All Hallow's Eve
A Sirius Black fan-fic by ..
Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling. I own nothing, I claim nothing, I know nothing. This is merely my form of entertainment.
Dedicated to J and R, as per always.
Please R & R.
This is Sirius Black, All Hallows' Eve, 1981, the moment fear overtakes him.
He is standing on the doorstep of a modest home in Cornwall, wrapped in a travelling cloak against the whip of the chill October wind. He is knocking on the door with no reply, and he knows old Wormy's always been one for deep and impenetrable naps, and he knows he's probably just winding Sirius up, and he knows there's no hovering Dark Mark, but even so, even so –
"Peter? Peter, it's Sirius," he yells again, and then suddenly he is screaming.
"Peter! Wormtail! Dammit, Wormy, it's Padfoot, open the damn door! Open this fucking door, I'm gonna kill you if you're messing with me. Wormtail!"
The last word strains his throat, hits a note shrill with panic and wholly unmanly and undignified, completely at odds with how he sees himself, but right now he doesn't care, doesn't give a damn, because if Peter is hurt ...
Without a second thought Sirius raises his wand and blasts down his friend's front door.
When he steps into the hallway, it is as still and cold as a tomb. He has never been foresighted, never even believed in prophesy, but now he is paralysed with an intuition that this is bad, that this is really bad ...
And all he wanted tonight was a chat with his old friend, a few shots of Firewhisky, a reminisce, a hug perhaps, a respite from all the life-and-death desperation of the war, that was all ...
Now he is trembling with adrenaline, with the knowledge that Peter would never run out when they'd arranged to meet, never stand up his oldest friend, never let them down. Something must have happened, something that has never really happened to Sirius, never broken through into the closed circle of people he loves, but that has finally come home to roost.
Before this night is over, he knows, he will find out just how tragedy has touched his life.
With his heart beating so hard and fast he feels sick, Sirius races through the house, searching. For a rat, for a man, for a sign that his intuition is wrong, that he has never been more wrong in his life.
He finds nothing.
"Something's not right," he whispers aloud.
Has Lupin really turned traitor, then? Sirius has suspected it, suspected it all year, since all the plans started going balls up and Lupin's info started being wrong all the time, since the incident with Greyback and Moody – because, really, who else could it be?
It makes him feel physically sick, the idea of Remus Lupin selling them out, of monsters with furred and fanged alter egos and monsters with hoods and masks coming for little Peter. It fills him with rage, because when has Peter ever harmed anything? When has he ever been vindictive or cruel, when has he ever failed to be anything other than one of the most loyal, tenacious –
A voice in Sirius's head (cool and supercilious, it sounds oddly like Regulus in full know-it-all mode) says, What about the Dark Mark?
The thought stops him dead in his mental tracks. There is no Dark Mark. No obscene death's head hovering above the house. There have been no Death Eaters here tonight.
In which case ...
No. His mind rejects it. Can't grasp it. Screams with a near-hysterical certitude that it must be wrong. Peter would never go willingly, would never betray them, could never betray them.
Not Peter. Not Peter, who they have always trusted with their lives, trusted to bail them out, trusted to come through when all the plans fall apart and it's do-or-die. Quick-thinking Peter, practical-joker Peter, gentle Peter, Peter who would take the blame, take the flak, Peter who told Remus they knew when Sirius and James were too afraid, Peter who had proven his loyalty ten thousand times, Peter the Secret-Keeper ...
The Secret-Keeper Sirius had suggested.
The Secret-Keeper.
Lily and James. Harry.
When it comes down to it, they are Sirius's family. When it comes down to it, there is one person Sirius loves more than anyone on this earth. His best friend, his true brother, James Potter, and there is no competition. He would die for James. He would kill for James.
But if he is right (please God, let me not be) he may have killed James.
Sirius is on his motorbike before he can process his own thoughts. He is roaring through the black haunted night, so fast the wind rips the feeling from his face, steals the tears from his eyes. But not fast enough to outrun his fear, not fast enough to chase down death.
He squeezes the accelerator.
Faster.
This is Sirius Black, August the Second, 1980, the moment he first lays eyes on his days-old godson, Harry James Potter.
He is standing in the doorframe of the Potters' living room in the cottage in Godric's Hollow, and he thinks of himself as a fairly strong man, toughened up by the chaos of a life lived on the frontline of the wizarding war, Quidditch player, man's man ... but he looks at Lily Potter and the child in her arms, and there is a lump in his throat.
By his side, James is beaming, bouncing, bursting with so much joy and pride that his reaction to winning the Quidditch Cup back at Hogwarts suddenly seems positively morose. He has his arm slung around Sirius's shoulder, hugging him roughly, bouncing up and down, chattering exuberantly in his ear about Merlin knows what, but for once Sirius doesn't give a damn, isn't paying any attention.
He is focused entirely on the mother and child across the room.
Sirius Black was never exactly Lily Evans's greatest fan. He never disliked her ... but he'd resented any expansion of the tightly knit cabal of the Marauders, any intrusion on the tiny group he considered his family. He'd also been, of course, jealous over James, but that was all long gone. Either way, he counts Lily as a friend, appreciates her for the happiness she brings James, but he has never loved her.
Now he looks at her and loves her.
Not romantically, not sexually, something far more deep and simple.
It is something he rarely talks about, but Sirius Black never had a true childhood. He grew up in chaos, battered by the storm of his parents' rage and hatred. His earliest memory is his mother's screamed abuse, his father's whip. He would never confess this, not even to James, but he has never felt the unconditional fortitude of a parent's love, the warm embrace of a mother, and he has always wanted it so much.
And now he sees it, there before him.
Lily sits in the window seat in a pale green dressing gown. Her hair is pulled over one shoulder and tumbles down almost to her waist, the sunlight turning it to fire. She cradles her baby son, impossibly small and wrapped in blankets, to her breast, and as she looks at him, her face is transformed. Transported. Her green eyes are burning, shining, and she is all of a sudden stunningly beautiful – pure love is radiating out of her like heat from a star. She looks like the Madonna, consumed with love so fierce it could destroy worlds, so gentle it can hold the tiniest child and never hurt it.
She is a mother. A vision of an ideal of a mother so elemental and true it makes his heart hurt.
She lifts her face to him, and smiles. When she speaks, it is to Harry, and her voices curves around the edges of the words in a way he has never heard before, not even when she addresses James. "Hey, Harry, it's your Uncle Sirius here to meet you ... say hi to your godfather, my darling ..."
Sirius and James cross over to the window seat. James kisses Lily's head as Sirius touches the baby's face gently. "Hello there, Harry."
The infant blinks solemnly up at Sirius.
"Ah, he's got your eyes," Sirius says to Lily, surprised. She beams and nods. "Not the hair though, I see, Red," he adds, and as usual, she smacks his arm in protest at the nickname.
"Looks like he might take after James," Lily says.
"Poor kid," Sirius and James say in unison, and they all laugh.
"Congratulations," Sirius adds, somewhat lamely.
Lily smiles up at him, seeming to catch the depth of his sincerity. "Thank you ... you know, I was kind of worried about whether I'd be able to be a good mother, but now I feel ... well, like I might be a natural."
"I think you are," James says, and they kiss briefly, and Sirius feels that he might cry for the first time in living memory, just because he'd never thought things could work out so well.
"You're one lucky kid," he tells his baby godson.
This is Sirius Black, All Hallows' Eve, 1981, the moment he lands among the wreckage of the cottage at Godric's Hollow. The moment he sees Lily Potter's river of hair, red even in the dark, and his knees give out, and he crashes to the floor next to her.
He is shaking, struggling not to vomit, unable to stop the tears streaking down his cheeks. She is so, so pale. Suddenly he understands the phrase deathly pale, and, oh God, he never wanted to.
Lily is sprawled in front of the playpen. She was trying to protect Harry, he thinks, and it's more than he can bear. Even with Voldemort himself bearing down on her, that fierce, gentle, beautiful love of hers stood strong, unbreakable.
And now it's gone.
He seizes her shoulders, shakes her. Slaps her cheek. Gropes for her hand, squeezes it tight. "Come on, Lily, come on," he says – hell, he begs. "Wake up, come on, Red, wake up. Don't do this to me, Red, please, you've gotta wake up. Come on, Ginger, come on, Red, please wake up, I love you. You can't be dead, you can't be, come on and tell me I'm wrong, tell me I'm always wrong, Red, Ginger, please, hex me for calling you that, come on ... you've got to be okay, God damn you, Lily, please, for me, for Harry, for James, for Harry, please ..."
He cries and he pleads, and he knows that he is not only crying for Lily Evans Potter but he is crying for his own mother and the love she never showed him, and he knows even as he cries that this is as hopeless as that.
Lily is dead.
Voldemort killed her. Peter betrayed her. Sirius made sure it could happen.
That elementally powerful, unstoppable, death-defying love is gone from the world. The strong, sweet, astonishing woman that gave life to it is gone, and if her son lives he will never know her, or the power of her feelings for him. Sirius thinks he will hate Peter – and himself – forever, for this.
He looks at Lily's still, shocked face, and remembers her wondering aloud if she'd be a good mother. Remembers that he never answered her. Gently, he reaches out to close her eyes, and he says, "Oh, Lily, you were the best mother. The best."
Sirius staggers to his feet, breathing ragged. There is no child in the playpen. This fills him with fresh horror, but only abstractly, because there is no room in his heart for anything more.
He hates to leave her but knows he must, because he has to find Harry, and she would want it so.
He walks through the ruins like a ghost, searching desperately but finding nothing.
Then he sees James and it's like the world falls away. Everything ceases to matter.
Quietly, Sirius sits down beside the body of the man he has loved most in all his life. He takes James's lifeless hand in both of his. He is no longer fighting tears: now they stream with a life of their own down his face, and he barely notices. All that he cares about is James. James, who stood by him unwaveringly since they were eleven years old, who had his back in fights both schoolboy and serious, who yelled at his mother when he saw her scream at her son. Who defended him to the Order when they doubted his allegiances. Who has saved his life both literally and metaphorically.
"Forgive me, Prongs," Sirius whispers. "This is my fault and I know it, forgive me. Please forgive me. I'm going to look after Harry for you, okay, James? I'm gonna make sure he's safe, and then I'm gonna kill Peter, okay?"
There is no answer. Sirius bows his head and says hoarsely, "I love you, Prongs. James. James David Potter, I love you." He leans over the body and kisses James on the forehead. "I love you so damn much, you hear me?"
If James, somewhere, somehow, hears, he gives no sign of it.
Sirius stands again, on legs that he is amazed can hold him. He is no longer crying, because he's standing beside the corpse of the best friend he has ever had, knowing he is responsible for his death, and this is as bad as it gets. This is the bottom of his despair, his grief. He's hit rock bottom, somehow he's still standing, and nothing can make this worse now. There's a kind of security in that knowledge.
James is dead at his feet, and he wants to scream and rage and curl into a ball and never come out, but he can't. For there's still one Potter left, seemingly vanished into thin air, and Sirius has to find him. It's a million to one against that he's still alive, but he has to be certain. If that leads him to Voldemort himself, so be it, because he promised.
First Harry, then Peter.
He stares around the wreckage, the swirling October mist, his mind reeling, thinking, where to start, where to start? Where the hell is that baby? How does one go about finding a baby wanted by the most evil wizard ever born, in the midst of a war?
The baby is the only person in the world at this moment, but Sirius is at a loss as to where to find him. He can't think, can't process anything, not standing next to his best friend's body –
Suddenly a voice breaks through the night.
"'Ey! You there – Sirius Black!"
Sirius jumps as if hit by lightning, whirls around to see a huge, stunningly familiar frame in the gloom, some way away. It can only be Hagrid. And if Hagrid is here, that means Dumbledore –
He bolts over to the Keeper of the Keys, ridiculously grateful, desperate to see Dumbledore, to see those wise old eyes and hear him make everything seem alright, as he always did at Hogwarts ...
He makes a grab for Hagrid's arm, and then he notices that in those gigantic arms is a baby. A pale, green-eyed baby.
Relief almost buckles his knees. "Oh, thank God, you've got him, Hagrid, thank God he's safe, I didn't know where the hell he was, I couldn't ..." he trails off because suddenly there's a hard lump in his throat. He can't possibly verbalize everything that has passed this night, can't explain all the things he couldn't do, that he should have done.
But Hagrid, bless him, shifts Harry to the crook of one enormous elbow, and with his free hand claps Sirius on the shoulder. "There's nowt you could'a done, son."
"I could, I could have – have – got here sooner, I could have -"
"Codswallop, son ... this were You-Know-Who himself, yeh'd have been shot ter smithereens y'self ..." When Sirius turns blank eyes on him, Hagrid gentles his voice. He pats the shoulder of the man he used to chase out of the Forbidden Forest with a crossbow, and says with genuine compassion and care, "Yeh'd have done no good, an' James'd hate fer yeh ter have died as well. Yeh must know that, young Black ..."
"Yeah," Sirius breaths, incapable of anything more.
Then the phrase 'this was You-Know-Who himself' sinks in, and all of a sudden he remembers that these murders were committed by Voldemort, that Voldemort should be here, that there is no way that Harry should be alive, that the place should be crawling with Death Eaters ... All these things had flown from his mind when he saw Lily Potter's prone form, when he was overtaken by grief so powerful there was no room for anything else in his thoughts.
But now the fear rises through him, sharp, sickening. Not for himself, nothing can hurt him anymore, but for Harry. For this wondrous child who has already survived against overwhelming odds. For the nearest thing he has to family anymore.
"Why – why aren't we up to our ears in Death Eaters?" he hisses, panicky, certain that they must soon leap out of the shadows and scream 'surprise'. "Fuck that, Hagrid, why in Merlin's name isn't Voldemort on top of us?"
"I dunno, mate, but Dumbledore says he's done fer," Hagrid says with supreme confidence.
"Dumbledore says he's done for?" Normally Sirius would be all over this, never one for quiet acceptance, but now he hasn't the energy. Now he simply accepts Dumbledore's word as gospel, simply recognizes that the Death Eaters will be in chaos, that this will make it all the easier to kill Peter.
Then Harry makes a small noise, a muffled little wail of despair.
Hagrid bounces him, shushes him.
"I know how you feel, kid," Sirius whispers. Then he feels a sudden need to hold the baby, keep him near, protect this little person, all that remains of his greatest friends. "Give him to me, Hagrid," he says quietly. "In James's will –" his voice breaks, and he tries again, "I'm his godfather, I promised them I'd take care of him if anything ..."
"Dumbledore says he's ter go ter Lily's sister," Hagrid says, and he is implacable, though his bright black eyes are glittering with sympathy.
Sirius tries to convince him, hardly stops short of pleading, even though he knows it is useless, that Hagrid would rather die than disobey Dumbledore. Finally, he extracts a promise that the child will be safe, and an address to reach him, and agrees.
And perhaps, he thinks, this is for the best. Now he is free to hunt down Peter. With Harry safe, his world has narrowed down to one purpose, one goal, just one intent. He has seen his family dead in the wreckage of their home, seen the most perfect love destroyed, and been betrayed in the worst way. And he will see Peter Pettigrew pay for his crimes; he will see the traitor's dead body on the floor, just as he saw Lily and James's.
And maybe, maybe then, when he has avenged them, he will be able to live with himself again.
To Hagrid, all he says is, "You can take my bike. I won't be needing it anymore."
This is Sirius Black, All Saints' Day, 1981, the moment the smoke clears, and he sees unimaginable devastation around him, and the bleeding stump of a finger, and a rat disappearing down a sewer. The moment he starts to laugh.
He laughs because he should have expected something like this, because this is Peter, after all. He should have known by now that Peter, the one who always had an exit strategy, who may only have passed his OWLs after a lot of effort by Sirius and James, but who has perhaps always been the cleverest of the Marauders. The one who could outwit everyone else.
After everything else, he should have seen it coming.
Should have seen it, but he didn't. Even after walking through the ruins of Godric's Hollow, he still hasn't learned. And now, in the blink of an eye, he has lost everything.
Lily and James are dead, and Remus is God knows where and on God knows whose side, and Peter has betrayed them, and has faked his own death, and killed twelve people in the process, and Sirius will be blamed for it all. And now he will be lucky if he ever sees his godson again, and the thing is that it is all his fault, when you get down to it.
He's been fooled, like all the teachers, all the prefects, all the victims of the Marauders' practical jokes. He, who, of all people, ought to have known better.
The Ministry wizards come to him and chain him and take him, and all he can do is laugh. Laugh until he is shaking, until he is weeping, until his chest aches and he cannot breathe.
He laughs and laughs and laughs, because it suddenly seems that it is all one last practical joke. The Marauders' last prank, with a punch line of stolen lives and broken hearts. And for all his experience, all his strategies and his talent and his cleverness ... he walked right into it.
"You got me there, Peter," he says through his cackles.
Silently, he adds his vow.
"But one day, I'll get you back."