Weft of Power, Warp of Blood: A Tapestry of Desire

Chapter Twenty - One
Changing the View

Jasmine lived quietly over the summer- which didn\'t provoke the least bit of comment from anyone in Hogsmeade- she wasn\'t known for being a gal about town anyway. She slowly went from constantly crying to a quiet stillness which was discussed by family in hushed tones. Casual friends and neighbors put Jasmine’s mood to nerves about You-Know-Who and Dumbledore’s troubles with the Ministry. Family thought it might have had something to do with worry about Severus. The quietness was an emotional state; there were simply no loud sounds or deep textures or bright colors in her thoughts. Arielle was never neglected though; indeed, she was cherished, and in the depths of night, considered a savior from rampant, depressing navel gazing by her mother. They cuddled and tickled and played dolls and brushed a herd of unicorns once a week and played with the animals and read Mary Muggle and did homework. Jasmine wove and knit and pressed fibers together and drew new designs and took on and completed new commissions and in the quiet routine that she had once been bored by, Jasmine quietly gathered perspective on herself and her situation.

She decided that while her great-grandfather led a ponderous battle of words against the Ministry and the terrifying waiting game with Voldemort - that she needed to get a life and stop thinking about what might have been and what wasn\'t in her non-relationship with Sirius. She didn\'t want to occupy her time with anything dangerous or even terribly exciting - nothing could convince her to put Arielle or herself, as Arielle\'s mother, in danger. Finishing up the dress robes for the Ministry’s ball was occupying most of her time, but she needed something - people, a different view, something to break the routine.

After several discussions with her mother and grandmother, Jasmine decided to spend a couple of hours each week playing shop girl in the store they all shared in Diagon Alley. Jasmine\'s grandmother, Iris, technically owned and operated Three Flowers but all three of them stocked it. Iris, Dumbledore\'s daughter, made children\'s clothing, Iris’s daughter, Rose, designed witch and wizard daywear and Jasmine made haute couture formalwear with a few pieces to be sold off the rack in the shop and whatever else suited her fancy from blouses to enchanted rugs.

The Three Flowers had been next to Flourish and Blotts for fifty years, though had originally been called Two Flowers. It had grown out of the mother-daughter cottage industry when they discovered that their storerooms were too small for their business and their respective husbands were tired of strangers walking into their homes to shop. The three-story building had an office in the attic, a mezzanine, which was Rose’s showroom, and the ground floor was split down the middle. Half of it was decorated like a lady\'s boudoir and the other looked like a child\'s playroom. A sprightly lady with beautifully coifed white hair was waiting on a young mother trying to match an outfit for a sleeping toddler. Despite her ninety-five years, the lady was quite lovely with twinkling blue eyes behind jeweled spectacles.

Smiling politely at the customer, Jasmine kissed her grandmother\'s soft cheek and turned to study the display of her latest wares. She was tweaking skirts and adjusting the angle of the Shoulder-Padding Spell inside a velvet evening suit when Iris stuffed a baby jumper into her hands.

\"What do you think of the color? I accidentally disenchanted the mordant before when I was dying the latest batch of wool from Mordechai Shepherd. Look what happened? Interesting, isn\'t it?\"

Jasmine was suspicious of the too-casual tone of the opening salvo but gave the jumper a cursory glance. It was a lovely shade of heathered mauve with interesting color streaking. \"You made the best out of it. It\'s quite pretty. What did you do with the rest of the lot?\" she asked.

\"Oh, I gave it to Rosie,\" said Iris, blissfully ignoring the fact that her daughter hated being called anything but Rose. \"I thought it would beautiful on Amelia Bones,\" she said, giving Jasmine a sidelong glance.

Agreeing, Jasmine hummed. She knew it would be lovely on the lady despite her booming voice and forceful manner. Mrs. Bones had ordered a dress from her in a similar color that had looked stunning at the fitting.

\"How is Arielle-my-belle?\"

Again, Jasmine was struck by the tone of the question but decided to keep playing. \"She\'s fine, still tanned from her trip with Severus - it\'s all she can talk about. He\'s been spoiling her since spending so much time….away.\" Jasmine quickly substituted the last word for \"with that bastard Voldemort\" when a customer entered.

Both women gave the newcomer welcoming smiles. She was short and round with a toad-like face, wearing a moderately priced lilac bombazine dress and girlish pink robes. Both designers were aesthetically offended by the small black bow perched on the woman\'s head. It bobbed irritatingly on her graying mousy pincurls when she simpered her greetings.

\"Hello, girls! I\'m looking for a special dress to wear to the Wizard\'s Ball. After my promotion to Chief Undersecretary, I deserve to treat myself this year and I want a Flowering Jasmine!\" Her voice was obviously a falsetto created by a woman that knew she was no longer a girl. It sounded like a Fwooper\'s death screech.

Jasmine grabbed her grandmother\'s hand underneath the ledger book counter. \"Oh really?\" she gulped, but was ignored in the stranger\'s quest for sartorial splendor.

\"I was thinking magenta and puce lace with some ribbon rosettes up around here,\" she woman smiled broadly with a toady gleam and gestured to her bosom, which couldn\'t really be distinguished from her belly - or her chin.

\"Uh… Flowering Jasmine isn\'t really accepting any new commissions right now. She\'s really booked up for the ball. Most customers try to get their orders in three to six months in advance for the event,\" Jasmine squeaked, looking for any reason to avoid making anything involving pink and purple lace with rosettes.

“Oh, I’m sure Flowering Jasmine will take my commission when she hears about it,” said the woman with an ingratiating smile.

Jasmine was opening her mouth to respond when the woman stroked her pudgy fingers over the mauve sweater and asked without looking at the ladies, “Isn’t Jasmine Swan Albus Dumbledore’s granddaughter?” Her voice had lost the little-girl tone and now sounded much deeper.

Pasting a false smile on her face, Iris corrected, “Great-granddaughter.”

“Hmmm, and isn’t this shop owned by his daughter?” The woman’s slack-jawed smile was patronizing.

“Yes, it is,” said Iris, eyes narrowed.

“It’s a lovely little shop. It would be such a shame if something happened to it while Dumbledore’s finances are under investigation,” said the toad-like woman.

Iris tried to interrupt, but the woman never stopped speaking.

“That kind of investigation can go so deep into the family vault- the Ministry sometimes has to just arbitrarily decide when to stop, just because there is so much information. It is quite tedious, but it really must be in depth in circumstances like this.”

With a feral smile and a too-pleasant growl, Jasmine asked, “Why would Dumbledore be under any kind of investigation?” Jasmine ignored the vice-like grip Iris held on her hand.

“Oh, all this claiming that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is still alive is suspect. I think it’s clear that he’s either senile or is lying for some reason. The Ministry is convinced that Dumbledore is subversive at best and attempting a coup d’etat at worst!” The woman spoke quickly while she fondled a gown and robe set that Jasmine had made of iridescent taffeta and velvet. Without stopping the flow of her speech, she said, “Oh, isn’t this lovely! Obviously a Flowering Jasmine, she does such beautiful work. I’ve been so excited about this dress for so long that I was just nervous to come down here! Oh, I do hope nothing happens to this shop or to the ladies that make everything. It’s all just so beautiful! You must tell me, what do I need to do to get this dress and robe started? Is Miss Swan here often?”

Jasmine ground out, “Twice a week, in the mornings. We’ll send you a note for you to make an appointment for some design ideas and measurements.”

“Oh, can’t you just take those now? I know just what I want and I know that she can make it for me. I just know it’s going to be beautiful. Like I said, I want magenta and puce with perhaps a little bit of green for contrast. Please take my measurements now and that way she can start thinking about it. The ball is so close, I don’t want to waste any time.”

Only the bite of her grandmother’s silvery fingernails digging into Jasmine’s wrist stopped her from making a cutting retort. Iris pulled a tape measure and dressmaker’s quill from a drawer and said “I really don’t know what Jasmine will say but she’s so sweet that I’m sure she’ll try to squeeze another dress into her schedule for you. Of course, the rush will be added to the price-tag, but there’s simply nothing to be done about it, so close to the party.”

“Oh, that will be fine, as long as it’s under two hundred galleons,” the woman tittered, making the bow in her hair bob obscenely. The number was so high that it was almost profane – to the toad woman, her words would have been a joke.

“Actually, it will probably be about that much,” said Jasmine in honeyed tones and waved her wand at the tape measure and quill. The tape flew to the woman and measured every line, curve, angle, limb and circumference of the toad woman’s body while the quill – enchanted to take down every number that the tape flashed at it wrote. The tape measure, reacting to a subtle wave of Jasmine’s wand was tight around the woman’s neck and spent a very long time getting her inseam length under her dress.

For a moment, the woman resembled a toad even more, with her mouth gaping at the price of the dress and intimacy of the tape measure. If a fly had been in the shop, she surely would have caught it.

“The lace alone is quite expensive and the fabric is rare, the under-dress must be silk, unless you were looking to go naked, the hand embroidery is difficult and magic just won’t do it correctly – it must be done by hand. The colors you requested will require special dye baths and the rush alone is costly.” And the threats to my family set you back the price of three silver unicorn horns, Jasmine added to herself.

Ever the business witch, Iris demanded a deposit of half the estimated price before work could commence and the woman left with her purse empty and nothing to show for it. A tight smile crossed her pinched lips as she departed, saying “I do hope this dress is worth the price I’m paying. The Ministry would certainly investigate any kind of price gouging scheme coming from a member of Dumbledore’s family.” With that, the door snapped shut. The large, baroque mirror mounted on the awning across the street showed the woman’s face as she left. Her expression was an odd combination of triumph and apoplexy.

“I’m making her dress out of Muggle polyester lace and cheap curtain silk and you can’t stop me.”

“Stop you? I’ll go shopping with you,” said Iris, handing Jasmine the woman’s receipt.

Jasmine read the name and contact information, just above the measurements. Dolores Jane Umbridge; Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, Hogwarts Professor, Defense Against the Dark Arts.

The door again opened again.

“Loathsome creature,” growled Iris.

The man entering heard her. He looked stricken. The pleasant smile on his handsome face fell into disappointment.

“Uh…”

“Remus hello, darling – oh no,” Iris looked at the man’s expression. “Not you, there was a woman that I would like you to…remember on the last leg of your delivery route. She just left – Dolores Umbridge, she said her name was…”

Remus’s jaw tightened. “I know her – or of her, rather well. She doesn’t like non-humans or non-purebloods. She’s written a great deal of legislation about them. What about her?”

“She was just here! She threatened us – or threatened Jasmine, into making her a dress.” Iris quickly relayed the story of Dolores Umbridge’s threats while furiously packing a family of matching sweaters into a box.

Jasmine looked on. Remus Lupin had changed since he was eighteen. The years had not been kind to him though he was still a handsome man. He wore tatty wizard robes over blue jeans. His hair was liberally salted with gray – almost as much as Iris’s. Later, she would tell Anne-Mette that he looked tired and old, despite his unlined face. Jasmine tried to harden her thoughts – he was also Sirius’s best friend and roommate.

“Threatened Jasmine, did she?” he asked, still obviously annoyed. His gaze turned to her, finally recognizing that the redhead was the same woman that Sirius waxed poetic about on a daily basis. Remus sketched a short bow and smiled. .

She said nothing, but nodded politely and turned to tweak at her dresses.

Remus looked curiously at Jasmine, who was watching him under her eyelashes and saw him studying her as though he recognized her from somewhere though couldn’t place her face. She dropped her eyes as soon as she noticed his eyes on her. Iris called her back in a cheery voice.

“Jasmine, I want you to meet Remus Lupin. Remus, this is my granddaughter, Jasmine Swan. You’ve delivered some of her work but I don’t think you’ve met her. She’s a bit of a hermit and prefers to work from home.”

His eyes widened as he smiled and held out his hand. Not wanting to appear ungracious, she took it. His grip was firm without being overpowering. His hands were callused from hard work.

“Jasmine, I seem to recall you from school. I think you were a few years behind us. You were a Gryffindor, right?”

Jasmine gave a humming acknowledgement.

“I think we have a mutual friend.”

Jasmine lips pursed repressively, “I’m sure we have many mutual friends, Mr. Lupin. It’s a small world.”

He grinned and said “Oh yes, but one in particular.”

A tight smile was his only response.

Taking up the box of sweaters and the galleon that Iris had paid him, he bowed. “Thank you. I’ll be happy to deliver this to Mrs. Eddelson and will tell Professor Dumbledore about your new… client.”

Jasmine knew that the delivery charge shouldn’t have been so much. She knew, though that Iris was kindhearted and had given Lupin a large tip.

With murmured good-byes, good lucks and thanks, Lupin left the shop.

Iris pounced on Jasmine the moment he left

“Speaking of mutual friends you might have…”

Jasmine knew right away that this what was what the too-casual questions were leading up to, earlier. She said only “I love you, Grandee, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

Iris, being a woman, a grandmother and in her father’s confidence about said young man, said innocently, “Papa said that a young man is being distracted from saving the world from the evil overlord because you insist on returning his owls.”

Jasmine sniffed and lifted her nose in the air and smoothed invisible wrinkles from a mink and satin jacket. “Professor Grandpa needs to mind his own business.”

“You are his business, little flower – who’s the man?”

“There is no man, Grandee, only a lying dog that I am completely disinterested in knowing anything further about.”

Iris thought for moment then dared to ask, “Hmm, do you mean “dog” in an Uncle Aberforth way?”

“Grandee!”

“Hmm,” was all her grandmother would say though her mind was twirling with Jasmine’s words and the blush flaming over her face.

Jasmine looked irritated, “So Professor Grandpa is skivving off his dirty work? He’s asked you to ferret out the story to satisfy his own curiosity, didn’t he?”

“William?”

“What?”

“The man, what’s his name?”

“I’m not telling you any more.”

“Robert? Michael? Bix?”

“I’m going home. It’s time to pick up Ari.”

“Ulrich? Aloysius? Mortimer? Titus?”

“Have a good night, Grandee!” Jasmine stepped into the second room, where the fireplace was, and Flooed home, her grandmother still shouting names at her.

A few hours later, Remus returned to the flat in Blackpool to find a growling Sirius holding a letter. A brown owl stood on the table preening itself. Sirius glared at the letter again then handed it to Remus.

Dear Sirius,

Thank you again for offering your family home. I think it is a wise idea for us to repair there then to perform a Fidelus Charm on it. When this is done, you will also have a safer place to hide until we can manage to clear your name. I will be the secret keeper for the house; all members of the Order will have to find out from me where it is located as you and I are the only living people who actually know where the house is, I believe? Of course, the house is still heavily protected, so you will need to give me the address when we meet, or I will not be able to see it. You will, of course, not be able to tell anyone anyway.

I want you to keep hidden for as long as possible, so please use a Disillusionment Charm when you approach the house. I do not want a Muggle to recognize you from the wanted posters. I want you, at all costs, to stay hidden for your own good. You are far too valuable to expose yourself needlessly.

Also, please remember not to discuss the move or the waiting game that we’re playing with Harry. I do not want him to worry overly. He has enough to deal with after witnessing Voldemort’s return without adding more to his plate.

I look forward to seeing you and Remus this evening in London.

Albus Dumbledore


Remus carefully set the letter down and asked, “London?”

“London.”

“How long’s it been?”

“Since I was sixteen.”

Silence.

“We’re getting old.”

“You’re getting old. I’m still in my twenties.”

“Keep saying that and maybe you won’t complain about going back. Besides, you’re not in your twenties, you’re close to forty.”

“Shut up. I missed being in my twenties – and thirties.”

“Don’t be flippant.”

The men were again silent for a few moments, watching the bird preen himself before setting off again.

“We don’t have to go.”

“I offered.”

“I know.”

Silence.

“I should have offered the place in Godric’s Hollow. It’s more comfortable.”

“We already talked about that. It isn’t as well hidden as the other.”

“I could sell the Godric’s Hollow place and Grimmauld and buy a place in Hogsmeade.”

“You still couldn’t go see her, even if the Ministry didn’t notice you buying and selling property all over Britain.”

“I know. I’m an idiot.”

“You said it, not me.”

The move to Grimmauld Place wasn\'t unexpected, since Sirius had offered the use of his old family home to Dumbledore, but it was highly unpleasant. Sirius spent the rest day grumbling as he and Remus packed up the small flat in Blackpool, though he listened carefully and asked a myriad of questions when Remus mentioned that he met Jasmine.

The packing went quickly. The furniture belonged with the flat so they didn\'t have to worry about that, which seemed to be the only saving grace of the day. The only bric-a-brac was a photograph of Remus, Sirius, James and \"that murdering traitor\" Peter taken when they were seventeen - it was packed carefully. (The photo-James always protested when one of them tried to rip Peter from the photo - eventually they ignored or, alternately, threatened the photo-Peter so much that he\'d taken to hiding in the lower corner.) The linens were washed and packed in the empty aquarium with Sirius\'s two changes of clothing - the goldfish that had occupied it had been regretfully given to the young boy downstairs.

Remus quit the Muggle green-grocer he\'d been working at for a year and a half, though he kept his part time delivery jobs with the few sympathetic merchants in Diagon Crossing. The money was hardly worth the time, but Remus spent most of his time spent in the alleys, shops and streets listening for gossip about Voldemort. He dropped quite a few hints and bits of odd gossip, too, on Dumbledore\'s orders.

Sirius didn\'t need to tell anyone that he was moving - he didn\'t have a regular job to quit from. He\'d been working as an illegal day laborer, mostly in construction, and was still wanted by both the wizarding and Muggle authorities. The meager payment from his odd jobs had allowed him to purchase clothing without leaving any kind of trail from his Gringott’s vaults to himself. Over time and with an ill-afforded loan from Remus, he’d eventually purchased a second rate (and probably stolen) wand. Sirius admitted that he was jealous of the freedom that Remus had but agreed that taking a stroll though Diagon Alley and the surrounding area would be a potentially fatal mistake. The one morning he\'d been down Knockturn Alley, the news of it had been in the evening edition of the Daily Prophet. Dumbledore ordered him not to take such chances again.

The trip from the resort town of Blackpool to London was quick. Sirius donned the Disillusionment Charm with a look of distaste; he wasn’t invisible, simply less noticeable, as he blended into whatever background he was standing against. The men disapparated from an alley with a loud BANG BANG that the locals put down to a lorry backfiring or gunshots. They reapparated in an anonymous London alley, surprising a pair of cats that were engaged in a staring contest over yesterday\'s fish bones. The cats bolted with twin screeches at the noise of the men appearing. The men stepped over rotting garbage and dented dustbins, ducking under a rusty fire escape to exit onto the street.

The day was overcast, as it always seemed to be on Grimmauld Place. The air of the once glorious neighborhood was thick with the malaise of poverty. Summer heat and pollution made it difficult for the men to breathe without wrinkled noses. Car fumes, smoke and dirt had long replaced the flowers and baking rack of lamb scents of the wealthy. The formerly regal houses had all been whored into squalid apartments or ripped down to make way for soulless post-war boxes with chipping paint and disintegrating brick. Fast food wrappers mixed with dog droppings, spent cigarettes and dead leaves in the gutters; brazen rats gamboled freely, heedless of passing humans. The walls were stained and the jagged glass of broken windows gaped maliciously as Remus and Sirius walked by. Warring radio stations blared from several of the houses whose filthy windows were intact but open to coax in a stray breeze.

They met Dumbledore, standing serenely at the front gate of number 13 Grimmauld Place. No one had seemed to notice the tall, ancient man in violet wizard robes and high-heeled boots. Or perhaps they had and had thought he was senile and wearing his dressing down. Dumbledore nodded to both men, seeing through Sirius’s charm. In lieu of a greeting, Sirius handed Dumbledore piece of paper with “The Black Family home is at 12 Grimmauld Place, London”. The old man smiled benignly and handed the piece of paper to Remus, who read and memorized it, then burned the paper with a spark from his fingertip. The house faded into view, expanding from a point of nothingness between numbers 11 and 13 Grimmauld Place. It pushed the other houses out of its way, though they never seemed to move. A withered garden surrounded by a rusted wrought iron fence appeared in front of the three men. The gate opened as soon as Sirius approached. It tried to slam shut on Dumbledore and Remus, but Sirius caught one of the bars before Remus was bruised.

A chip of black paint fell when Sirius tapped the door once with his wand – there was no handle, only a tarnished silver knocker in the shape of an ouroboros. They heard several locks unbolting and chains falling before the door opened with a grinding creak. A wave of decaying air seemed to pour from the house, escaping to poison the outside. The inside was tomblike but a single torch flared to life as Sirius stepped through the door. Dumbledore and Remus followed even though the door made to close on them before Sirius remembered to hold it open and usher them inside. With a resigned expression, Sirius held out his hand and quietly requested, “Wands.”

They held them out – Sirius took each in turn and tapped the center of the door. His voice not rising above a depressed murmur in the dank, disused hallway, Sirius said, “You’ll be able to open the door now, no one is able to until their wand is tapped by someone who has already been granted opening rights – or a member of my family.”

“Can any of your cou—“ Dumbledore’s words were cut off by an unearthly shriek.

“Yooooou anathema! You rotten blood traitor! How dare you return to sully my home! Get out now, you ungrateful abomination! Filth!”

Howling at the end of the hallway, barely illuminated by the single torch, was a life-sized portrait of an old witch. Her thrashing head was covered by a black cap but the hair hanging below it was long and white. Her skin was sallow and stretched taut over skeletal cheeks. Spittle flew from her mouth to land on the frame as she screamed invectives. She clawed at them, as though trying to reach Sirius from the portrait.

“Scum! You are nothing in this house! Slime! Vile offal! You infect the name of my fathers! Defiler of honor and purity! Shame of my flesh!”

Grabbing the sleeves of the other men, Sirius rushed into the salon and slammed the door shut. The portrait continued to howl until it realized that it had no audience, then quieted.

Unflappable as ever, Dumbledore said, “Sirius, you have a very interesting home.” His voice reverberated through the room and started a cacophony of gossip among the portraits. He lit one of the wall sconces. The brightness of the room only accentuated the spider webs draping everything.

Sirius’s only response was to lean on the dusty Nero Marquina marble mantle, resting his head on his folded arms.

Wand still in hand, Dumbledore cast a Belljar Charm on the house, preventing any of the figures in the paintings from leaving the house before he could charm each one to stay in its frame and have a discussion with the few portraits that he knew.

“As I was asking, can any of your cousins access the house?”

Speaking into his arms, Sirius replied, “No, not as long as I’m alive and haven’t invited them in. From what the solicitor wrote when my mother died, she wasn’t sane enough to manage legally disowning me. She just blasted me off the family tree instead. The cousins could come in after I die, though, if I don’t name an heir and break the entail.”

“I see. You should name an heir immediately, then. You can always change your mind later,” suggested Dumbledore.

Halfheartedly, Sirius raised his wand to point at Dumbledore. He barely lifted his head before he spoke, “I name Albus,” he paused, “what’s your full name, Professor?” The back of his head did not reflect in the mirror over the mantle.

Dumbledore chuckled and said, “Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.”

“I name Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore as heir to all of my properties and possessions, including Black House, The Kennel of Godric’s Hollow, the contents of both houses, all accounts at Gringott’s Bank in my name and in the name of the family Black, down to the last flea-ridden, rat-chewed knut and chair.” He spoke the words clearly. The house seemed to shudder in response.

Dumbledore nodded gravely. “Please do change that at some point.”

Sirius shrugged and turned to Lupin, “Well, aren’t you going to ask?”

“Ask what? Why you didn’t name me? I wouldn’t have taken it,” said Remus.

“No.”

“Oh, about…” Remus nodded to the hallway. At Sirius’s pained look, Remus asked, “So, who’s the…?”

“That, m’ dear Moony, is my mother,” said Sirius. “Now you know why I went to the Potters’ for the holidays.”

Remus very discreetly said “Oh,” though he knew the history of the split. He asked, “Should I introduce myself?”

Sirius shrugged.

Remus walked to the door, bravely opening it to step into the hallway. Politely turning to the portrait, he said “It’s very nice to meet you Mrs. Black. I am Remus Lupin, an old school friend of your son’s. I have heard a great deal about you and am delighted to finally make your acquaintance.”