Laocoon's Children: Secret Tongues
Chapter 9
By copperbadge
AU. When Sirius and Remus go looking for Peter Pettigrew, they make a wrong turn and someone else finds him first. Eight years later, Sirius owns a book store and Remus manages it for him. When Harry stumbles into the store and they find out the truth, they decide it's time to be Stealing Harry. (SB/RL slash relationship in later chapters.)
That Sunday morning Harry woke early so as to be ready for practice. Flint, however, didn't come down to the common room until Harry was already washed, dressed in his gear, and fidgeting
impatiently to be off. The rest of the team followed, yawning and complaining.
"Pipsqueak's ready to go," one of them observed, and Harry scowled. "You're making us look bad, Potter."
"You're making you look bad," Harry retorted. "Let's go, I want to play already."
Disagreeably, they made their way down to the pitch, where Professor Snape stood waiting for them, wind whipping his loose robes around his ankles and ruffling his short hair. Flint, the trunk
following behind him with a floating charm, gave him barely a nod; Snape ascended to one of the spectator towers as the others crowded around their Captain.
One of the few things Harry liked about his captain -- who was a proud, lazy, cheating hack for the most part -- was that he never gave them diagrams. Flint didn't like charts and maps, so he didn't
use them. They ran new plays as they learned them, then adjusted for problems mid-flight. It meant they drilled over and over again, while they were learning, but they were more adaptable once they
did, and Harry could always plead lack of memory when he refused to cheat the way Flint wanted him to. Cheating, as he'd once told Snape, was a mug's game; you couldn't cheat in real life because the
basic rules weren't breakable, so you might as well learn to play within them and use them to your advantage.
While Flint was dividing them up for a scrimmage, in which Harry had little interest since Flint was drilling the team on plays Harry had invented, he noticed a second figure in the spectators'
tower. Dora -- Professor Tonks -- had climbed the ladder and was now making her way down the aisle, occasionally tripping on her robe and grabbing onto the benches for support. She was graceful,
Harry decided, when she wasn't falling down.
The Snitch whizzed past his ear and he went after it, chasing it down until he had to duck through a mess around the Quaffle to get to it, and it vanished. When he looked back, she was leaning on the
rails, watching through a pair of shiny brass omnioculars. Snape did not look happy about it.
"Hey Potter, stop ogling the Dark Arts professor!" Flint shouted, and Harry returned to the game, chastised. The feint maneuver he'd worked out and demonstrated for Snape seemed to be effective, but
the players weren't making the most of the idea of level-change; all it had done was brought them much closer to the ground as they battled for the Quaffle.
When Ravenclaw sees this, he thought to himself, they're going to catch on and they're going to do it right, and then all of us are going to be --
"Watch where you're flying!" shouted Bole, one of the Beaters. Montague, a Chaser in his final year and clearly still bitter about not being Captain, had nipped between Flint and Pucey to steal the
Quaffle, and in so doing had narrowly missed colliding with Bole, who was riding wing on Flint and keeping a determined Bludger away from him. Montague skimmed past Bole barely an inch from his
elbow, and the Beater spun wildly away, clinging for dear life to his broom and trying to bat away a Bludger at the same time. He finally lost control of his broom and fell in seeming slow-motion to
the pitch, where he landed in undignified fashion on his tailbone, while Flint went after his flyaway broom.
"Learn to keep on your broomstick and you can yell at me all you like!" Montague called, sneering. The others laughed.
"I should have figured you wouldn't give a damn for proper play, you filthy mudblood!" Bole screamed.
The laughter stopped abruptly. Harry had only heard the word once or twice before, but it sent a chill down his spine; Bole continued to swear, and Montague had gone white-faced.
"You take that back," he said, dropping altitude abruptly and hovering nose to nose with Bole. "I'm not a mudblood."
"Your gran's a Muggle and you've three squib aunts, mudblood, and I bet your father was a Muggle too," Bole snarled back. Two of the others went for Montague to hold him back, but someone else was
faster; Dora had run for the ladder when Bole first shouted, and she was between the two before either of them could make a move for the other.
"Hold him," she said over her shoulder, to the boys who were already grasping Montague's sleeves. She whipped around to face Bole furiously.
"Fifty points from Slytherin for conduct unbecoming a student and use of profanity in front of a professor," she snapped. Harry actually saw her grow a few inches, though he didn't think anyone else
was in a state of mind to notice. "If I ever hear that word out of your mouth again, Bole, you will never see your NEWTs, let alone graduate."
"Did you see what he -- "
"Two weeks' detention. I don't care what he did. That word," she spat, "is unacceptable on the grounds of this school. Or anywhere."
"Professor -- "
"Would you care to make it a hundred points and three weeks, plus team suspension? That can be arranged."
Bole sensibly shut his mouth and stared at her with wide eyes. A hand touched her shoulder, lightly.
"That will be sufficient, Professor Tonks," Snape said, darkly. "I believe I am best situated to handle this particular disciplinary issue from here."
Harry saw distaste and anger in Snape's face, and realised suddenly that Dora had severely overstepped her bounds. After all, Professor Snape was senior, and he was the head of their House; if anyone
was going to threaten team suspension, it ought to be him.
Not to mention her getting there first made him look rather awful, really.
"If I hear that word again from any Slytherin on this team -- " she started, but he cut her off.
"That will do, Professor Tonks. Thank you," Snape said icily. She gave Bole one last furious look before turning and stalking away across the pitch, although the effect was somewhat ruined when,
about halfway to the castle, she stumbled briefly on a sudden dip in the grassy landscape.
The silence on the pitch was deafening. Everyone had landed their brooms, and Harry absently caught the Snitch when it made another run past his ear, stuffing it in his pocket.
"It is unwise to use that particular word," Snape said slowly, arms crossed over his chest as he stared down at Bole. "Aside from its unpleasant connotations of intolerance, it is a word which is not
found in the polite society a Slytherin aspires to belong to, and it certainly is impolitic to speak it in front of a Professor whose own father is a Muggle-born wizard. As you can see, they tend to
take it rather amiss."
Bole's eyes, if it were possible, grew rounder.
"I believe, as I do not wish to take another fifty points from my own House, or suspend an adequate player from the House team, we will make it fifty points and three weeks' detention," Snape
continued, "served with Filch and Hagrid. Carry on practice," he added. "Flint, my office after breakfast, please."
He turned and followed in Dora's general direction, moving more easily and confidently across the grounds towards the castle. When he was out of earshot, Pucey let out a low whistle.
"I didn't know Professor Tonks was half-Muggle," Flint said.
"She isn't," Harry said. "Her father's a wizard same as you or I."
"Yeah, but Muggleborn, right?" Pucey put in.
"What's that matter? He's brilliant at everything," Harry retorted.
"Yeah, but blood will out, and all," Pucey said vaguely.
"Don't make me punch you," Montague snarled. Pucey still had him by one arm, and he let go quickly. Bole was looking a little as if he'd been hit in the head by something heavy. "We're not done
either, Bole."
"My mum was Muggleborn," Harry said menacingly, to Pucey. "Going to say something about her, too?"
"Nobody's saying anything about anyone's mum or calling anyone a mudblood, all right?" Flint announced loudly. "Harry, if you try to punch someone two feet taller than you are he'll knock you flat,
so you might as well not bother. We can all fly a broomstick so let's get back to doing that, all right?"
"Most of us can," Bole muttered resentfully, glaring at Montague, but fortunately the other boy didn't hear him -- or if he did, was more sensible than to make an issue out of it.
Harry reflected, as he shook the Snitch out of his pocket and let it go again, that at least they weren't at each others' throats over whether or not to use his plays. Professor Snape was smarter
than most people, Sirius included, would give him credit for.
If only Dora hadn't gone quite so far...
***
Life on the upper floors of Twelve Grimmauld Place (also known as TONKS & TONKS, purveyors of fine wizarding dress) was, outwardly, much more peaceful than it appeared to be at Hogwarts that
week. At the civilised hour of nine am on Tuesday, Remus was sipping tea while Sirius made french toast. Downstairs, the shop was opening and various patrons were coming and going, cheerfully met and
catered to by Andromeda while Ted dug in and worked on the perpetually-behind book-keeping.
Remus had the paper open and was reading the rather badly-edited Literature section of the Prophet. The pretentiousness of the reviews and occasionally the books themselves were strangely soothing to
his nerves. Sirius compensated for nerves by frying things; hence the french toast, not to mention the giant plate of bacon on a heat-charmed plate, already on the table.
"We don't have to go if you really don't want to, you know," he said, as he transferred the last of the food to a plate and carried it to the table. Remus folded the newspaper and set it aside.
"That's a coward's game," he said, transferring a single slice to his own plate and drizzling a little honey on it. "We both know it."
"If it's going to make you anxious -- "
"Not the painting," Remus sighed. "Just the meeting."
"She'll be hexed to secrecy, this Helena person. She's the great-granddaughter of the founders of the company, she seems all right," Sirius said. "I mean, well-educated and that. And she doesn't seem
anti-werewolf at all."
"She's a stranger, that's all," Remus said, cutting up his toast. "You never know about strangers."
"Maybe it's more trouble than it's worth," Sirius mused.
"No, but...I want you to have this and I like the idea too," Remus protested. "Honestly, it's no good living like this anyway. If I really wasn't a coward I'd say what I was and have done with it to
all and sundry, but it makes life so unnecessarily difficult, and it wouldn't be fair to you, either. And I don't want to," he added defiantly.
Sirius watched him across the table, expression unreadable, until finally he smiled reassuringly.
"If we were to say damn the world, we could say a lot of things. Any time you want to, I'm game if you are. It won't be the first time," he added. Remus smiled.
"There's no need," he replied. "This belongs to us, not to anyone else."
They finished in comfortable if slightly nervous silence and went out into the mild bustle of a mid-morning high street, hands in pockets, strolling down towards Gringotts and the turnoff for Fansif
Alley, the arts-and-theatre district. Sirius gave him a sidelong look as he put his hand on the brightly painted green-and-gilt door of Broosh & Chakle Studios, but when Remus gazed back evenly,
he shrugged and pushed it open.
The inside room was a cheerful pale ochre, and several portraits grinned and waved at them from the walls, interspersed with the occasional plaster or stone statue.
"Good morning, gentlemen," said a young, formally-robed man, bearing down on them and, Sirius noticed, mentally rubbing his hands. "Do you require any assistance?"
"Is this Helena Broosh's work?" Remus asked, examining a painting of a basket of puppies. One of them kept tumbling out of the basket and clambering back in. Another one yawned humourously.
"Ah yes, Miss Broosh's work is quite popular with the town and country set," the young man said, adjusting his glasses. Sirius saw him eyeing Remus, and wondered whether it was measuring him up for a
purchase or measuring him up for personal pleasure.
"We're here to see her, as it happens," Sirius said abruptly.
"I see. Do we have an appointment?" the young man asked, crossing to a desk and opening a leatherbound ledger there.
"Sirius Black? I contacted the office yesterday by owl."
"Ah yes, Mr Black, here we are. This way, please."
"I liked those dogs," Remus said, as they followed him back through a curtain in the rear of the shop. "She's a decent artist."
The back of the shop was wildly different from the front gallery; most of the walls had been knocked out to create a series of open, well-lit stalls in which sculptors and painters were working on
various creations, or gathering to sip tea and wait for their next sitting. Some areas were walled off by thick black curtains. In the last stall but one, a woman around their age, in paint-spattered
robes, was sizing a canvas on a frame.
"Your ten-fifteen, Miss Broosh," the man said, leaving them only after he'd leered a little more at Remus.
"Mr Black?" she asked, holding out a hand. "Don't worry, all the paint on it's dry," she added. Sirius grinned and took her hand, shaking it firmly.
"Miss Broosh," he said. "Ah, this is my friend Remus Lupin..."
"Yes, I've seen you both in the papers. I am," she said, "very much hoping you're here to commission portraits. You have an extremely good skull for painting, Mr Black, and Mr Lupin's face is an
interesting study in itself."
Remus touched the small scar on his jaw, self-consciously, and she laughed.
"No, it's all in the nose and chin," she replied reassuringly. "I read the society pages," she added, by way of explanation.
"Is there somewhere we could speak in private?" Sirius asked. She grinned and pulled a pair of black velvet curtains across the open entrance to the small room, tying them together with a small silk
cord.
"There's a silencing charm as well," she added. "We sometimes do nudes, and of course we respect client confidentiality."
"That's much appreciated," Sirius said frankly. "I...am not here for a nude," he added with a grin. She matched it.
"Spoil my dreams, Mr Black," she said.
"Yes, well," he said, as Remus coughed, "I understand you've been in communication with Llewllyn Payne regarding some inquiries into the painting of Animagi."
"Are you Mr Canis, sir? The name did sound rather contrived."
Sirius glanced at Remus. "She's quick."
Remus nodded, watching her intently.
"I had hoped you would come to speak to me in person. It really is a unique challenge, and of course I would be happy to enter into any confidentiality agreement you require -- which of you gentlemen
is the Animagus?" she asked, eagerly.
"Miss Broosh, we'd like to..." Sirius paused. "There are other issues at stake, as well. We'd like to ensure that the confidentiality agreement also covers things of a more personal and dangerous
nature."
"Well, unless you want to pose with a freshly killed body or something, I think I can keep quiet," she said. "I can provide references from other clients I've worked with discreetly. Men and their
mistresses, erotic nudes -- all tastefully done, of course -- even people who would like to be painted in the costume of a historical figure without a fuss being made over it, though that seems
pretty minor, in comparison." She glanced at Remus. "Does he talk?"
"I'm sorry, I'm being rude," Remus said, giving her an apologetic smile. "This is somewhat nervewracking." He gave Sirius an anxious look. "I've never voluntarily told anyone this before."
"Perhaps if you would feel more comfortable after any paperwork had been signed -- "
"No, it's all right -- I like you," Remus said. "I...that is, Mr Black and I were hoping to commission a portrait together..."
She nodded, looking not at all surprised and picking up a rag, twining it between her fingers. "I have also protected the confidentiality of men and women like yourselves, whose personal
relationships are not the business of the public -- "
"Well, there is that," Sirius said hastily.
"He's the Animagus, you see," Remus said. "And I'm a werewolf."
She dropped the rag in surprise. After a moment of speechless staring, she spoke.
"Oh -- I did hope that you would -- that is to say, of course, I'm sure you'd rather not be treated any differently," she said eagerly, "but it would be such an interesting challenge. And an Animagus
-- those are very rare. I hope I'm not overstepping myself," she added, checking herself suddenly. "Am I right in assuming, sir, that you are an unregistered Animagus?"
"You may be," Sirius said with a smile. Remus was looking less nervous, now that the first reaction was over with and her mind seemed wholly concerned with the challenge of painting a werewolf rather
than the minimal danger of sharing breathing space with one.
"Of course if you'd prefer to consider it a little more, Mr Black, Mr Lupin, I'd be happy to wait, but I have all the papers drawn up and the charms in place in case you want to sign them -- I have
had for a few weeks, only I hadn't heard anything more and I thought you must have decided against it."
Sirius glanced at Remus, who looked back expectantly.
"There are some rather invasive techniques used," she said hesitantly, into the silence. "Nothing physical, but we do like to talk to the sitters while we're painting, and we ask questions that some
might consider rather impertinent, especially if the sitters are romantically involved."
"We're getting obvious in our old age," Sirius said quietly. "I suppose that might show in the portrait, too?"
"It might," she said thoughtfully, "but I've been doing lots of animal studies lately -- "
"Yes, we saw the puppies," Remus said.
"Oh, do you like them? Troublesome little curs," she said affectionately. "I think I could actually paint a portrait that made use of both the human and animal form of the Animagus -- in public, that
is to say to a stranger's eye, the painting would appear to be of you, Mr Lupin, posing with Mr Black's animal form. It would be a really very interesting experiment," she said persuasively. "With
the names changed I could even write it up for a few journals if you were agreeable."
"Up to you, Pads," Remus said gently. "I'm game if you are."
Sirius grinned back at him. "Was that a dare?"
Remus gave him his best poker face. Sirius turned to Broosh, who was smiling slightly. "You'd better get out those papers so that we can look them over," he said. "If you do all right, I might have
my godson come sit for a normal portrait sometime."
"I'm sure it would be my pleasure to paint Mr Potter," she said, and left to get the papers. When she was gone, Remus exhaled slowly, and leaned back against the wall.
"All right, Moony?" Sirius asked.
"Yes -- that went well," Remus replied, smiling at him. "It did. I thought she'd -- I didn't think she'd react like that. I like her," he added.
"Me too. She's a little nuts," Sirius said. "Like us, really."
"I suppose she's paid to be open-minded, but..." Remus grinned at him. "Well, treating a pureblood Animagus and his werewolf boyfriend like a new painting technique is above and beyond the call of
lucre, I think."
***
While all seemed more or less peaceful on Fansif Alley that Tuesday morning, at Hogwarts the tempest in the Slytherin teapot had grown entirely out of control.
It might have died down if Montague and Bole weren't Transfiguration partners. If they'd been able to avoid each other, the bickering could have come to a slow and tedious halt, but it just kept up
in a steady stream every time they encountered each other. Finally it broke out in violence in the hallway outside the Transfigurations classroom on Monday afternoon. A couple of Gryffindors charged
in to pull them apart, but before they were both settled down by the arrival of Percy Weasley with Professor McGonagall, Oliver Wood had a really fantastic black eye and Bole had shouted that
Montague couldn't always be running to that halfbreed Tonks for help, even if like did attract like.
None of the professors or prefects heard the halfbreed remark, but plenty of the students did, and by lights-out half the school knew that Professor Tonks' father was a Muggleborn, while the other
half had been treated to various mutations of the story including, but not limited to, Professor Tonks being a Muggleborn, Professor Tonks' father eating Muggleborns, and Professor Tonks having some
form of illicit relations with Montague, which was quashed by a horrified Montague himself.
Harry and his friends were eating their usual early breakfast on Tuesday, discussing the fight and weighing the advantages of having an honourably received black-eye versus not having a painful and
ugly swollen face, when it happened. It was perhaps fortunate that it happened so early, considering everything, but unfortunate that they should be inadvertent witnesses to it. They were seated at
one end of the Slytherin table, blocked from view by one of the hangings, just able to see Professor Snape eating a solitary bowl of oatmeal, when Dora -- Professor Tonks, Neville still had to be
reminded -- entered from one of the side-hallways.
"Can I have a word with you, Professor Snape?" she asked. The sound echoed in the empty hall, fully loud enough for them to hear, whether they wanted to or not, and all four fell silent
immediately.
"Professor Tonks," Snape said, impassively. He set his spoon down and turned slightly in his seat.
"Whether or not I chose to discipline your students, which I was within my rights to do as a professor at this school, you had no business discussing my parentage or my personal life with a pair of
Quidditch hooligans who don't know better than to get into fistfights in public hallways," she said. There was an odd formal tone to her voice, as if she'd been rehearsing the speech. Neville glanced
at Harry, who was watching in wide-eyed awe.
"I'm sure I'm unaware of what you mean," he replied, blandly. A hint of smirk played around his lips.
"Bole called me a halfbreed in front of a hallway full of students. Since then he's been telling vicious stories about my father's parentage. I know where he got that information from."
"I merely explained that it was unwise, given your father's status, for them to use certain expressions to which you overreacted on the Quidditch pitch on Sunday morning."
"Bastard," Padma breathed.
"Shut up," Harry hissed.
"Well, he is."
"Over-reacted? Did you hear the filth coming out of Bole's mouth?" Tonks demanded.
"He's a child, he hardly knows what the word means."
"He's fifteen, he knows exactly what it means and how to use it. That's not the point. No matter how well or badly I handled the situation, there was no call to bring my father into it. And you have
the audacity to lecture me on leaving your friendship with my parents out of our professional relationship!"
"I don't see how -- "
"You don't see how?" she asked, and to his credit, Snape didn't flinch. "You don't think your personal knowledge of my father's ancestry is inappropriately applied in disciplining children? Do you
think he wants the whole school talking about his parents? My mother and father are the best friends you have in this world, if they're not the only ones you have, and -- "
"That will be quite enough," he said suddenly, standing so quickly his chair fell over. "May I remind you I am a senior professor -- "
"Then act like one!" she snarled. Neville was so startled by the vicious tone of voice coming from his normally placid foster-sister that he dropped his fork.
The clatter of metal on stone was like the roar of a train passing through the hall. Both professors turned to see four students, clustered around one end of one table, looking sheepish and
frightened.
"Ah, Severus, Tonks, good morning," said a voice from the doorway. Their savior had appeared; Albus Dumbledore was entering, and immediately both professors moved away from each other, Snape righting
his chair, Tonks taking the furthest possible seat from him. Dumbledore sat between them beatifically, and requested an enormous breakfast from Denbigh when the head of the Kitchen Elves appeared,
eager to serve.
Students and other professors began to trickle into the Great Hall, then, and the four went their separate ways. The walking wounded put in the briefest, most sullen appearances -- all but Oliver,
who was enjoying talking with Lee Jordan while pretending not to notice that he was the centre of attention at the Gryffindor table.