Darkness, like an old friend, waited in every corner.
Tonks’s hurried heels echoed along the polished corridor.
She deftly dodged a coffee trolley and turned the corner, sprinting the final stretch toward the Aurors’ Office.
She slipped inside just as the wall clock struck its final chime of eight.
—Right on time —she murmured to herself, a satisfied smile tugging at her lips.
But Dawlish had seen her.
Seated stiffly at his desk, he peered at her over the newspaper spread open before him. He said nothing, but let out an audible huff, wearing that look of disapproval he always seemed to have ready just for her.
What a nightmare of a man, she thought, rolling her eyes.
She was already heading toward her desk when she heard her name, pronounced like a growl.
A deep voice, coming from a half-open door.
It was Moody.
Tonks spun on her heel and crossed the room with a determined stride.
She entered her mentor’s office and closed the door behind her.
It was exactly as always: cluttered, dark and… alive. As if the office itself had a voice of its own.
The walls were covered in detailed illustrations of ancient beasts—elongated creatures with impossible fangs or far too many eyes—ones Tonks had never quite known whether they truly existed or were simply the product of Moody’s functional paranoia.
There were “Wanted” posters pinned one over another, displaying faces hardened by time; ancient criminals who, although Moody had locked them away in Azkaban years ago, still lingered there…watchful, threatening, as though they might step straight out of the parchment at any moment. And even if they did, there was no doubt the old Auror would hunt them down again.
Enchanted maps were scattered everywhere too: some with tiny dots moving slowly across their surface, others with lines and symbols spinning in on themselves, endlessly reconfiguring, as if they could never quite decide what they wanted to reveal.
The large table that served as a desk was buried beneath parchments, half-read reports and handwritten notes, strewn about with no apparent order. Moody was always juggling a dozen things at once, and his office betrayed him.
Along the back wall, a crammed bookcase held compasses that never seemed to point north, metallic instruments packed with rotating pieces, and scraps of parchment with names violently crossed out, as though the act of striking them through had been almost therapeutic.
Beside it, a small glass cabinet displayed fangs, feathers and other unclassifiable objects—relics of dubious origin that Tonks preferred not to identify… or ever ask about.
And then, half-hidden in a corner, behind the dusty bust of some famous wizard she didn’t recognise, there was a map unlike the others: the Ministry of Magic, yes…but altered, with hidden passages, impossible corridors and doors that appeared in no official design. Some markings seemed to flicker in and out of existence when she blinked, as if they wished to be seen only by someone who knew they should be looking for them.
Tonks tore her attention away and lifted her head. Kingsley Shacklebolt was there as well, standing beside a filing cabinet that looked as though it had been forced open by sheer accumulation of curses.
Without a word, Moody unfolded the morning Prophet and shoved it in front of her face.
—Read.
Tonks lowered her gaze. The article was on the front page, in the bottom right corner:
ATTEMPTED THEFT AT THE MINISTRY
Sturgis Podmore, 38, of number 2 Laburnum Gardens, Clapham, appeared before the Wizengamot charged with unlawful entry and attempted theft at the Ministry of Magic on the 31st of August. Podmore was apprehended by Ministry security wizard Eric Munch, who caught him attempting to gain access through a high-security door at one o’clock in the morning. Podmore, who declined to speak in his own defence, was found guilty on both charges and sentenced to six months in Azkaban.
Tonks raised her eyes slowly, the newspaper still clenched in her hands.
—Is this true? —she asked, looking first at Moody and then at Kingsley.
Kingsley nodded gravely.
—It is. From what we’ve been able to determine, he entered Room Fourteen without authorisation —he said, folding his arms—. He was intercepted by a magical security patrol.
—Bloody Room Fourteen… —Tonks muttered under her breath. —And what was Sturgis doing in there? The standing order is still not to enter, isn’t it?
Kingsley nodded again, just as grave.
—Yes. The instructions haven’t changed: observe, but do not cross the threshold. We know that room is protected by ancient magical defences. Entering it without understanding how it works would be suicide.
Moody swivelled his good eye towards his magical one.
—And yet he did it. And we don’t know why. That’s what we’re trying to find out.
Tonks looked back at the headline. She frowned.
—And is it true they’ve sent him to Azkaban? —she asked, a mixture of disbelief and anger in her voice—. Just like that?
Kingsley nodded.
—Attempting to access a forbidden room in the Department of Mysteries is a very serious offence. And Sturgis… didn’t even try to explain himself. He didn’t resist either. They sent him straight there.
A cold shiver ran down Tonks’s spine.
Azkaban.
A single word, capable of tearing the air from her lungs. It wasn’t just the place…it was the whispers that crept into your mind, the cold that clung to your bones, the nightmares that dragged the very worst of you back to the surface.
And Sturgis… He wasn’t a close friend, but she liked him.
He struck her as a good man: professional, steady, honest. Not the sort to play both sides. And certainly not someone capable of betraying the Order.
—It doesn’t add up —she said quietly.
—Not to me either —Moody growled, a dangerous glint flashing in his magical eye—. But for now, we can’t make a move without drawing attention. If we go after him, they’ll think we’re involved.
—And Sturgis knows that —Kingsley added—. He must have stayed silent to protect us. The Order. The cause… We can’t let that sacrifice be for nothing.
Tonks lowered her gaze. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the newspaper.
—We’re not leaving him there, are we?
—No —Kingsley said firmly—. We’re not. But it will take planning, time… and a cool head.
—He’s being held incommunicado in Azkaban —Moody repeated, fixing his gaze on her—. Until he’s officially interrogated, no one is allowed near him. They haven’t even let his wife see him.
Tonks nodded silently.
She thought of the icy sea surrounding the prison, the black stone walls, perpetually damp, slick with lichen. A place where the sun never truly reached.
Probably the most desolate place in the world.
Another shiver crept down her spine.
How long would Sturgis hold out?
How long before they could uncover the truth and get him out of there?
……………………………..……………………………..……………………………..……………………………..……
The following morning, an emergency meeting was called at headquarters.
The kitchen at Grimmauld Place was packed. Some members of the Order stood, others sat.
The hanging lamp cast long shadows across the serious faces leaning over the table. The debate, for the most part, revolved around Sturgis… around whether he was a traitor… or a victim.
—Sturgis would never do something like that without a reason —Hestia Jones said firmly.
—Neither mad nor a traitor —Emmeline Vance added—. I know him well. He’s one of the most committed among us. If he went in there, it was for something important.
Dedalus Diggle snorted, restless.
—Yes, yes, but… what if he was forced? Or confused? Or… manipulated? With Dark Magic, you never really know…
—Be that as it may —Moody cut in, his rasping voice rising above the others— we can’t lift a finger for the time being. If we show too much interest in his case, we’ll raise suspicions. And that would be the worst thing we could do for him right now: link him to an illegal organisation, like the Order.
A brief silence followed, thick with restrained frustration.
—So we just wait and do nothing? —Molly asked, unable to hide her displeasure.
—We keep watching —Kingsley stated—. We keep the guard rotations going. It’s clear that Room Fourteen is important, and that someone has tried to remove Sturgis from the equation.
No one said anything else.
Tonks bit her lip, tense. She was far from a bystander in all this. On the contrary: she had been involved from the very beginning.
Ever since they had accepted that Room Fourteen was no ordinary room—the so-called “speaking room”—they had organised discreet surveillance shifts.
Moody never intended for them to spend entire nights hidden beneath an Invisibility Cloak in front of a sealed door.
The key lay in his hidden map: a magical artefact of his own invention that showed, in real time, the position of everyone inside the Ministry.
The system was simple: whoever held the map kept an eye on the vicinity of the Department of Mysteries, and if they detected an out-of-place presence, they covered themselves with Moody’s Invisibility Cloak and approached unseen.
And if they deemed it necessary, they informed Sirius, who was always on alert.
Tonks took advantage of her Auror guard shifts to fulfil that duty as well.
But she wasn’t the only one.
Kingsley, Arthur, Bill, Emmeline, Sturgis, Dedalus… even Lupin himself—despite not working at the Ministry—had taken part in the rotations. It was always more difficult to slip in someone who didn’t officially belong there, but sometimes it was done. Only when absolutely necessary.
And now, after all that effort… someone had gone in. Sturgis. And he hadn’t said a single word.
At last, Lupin broke the silence, voicing what everyone was already thinking.
—We also need to find out what’s inside —Remus added—. We can’t be satisfied with knowing it’s a “speaking room” that we only watch from the shadows. We need to know. Now more than ever.
A murmur of agreement followed. Yes, it was clear they had to resume the investigation into Room Fourteen.
Tonks kept her gaze fixed on the surface of the table.
A phrase echoed forcefully in her memory. Spoken by a drunken wizard in a grimy tavern.
“A room that speaks.”
She had heard it weeks earlier, during that mission with Lupin, when they questioned One-Eyed Toby.
Back then, they hadn’t known exactly what it meant. Toby had babbled about voices, whispering secrets, magic impossible to understand. They had dismissed it as the ramblings of an informant worn down by fear, by time… and by alcohol.
And they had simply let it go.
The Order had other fronts to attend to, and Room Fourteen—though unsettling—didn’t seem urgent. They didn’t know what lay inside, nor was there any way to find out. As a precaution, they had limited themselves to watching.
But now, Sturgis was in Azkaban because of that room. Or because of whatever was hidden within it. Something had driven him to enter, and he hadn’t spoken a single word in his defence.
They owed it to Sturgis. They had to find out what was inside Room Fourteen.
Tonks lifted her gaze towards Moody.
His magical eye spun relentlessly, scanning those present.
But his natural eye was fixed on a point beyond the table.
She knew he was thinking the same thing.
They couldn’t afford to wait much longer.
……………………………..……………………………..……………………………..……………………………..……
As the meeting gradually dissolved and the members began to leave, Kingsley approached Sirius, who had remained by the fireplace, sombre and withdrawn.
Without a word, he handed him the newspaper with the article about Sturgis.
—There’s something else… —the Auror said, flipping through the pages.
Tonks, who was having breakfast with Remus after her night shift, lifted her head, curious.
Sirius skimmed the Prophet. He found the column at once. His expression hardened with every line. Tonks watched him in silence as he read:
“According to reliable sources within the Ministry of Magic, Sirius Black, the infamous murderer, is hiding in London…”
—Same rubbish as always —he muttered, letting the paper fall. His tone was casual, but his face was paler than before.
He didn’t add anything else.
Kingsley let out a heavy breath.
—It’s likely someone recognised you when you accompanied Harry to the platform.
Sirius clenched his jaw.
—No one knows I’m an Animagus. No one outside this house. It’s probably just some lunatic looking for attention.
Remus and Tonks said nothing, but their silence spoke volumes. Wormtail knew… and if he knew, then the Death Eaters did too.
Kingsley nodded, his expression resigned.
—I need to return to the Ministry.
Before leaving, he cast one last look at Tonks.
She returned it with the faintest gesture. Then the door closed behind him with a sharp thud.
Sirius said nothing more.
Remus picked up the newspaper from the floor, silently.
Tonks stirred her tea, her gaze unfocused.
Upstairs, Kreacher paced back and forth, and the kitchen clock resumed its steady ticking.
As if nothing had happened.
……………………………..……………………………..……………………………..……………………………..……
When Tonks said her goodbyes to head home and get some rest, Sirius made his way to the sitting room and dropped heavily into an armchair, as if the weight of the day—or of the memories—had sunk straight into his shoulders.
He stayed there, slumped against the backrest, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, unmoving.
His breathing was slow, almost imperceptible, while his thoughts wandered through a labyrinth of guilt, longing, memories and shadows.
Kreacher busied himself around the house, muttering under his breath, letting out grunts and broken words, breaking the silence in an unbearable way, but Sirius didn’t even blink. His gaze was fixed on the empty fireplace, a black, cold hollow that reflected far too well how he felt inside.
It hadn’t even been a week since the children had gone back to Hogwarts, and he already missed them.
Fred and George’s laughter, Ron and Hermione’s arguments, Ginny’s curious voice asking questions about the Order… even the hurried footsteps along the corridors and doors slamming shut.
That bustle had filled the house all summer, breathing life into a place he hadn’t known to be alive in a very long time.
For a while, Grimmauld Place had stopped being the prison of his childhood, had stopped smelling of hatred and stale dust, and had transformed—almost without meaning to—into a home.
And then there was Harry.
Spending those days with him had been an unexpected gift.
For the first time, after so many stolen years, Sirius had felt he could truly act as a godfather. Sharing breakfast, laughing at the smallest things, teaching him spells, telling him stories about the Marauders. There had been afternoons when he had allowed himself to imagine what his life might have been like if Azkaban hadn’t ripped everything away from him.
If he had raised Harry.
If he had been there when he took his first steps, when he received his Hogwarts letter, when he faced the world without fully understanding it.
Now, however, everything was returning to what it had been before.
The corridors looked gloomy once more, the walls seemed to close in on him, the rooms had reclaimed their habitual silence. Dense, familiar… and cursed. The curtains were drawn, as though refusing to let the sunlight in.
Darkness, like an old friend, waited in every corner.
He could almost breathe the hatred and resentment in every step he took, in every pair of eyes watching him from the portraits.
The house, in the end, had won the battle once again. Loneliness, abandonment, oppression—one way or another, they always prevailed.
And Sirius felt once more like a child trapped between shadows and memories he would rather have forgotten forever.
His eyes drifted to the newspaper he had left on a nearby table. He reread the article about his supposed sighting in London.
He knew he had disobeyed Dumbledore’s orders, knew he had been reckless in going out into the street. But he had only wanted to walk Harry to the train. He had only wanted to say goodbye. Was that really so terrible? So hard to understand?
A movement in the gloom broke his reverie.
As if he had sensed his thoughts, Remus Lupin entered the room and sat down in the armchair beside him.
He held a book in his hand, as though intending to read, but he didn’t open it. He remained silent, waiting for Sirius to speak, giving him space, respecting his thoughts.
Sirius, however, chose to pull away from the darkness of his mind. Instead of sharing the shadows that surrounded him, he forced a crooked smile and looked at his lifelong friend.
—You know, I still think about that conversation we had the other day. The one about how we met.
Lupin raised an eyebrow with curiosity before forming a faint smile. He remembered the conversation they’d had with Tonks, the one in which they’d recalled their first meeting at Hogwarts.
—And the one we had about Animagi, too. Do you remember? —Sirius went on, his gaze drifting into the dim light of the room.
The image of their youth rose vividly in his mind.
He remembered that day with perfect clarity, just after their first Transfiguration lesson…
The four friends were walking together through the corridors of Hogwarts, still talking excitedly about what they had just learned.
Professor McGonagall had spoken enthusiastically about the incredible advantages of mastering Transfiguration and, to top it all off, had left them speechless by assuming her Animagus form, turning into an elegant tabby cat.
—I can’t believe it —James said, his eyes shining—. Becoming an Animagus! Can you imagine?
Sirius grinned, his face lit with excitement.
—Absolutely! We could be anything we wanted. Picture it—me as a massive tiger… terrifying everyone!
James frowned, thoughtful.
—A tiger? Nah, I’d rather be something more… big. Maybe an elephant! Can you imagine an elephant in the Hogwarts courtyard? It would be epic—everyone would clear out of my way.
Sirius let out an incredulous laugh.
—An elephant? Seriously?! It’d be a disaster. You wouldn’t even fit on the stairs, James.
—Alright, alright, maybe not the best idea —James laughed, shrugging—. Maybe something fun, like a kangaroo! That’d be brilliant—I could hop all over the school like a madman!
Sirius crossed his arms, smiling.
—A kangaroo… not bad. But honestly, I see myself more as a dog. There’s nothing like being a dog. Can you imagine running through the castle after the rain and shaking yourself right in front of Filch’s office? —As he said it, Sirius shook himself as if he truly were a dog, his dark hair flying around his face.
Peter burst out laughing, nearly losing his balance.
—Sirius, you’re impossible! —he chuckled—. You’d definitely have to be a dog!
James laughed as well.
—Well, Sirius, a dog’s not so bad. I’ll give you that.
Sirius shot him a mocking look.
—Not like you, James. An elephant? A kangaroo? Honestly.
Peter, who had been quiet until then, jumped in with an excited look.
—I’d be a dragon! Definitely a dragon! Flying through the skies and scaring everyone with my fire!
The three of them fell silent for a moment before bursting into laughter together.
—A dragon? —Sirius laughed—. You’d crush yourself with your own wings!
Peter shrugged, still starry-eyed.
—It’d be epic!
—That, I don’t doubt —James replied, still smiling.
Then they turned to Remus, who had been listening to it all in silence, thoughtful. James glanced at him with a mischievous grin.
—And you, Remus? What would you be?
Remus, who had been listening, shrugged without much conviction. He thought that he was already a wolf, so he would probably never be able to be an Animagus. But his friends were waiting for an answer, so he said the first thing that came into his head.
—Me, uh… a duck?
They all stared at him, puzzled, and after a second of silence, Sirius burst out laughing.
—A duck?! —he laughed—. You’d be the wisest duck in the whole pond!
James laughed too, shaking his head.
—Yeah, and you could swim in all the lakes at Hogwarts without anyone bothering you!
—But the giant squid could eat you… A dragon, on the other hand—
—Alright, alright —Sirius said, nudging Peter affectionately—. We’ve heard you.
James turned back to Remus, smiling.
—So, a duck? —he asked—. Brilliant!
Remus couldn’t help but smile.
—Well, I’ve always felt a bit like a duck in water, you know? —he said with a grin, shrugging.
The four of them laughed together and hurried through the corridors so as not to be late for their next class.
Sirius returned to the present.
The sitting room of his childhood home lay submerged in shadow, lit only by the dull light filtering through the threadbare curtains.
The air still smelled of dust and forgotten memories, Kreacher’s throat-clearing echoed somewhere in the distance, and the fireplace—cold and dark—kept reminding him of the emptiness of his own soul.
His lips curved into a faint, nostalgic smile.
—Did you really tell us you wanted to be a duck, Remus? —he asked in a murmur, without taking his eyes off the extinguished embers—. And didn’t we make fun of you?
Remus let out a low laugh, shaken by the memory.
—Well… I couldn’t exactly tell you I was already a wolf, could I?
Sirius tilted his head, conceding the point.
—I suppose not.
He leaned back in the armchair, his gaze drifting to the crumpled newspaper on the table.
—In the end, becoming a dog was a good idea —he murmured, almost to himself—. At least it meant I could walk Harry to the platform.
Lupin didn’t reply. It was clear that Sirius didn’t regret leaving Grimmauld Place. He simply watched him in silence. The man before him was no longer the boy he had known at Hogwarts, nor even the friend he remembered from before Azkaban. He seemed like a shadow of himself, trapped in a house he hated, in a time that didn’t belong to him.
And as Sirius Black stared into the empty fireplace, Remus Lupin wondered, with a tight knot in his throat, whether he would ever see him smile like that again.
……………………………..……………………………..……………………………..……………………………..……
—I knew it… —she murmured to herself—. He took too much risk.
Molly Weasley frowned as she read the Prophet.
The news that Sirius had been seen in London worried her, but beyond the general alarm, she understood the desperation he must be feeling. He had spent far too long confined: first in Azkaban, then in Grimmauld Place. And when someone is trapped, she thought, the mind begins to fill with dark thoughts.
That morning, sunlight filtered through the clouds and gave her an idea. Sirius needed something to occupy his mind. And his hands. Something real. Something good.
With that resolve, she filled her enchanted bag with ingredients and made her way to the Order’s headquarters with a clear purpose: to distract Sirius by cooking. If he was going to be living there with Remus, someone had to take charge of the kitchen. And besides, she thought with a smile, teaching him how to make a proper sauce certainly wouldn’t do him any harm.
When she arrived, she found him sitting in the kitchen, drinking beer, his gaze lost in the foam at the top of his glass.
His shoulders were hunched, his brow furrowed. Molly paused for a second, watching him. Sometimes she forgot how young he still was. But not that day. That day, Sirius looked old to her—not because of his age, but because of everything he carried on his shoulders.
Sirius looked up when he sensed her presence, startled.
—What are you doing here, Molly? —he asked, his voice hoarse.
—I’m going to teach you how to cook —she replied bluntly, setting her bag down on the table and starting to take out ingredients.
Sirius raised an eyebrow.
—Excuse me?
—I’m not going to let you and Remus starve to death in this place —she said firmly, pulling out a frying pan and setting it on the stove—. And besides, you spend far too much time sitting around doing nothing. Cooking is relaxing. It’ll do you good.
—Molly, I don’t…
—No buts, Sirius Black! —she cut him off, her motherly tone brooking no argument—. Put on that apron and grab the knife. You’re going to chop these onions.
Sirius looked at her with a mixture of disbelief and resignation. With a theatrical sigh, he got to his feet and obeyed. But a smile soon slipped onto his face.
Before long, the kitchen filled with movement.
Molly was like a whirlwind: with one hand she whisked a thick sauce with fervour, with the other she chopped fresh herbs, and at the same time her wand was knitting a new jumper on a chair. Sirius, caught up in the rhythm of the kitchen, discovered that chopping onions could be more cathartic than he’d imagined. Stirring the sauce required focus. Grinding the spices gave him a reason to stay on his feet.
At some point, he stopped thinking about the Prophet, about Harry, about James. And he allowed himself simply to be there. Present. Chopping. Stirring. Living.
Molly, for her part, watched him with careful discretion.
She didn’t say anything when she saw him smile faintly as he tasted a spoonful of the sauce. Nor did she interrupt him when he fell silent, breathing in the scent of thyme with his eyes closed, as though the smell were carrying him far away.
But something loosened in her chest.
Perhaps, she thought, if she could give him—even for a single minute—a moment of calm, a note of joy or hope, then all the effort would have been worth it.
……………………………..……………………………..……………………………..……………………………..……………………………………………………………………..……………………………..……………………………..……………………………..……………………………………………………………………..…………………………
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Good morning!
It’s quite clear that, with the youngsters gone from Grimmauld Place, darkness has reclaimed every corner of the house. That’s why this chapter is almost entirely devoted to Sirius and his confinement.
I understand Dumbledore’s reasoning: Sirius Black is still a wanted murderer in the eyes of the Ministry, and he can’t simply walk around freely as if nothing were wrong. After all, with Peter Pettigrew’s escape, the evidence of Sirius’s innocence vanished with him. On top of that, Sirius is a member of the Order of the Phoenix—an organisation which, at least as I see it, is illegal. It operates from the shadows and outside the Ministry’s authority, at a time when much of the wizarding population refuses to believe Dumbledore and Harry’s claims that Voldemort has returned.
That said, I don’t think Sirius’s confinement is a good solution. I can’t think of a better one, but going from being imprisoned in Azkaban to being confined in the place he hates even more than prison itself doesn’t seem right. At least in my view, Sirius is a free spirit. And because of that, he feels confinement more deeply than anyone else—especially the stolen years of youth that life, fate, or sheer bad luck took from him. In short, I find him to be a deeply tragic character.
Let me know what you think in the comments. Was Dumbledore right to keep him confined? What would you have done in his place?
As always, I invite you to check out the illustrations for this fanfic on my social media —you can find them on Instagram, Tumblr, or TikTok.
All my links are here:
https://lagatakafka.com/links/
Deja un Comentario