get up. His tone has changed significantly. “To the best of your knowledge, did Sirius ever seek medical attention for any of the injuries you’re alleging?”
James looks irritated to even be asked, but I can’t help but be relieved. I know James has no proof, because he’s blowing everything out of proportion, like always.
“Like I said, my parents can testify to most of it. The broken ribs especially. But - oh! Now that you mention it, I did take him to St. Mungo’s once. I was pretty sure he had a concussion, and my parents weren’t home to help.”
“Alright. Thank you, this has been… most illuminating. Mr. Macbay, if you would requisition those records from St. Mungo’s when we’re done here.”
“Of course, sir.”
Then Duchamp turns to me. “Mr. Black - in light of this, er, new information, I have a few more questions for you about what happened on Sunday.”
I turn to Father, ready to protest, but he’s… looking at me as though I’ve done something wrong. Which I don’t understand at all. James was sitting up there lying. I just told the coroner the truth - that he and Mother hadn’t done anything bad.
“Mr. Black,” Macbay prompts.
When I get to my feet, I realize my knees are shaking.
The walk over to the dias feels impossibly long. I can feel all the eyes in the room on me, following my movements. When I finally settle back into the witness chair, I can’t bring myself to look up from my feet.
“Mr. Black, you testified before that when Sirius fell, your mother was upstairs?” says Macbay.
“Yes.” The word comes out much quieter than I’d wanted it to. I clear my throat.
“And you also testified that your brother had come downstairs from the third floor just before he fell.”
“I - yes.”
“So do you know if your mother and brother were upstairs together?”
I try to wipe my hands on my pants as discreetly as possible. “Well - they were, but -”
“Do you know what they were doing?”
“Well - I - they - they were arguing, but I don’t see what that has to do with -”
“You could hear them arguing from downstairs?” Macbay interjects. “That must have been quite a loud argument. Could you hear what they were arguing about?”
“No - listen, why does it matter if they were arguing?” I ask hotly, finally looking up from the floor. “Or what they were arguing about? I don’t think Sirius fell down the stairs because he and my mother had had an argument five minutes earlier. The two of them argue all the time.”
Macbay raises an eyebrow. “We’re just trying to do a thorough job of this, Mr. Black. So you didn’t hear what they were arguing about.”
“No .”
“Very well. So Sirius came downstairs; your father was in his office; and then Sirius tripped. Is that accurate?”
“Not - not exactly. Sir.”
My stomach is churning.
Macbay frowns and holds his scroll a little closer to his face, his eyes flying over the parchment. “You said the following: ‘Mother was upstairs, in the sitting room, and Father was in his study, and then Sirius came downstairs’.”
“Well - yes, that’s accurate, but - I - I mean, I don’t think I said that Father was in his office when… when it happened, did I? If I did I didn’t mean to, it must have been a - a slip of the tongue -”
I really think I might be sick. I can’t quite seem to get a breath in properly, and I can feel sweat beading on my forehead. I’m telling the truth - I’ve been telling the truth this whole time! - but now James has gone and sent everything to shit. He’s made a mountain out of a molehill and now - now if I keep telling them the truth, it’ll sound suspicious, even though it’s not.
But - but I suppose Mr. Macbay and Mr. Duchamp must have quite a lot of experience. Surely they can… I don’t know, work out when someone’s lying? Even if the truth might sound bad right now, I’m sure they’ll know that there’s really nothing to it.
“He came out of his office when Sirius came downstairs,” I manage. “To talk to him. That’s all.”
“Are you alright, Regulus?” Macbay asks, frowning at me. “Do you need some water, or something?”
Water is definitely not going to help, so I shake my head. I just want to get this over with.
“Did you hear what your father and your brother talked about?” Duchamp asks.
“Er - it sounds worse than it was. Really.”
“Noted.” If anything, I feel like Duchamp is looking at me more intently now than he was a moment ago. Shit. “Please tell us what they said. To the best of your recollection.”
My gaze drops to the floor again. The way everyone is looking at me is not helping with the nausea, at all. “Well - Father came out of his office, and he said… something like, er, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ - and Sirius said he was going to the Potters’ -”
James makes a soft, wounded noise, and bile rises in my throat. I have to pause for a minute to breathe through it before I can continue.
“Father said - he said, ‘You’re not going anywhere like that’, and Sirius -”
“Regulus,” comes my father’s voice from the stands. “That’s enough.”
My eyes snap to his face, which has gone dark with anger. He’s risen to his feet, and his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. I can’t help it - I shrink back into the chair. I can’t remember the last time I saw Father look so angry at me. I didn’t mean to upset him - I even told the coroner that he really hadn’t done anything wrong. Maybe - maybe he’s just upset that his last conversation with Sirius was an argument? Maybe he doesn’t want other people to know?
“Mr. Black, please don’t interfere with the proceedings,” says Macbay irritably. “You can testify at a later point, but for now if you don’t sit down and be quiet, I’ll have to eject you from the court room.”
There’s a long, tense pause before Father slowly lowers himself back into his seat. But he still looks angry. I really don’t understand it - he must want the Ministry’s file closed, just like I do, right?
“So what did Sirius say, after your father told him he wasn’t going anywhere?” prompts Duchamp.
“He…” My voice has faded to a whisper. “He told him to fuck off.”
“And then?”
“And then he - he must have walked away, because then I heard him trip and… and fall.”
I can’t read the expression on Duchamp’s face, and he stares at me for what feels like an age, the silence pressing in on me from all sides. I’m about to open my mouth to say something else - anything else - just to get this silence to end when he finally nods and tells me to return to my seat.
I don’t sit as close to Father as I had been before. He refuses to look at me.
“Mr. Black - Senior - if you’d please make your way down to -”
“I have nothing to add to my son’s testimony,” Father says tightly, cutting Macbay off and not even getting to his feet. “Sirius tripped. He fell. It was a tragic accident, and frankly I find this court’s handling of this matter to be -”
“Did you see why he tripped? If he tripped over something?”
“I can’t say I did. I assume he lost his footing.”
The two of them stare each other down for a moment before Macbay sighs and looks back down at his scroll. “Very well. Officer Ibsen, if you will?”
Officer Ibsen turns out to be the name of the friendly Patrol wizard from Sunday. He settles into the chair quickly and sits at attention. Duchamp doesn’t waste any time before starting his questioning.
“Officer Ibsen, I want to start by asking: Why was the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol called to the scene of what was, by all appearances at the time, a tragic accident?”
At the time? What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“Well, the Mediwitch who responded to the scene called us in. But as for why she did that - well, she did explain to us, sort of, but I’ll admit I didn’t quite follow it. The gist was that she thought something was fishy.”
“Fishy? Fishy how?”
I want to know the same fucking thing.
“Ah, Merlin,” sighs Officer Ibsen, running a hand through his hair. “Like I said, I didn’t quite follow it. I don’t have much of a mind for that medical-type stuff. It would be better if Ms. Garber were here to explain it herself -”
Just at that moment - as though we’re in a fucking novel or something - the door to the courtroom bursts open, and the Mediwitch from Sunday comes rushing in.
“Speak of the devil!” says Officer Ibsen in apparent delight.
“Ms. Garber, I assume?” says Macbay.
“Yes,” says the Mediwitch breathlessly, stopping in her tracks beside the dias. “I’m so sorry I’m late, sir, there was -”
“An emergency, I’m aware. It’s alright. Thank you for taking the time out of your busy day to attend.” Macbay actually smiles at her, although it’s a little bit strained. “Your timing is actually quite good. Officer Ibsen here was just telling the court that you were the one who contacted the Patrol on Sunday. Would you be willing to explain for us why you felt it necessary to do so?”
“No need to get up, Officer Ibsen,” interjects Duchamp as the officer makes to stand up from the witness chair. “I’ll admit I’m getting quite fed up with all this moving around. Ms. Garber, if you don’t object to testifying from where you are…?”
“Not at all,” says Ms. Garber politely. “Would one of you mind telling me what your notes say about the injuries that the victim sustained?”
Victim?! I open my mouth to protest, but Father nudges me roughly in the side and I snap it shut again. It probably won’t help to make a scene or anything. I’m sure the truth will come out one way or another.
Macbay scans his scroll for a moment before answering. “A severe laceration to the head, superficial bruising and cuts to the face, and a cervical fracture which severed the spinal cord.”
“Right, good. Those were my observations too. Now, in theory, all of those injuries could be caused by the fall that the young man had clearly suffered. But I noticed as soon as I saw the body - the head wound was totally inconsistent with the fall.”
“What do you mean?” asks Duchamp sharply. All traces of the skepticism that were in his voice when he talked to James are gone. “Inconsistent how?”
“I mean that based on the positioning of the body on the landing, I was able to more or less tell the angle at which he fell, right? And it seemed like he had fallen sort of… almost sideways, facing the left? Or at least he got twisted sideways during the fall. Either way, based on the positioning of the body, I’d have expected the laceration to be on the opposite side of his head than it actually is. Plus the angle of the wound was funny too.”
“But isn’t it possible, Ms. Garber,” says Macbay, “that he hit his head… I don’t know, on the bannister at the top, when he tripped? Or something along those lines?”
“Well, hypothetically, yes,” says Ms. Garber, crossing her arms over her stomach. “But when I noticed the strange position of the wound, I took a closer look at it. And - I didn’t notice at first, because his shirt was dark, but I noticed when I took a closer look - quite a lot of blood had dripped down his shirt, and through his hair. That only would’ve happened if he was standing upright while he was bleeding.”
This… this doesn’t make any sense. Why would Sirius have been…? Unless maybe he hurt himself somehow, or…?
“Coroner Duchamp,” says the other Patrol wizard gruffly. “If you and Mr. Macbay don’t mind, I do have a theory I want to share with you.”
“By all means, Officer Stanton,” Macbay replies.
“My partner and I did find some evidence at the scene that was… well, a bit alarming, to be honest. But I’ve only just put it all together now.” Officer Stanton slowly rises to his feet, scratching his chin. “When Ms. Garber told us about the inconsistencies with the head wound, we took a closer look at the body too. Realized we couldn’t see any of the sort of blood spatter you’d expect from a wound like that, so we decided I should take a look around the house while Officer Ipsen talked to the brother. Up in the third floor sitting room, I found traces of blood on the wall, the floor, and on this… metal sort of sculpture thing. Looked pretty heavy.”
Unbidden, Sirius and Mother’s voices rise up in my head - that argument they’d had on Sunday...
You worthless little -
Mum, don’t -
Then Sirius had cried out. I’d heard him. I’d assumed it was a noise of frustration, but - but -
“So it seemed like the deceased might’ve, I dunno, injured himself on this statue somehow. Seemed a bit implausible, but I didn’t have another explanation. But now the brother says there was this argument upstairs, and I started thinking… maybe things got heated. Maybe the mother hit him with it.”
That isn’t true , I want to say, but the words won’t come out. I can feel sweat trickling down my forehead.
“Was Sirius already injured when you saw him, Mr. Black?” Macbay asks Father, in an overly-controlled tone.
Father doesn’t answer. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye; he’s staring straight ahead, a muscle in his jaw jumping.
“It is possible,” says Duchamp, although (small mercies) he sounds cautious. “However, Regulus did insist that he heard his brother trip and fall. Are you… suggesting that he tripped because of the head wound?”
“Not exactly.” Officer Stanton turns around in his seat then, and his eyes land on me. I look away quickly, before I can stop myself. “Regulus, when you say you heard your brother trip - what exactly did that sound like?”
“Er - I - I don’t -”
“Was it a bit like this?” Officer Ibsen thuds the heel of his foot against the edge of the dias, and it makes a hollow thud . A thud that sounds… absolutely nothing like the sound I heard.
I shake my head. I don’t think I can manage words anymore.
“Or was it more like this?” Officer Stanton says, and... he smacks his fist into his open palm.
My vision goes white around the edges. Almost on instinct, I lean forward and let my head drop, and I take in a few of the deepest breaths I can manage - not very deep, considering my throat feels like it’s closing up and my stomach is still churning horribly. But it does the trick - the feeling that I’m about to faint subsides.
Almost without meaning to, I nod.
“I thought - and Ms. Garber agreed - that those cuts on Sirius’s face that you mentioned, Coroner, were a little odd. No obvious cause, see. But we didn’t realize at the time that Mr. Black was in the hallway when the incident happened, and we didn’t know they had been arguing. And it just occurred to me, when young Regulus was explaining the argument - Orion Black was wearing quite a few rings on Sunday. A few of them looked sharp.”
“What exactly are you implying?” Father snaps; but there’s a tremble in his voice that I’ve never heard there before. I feel like the room is getting smaller around me, like the walls are going to close in and crush me between them. It’s - it’s getting harder and harder to breathe.
“My theory,” Officer Stanton continues, addressing Duchamp instead of Father, “is this: Sirius Black did fall down the stairs, but he didn’t trip. He backtalked, his father hit him, and - maybe it was a particularly hard smack, maybe he was already off-balance from the head injury - he lost his balance, he stumbled back, and then the poor lad fell to his death.”
“This is outrageous,” Father barks. “You have no proof.”
“Well,” Stanton retorts, “we have some proof. We certainly have enough proof to convince the Chief Warlock to give us permission to give you - and your wife - Veritaserum.”
Father doesn’t respond to that point, and I - I can’t stand it anymore. I turn to look at him properly. I need to hear him say it’s not true, and if he’s not going to say it, I need to see it in his face.
Except his face is blank and cold; his expression betrays no emotion, save for the rage made clear by the set of his jaw. He doesn’t look like an innocent man being slandered in a courtroom; he… he looks…
“Dad?” I hear myself say, in a voice so feeble that I hardly recognize it as my own.
My father finally looks back at me; and the look goes through me like a knife, because in his eyes I can see nothing but ice and hatred. He has never looked at me like that before, never, but it’s somehow still familiar - and it hits me. That’s how he used to look at Sirius.
That’s the moment I finally turn around and throw up.
*
Everything after that is sort of a blur. I only remember bits and pieces of it. I remember Stanton - or maybe it was Ibsen, I’m not completely sure - placing my father under arrest. I remember Ms. Garber coming to check on me; she helped me even out my breathing so that I stopped hyperventilating. That was nice of her. I don’t think I remembered to thank her. I hope that she knows I was grateful.
I remember Macbay bringing over some new woman - I can’t recall her name - and telling me she’d be sorting out where I’m going to live now. I don’t remember most of that conversation. I don’t think I was even really listening.
What I mostly remember - the only thing that really stands out - is that after Father had been taken away, James Potter came over and just… sat with me. We didn’t say anything to each other, but he did rub my back for a bit when I started crying. That was far more kindness than I expected or deserved. I don’t think I thanked him either, but… but maybe I’ll write to him, one of these days. I’m just not sure whether he’d want to hear from me.
Anyway - Mother was arrested too, not long after Father, so for now I’m staying with my cousin Andromeda. It was sort of nice to finally meet her husband Ted, even though he’s a Muggle-born and everything. We actually seem to get along quite well.
After the inquest, Coroner Duchamp officially labelled Sirius’s cause of death as manslaughter, instead of an accident.
There’ll be a criminal trial soon, but I’ve been told I won’t need to testify at it or anything. Apparently they can use my testimony from the inquest, and that will be enough. I don’t know exactly what outcome I want to see. A big part of me wants them to be found not guilty; but I only want that verdict if it’s the truth, and I know deep down that it wouldn’t be.
Mostly I want to wake up and find that this has all been a bad dream - because that would mean that Sirius isn’t really gone. It surprises me, how much I miss him, how obvious his absence is - I’d got out of the habit of telling him things, what with the distance between us after his Sorting. I can’t even remember the last time I told him I love him.
I regret that a lot now, because I did - I do. I always will. And it’s not the same - it doesn’t make up for anything - but I’ve taken to saying so, before I go to sleep at night. I love you, Sirius. Just in case somewhere, somehow, he can hear me.
I really hope he can - and if not, I really hope he knew. Just like I know that I failed him; that I should’ve been a better brother. And just like I know that in spite of everything... until the day he died, my brother loved me.