A/N: Another one-shot that's been waiting to be written. In Snape and Sirius's POV.
* * * Sirius Cold… It's so cold…I sat up with a start; that old dream again. It took me a moment to realize why I felt so apprehensive; of course, the third task was to be completed that night, and there was definitely something suspicious about Harry's entry into the goblet in the first place. I was absolutely honest in my letters to him—someone is trying to hurt him, or do something with him and that night was the last evening to do it. Thinking he needed some encouragement, I dug around in the pockets of my travel-worn robes and pulled out a wrinkled piece of parchment. My stomach growled impatiently for breakfast as I wondered where I would get a quill and ink, so instead I made a makeshift card with a muddy paw print on the front of it.
Wandering through the streets, I put my nose to the ground, sniffing for some elusive rodent that would inevitably become the sustenance that would tide me over until nighttime. Eventually, I caught one by its tale and pulled it out, breaking its neck with my jaws. I ate hidden in the alley, before returning to the cave. Buckbeak could manage to get his own food, and he had escaped from the cave by the time I returned. There was nothing to do until the evening when I would go to Hogwarts. I didn't think Harry knew; Dumbledore wouldn't tell him for worry that he would get mad that I was needlessly putting myself at risk for his sake. Why couldn't he understand that he was the world to me? His faint memory was the one that helped keep me sane throughout my years at Azkaban, and I would do anything to keep him out of danger.
I leant against the smooth, cool wall of the cage, with nothing to do but wait. I supposed I could go back down to Hogsmeade to pilfer a morning paper, but I didn't see the need. The only thing I find remotely necessary to read were Rita Skeeter's articles, but they always put me in a bad mood. Spreading lies like that! Just the thought of her was making me angry, so I forced myself to think on other things. The trouble is, when I cast my thoughts around, they always come up with an image of James, Lily, or Wormtail.
That day, James's smug face wouldn't leave, and it, as always, saddened me. How had our friendships dissolved like that? He was in his grave, Wormtail was somewhere, probably with some evil entity (I didn't want to fathom where he had gone) and Remus was in a house on the countryside, sitting unemployed, waiting for the full moon to rise from the horizon. James I thought I wonder what would happen if you were here today? But those questions brought me nothing but depression, so I vanquished them. I instead tried to concentrate on those abundant happy memories, the ones before a traitor was discovered in our midst. I don't know how long I sat there reminiscing, but I eventually fell asleep; it's hard to escape into blissful unconsciousness in a drafty stone cave.
When I awoke, the sun was low in the sky, but, thankfully, I hadn't missed my appointed rendezvous time with Dumbledore. We had arranged to meet by the Whomping Willow, which meant I had to break into the Shrieking Shack. Dumbledore had decided to tie me up in front of Hagrid's house and that meant I wouldn't be able to see anything at the distant Quidditch pitch. Dumbledore surmised that I would reveal myself if Harry was attacked, and I have to admit that it would've probably happened.
I managed to stealthily break through the rotting boards that covered a first-floor window on the south side and was able to quickly run through the spacious tunnel. The Whomping Willow stopped thrashing when I emerged from the passageway, and I barked quietly. Dumbledore came into my view. "Come on now," he said, leading me to a rope tied to a stake in the ground, off to the right of the gamekeeper's hut. "Behave yourself," he said with that twinkle in his eyes before departing. It was quite difficult to sit there as the crowd collectively gasped during particularly tense times, but I could bear it. The noises were very faint. I had practically fallen asleep when screams shot through the air, reverberating in my sensitive ears.
Something was wrong; that wasn't a joyful, someone-has-just-won scream.
Something was seriously wrong.
* * *
SnapeDamn
This is not good. Not good at all. Why can't things ever end quietly?
Damn.
Even with the extra precautions, even with an array of talented wizards and witches on hand, Voldemort still manages to snake his way into this castle. And, for the fourth time in four years, Potter has fallen into a predicament. Yet this one foreshadows more than the average evil plot. Something horrible, something earth shattering is about to happen. It's not just the constant burn on my forearm. Its something more than that, intuition of some sort. Ever since I fell ungraciously out of the rank of Death-Eaters, ever since the man who meant 'the ultimate and almighty enemy' to me vouched for my innocence, I can tell when things are amiss. And something is assuredly amiss right now.
Damn it all to hell.
Dumbledore is running around in a flurry, the Diggorys are standing in shock, and all the Weasleys have this 'Oh, Merlin, what the hell just happened' look upon their faces. And all the while, the pain on my arm is augmenting.
Students keep shrieking all around me as I try to keep order. Barely twenty minutes after Diggory and Potter disappeared in that maze, I know what's wrong. And it scares me. He's back. Oh, Merlin. Oh, Merlin!! He's back, he's called us to him, he knows that I spied on him, and he's out for my blood.
Finding Dumbledore was the only thought that registered in my head. Assumedly, Voldemort was having some sort of fucked up rebirthing party and Potter—The-Boy-Who-Lived—is about to become The-Boy-Who-Lived-And-Was-Brutally-Murdered-by-You-Know-Who. Dumbledore was in the center of the maze with Fudge, who was, as usual, completely frantic "I need to talk to you," was all that I said to Dumbledore, in an undertone, lest Fudge overhear. Funny, I didn't know that any voice could sound that urgent, especially mine. He pulled me over to a corner in the maze, motioning for Fudge to stay put. His eyes searched into mine, and his wrinkles suddenly magnified. "He's back," was all I had to say to make his face lose any color. I yanked my sleeve up, showing the burning black tattoo to him. He said nothing and turned away.
"We can't do anything for them now," he said, hypothesizing the same thing about Potter that I was, "We're just going to have to hope that Harry can somehow get out alive." Feh, that's impossible. He may have been lucky enough to escape the Dark Lord before but it's doubtful he can manage it surrounded by the Death-Eaters that Voldemort has just called to him. Harry Potter may be an egomaniac but he's not omnipotent. Having nothing else to do, I follow the maze until I reach the entrance. I walk past McGonagall and Sprout, both of whom seem excessively worried. Not far off, the Diggorys are standing up, looking anxiously at the maze. I leant on one of the hedges to try and collect my thoughts, noticing that the screams have finally tapered off into hushed conversation.
Nothing changes for a while, and I lost track of time. I was still standing there when someone in the stands said, "There they are!" Amos Diggory ran into the maze, leaving his wife by the entrance. Girls are still shrieking, and minutes later, Potter, supported by Mad-Eye-Moody, left the maze, walking up to the castle. That's odd; I'd have thought that Dumbledore would've wanted him to stay with him. But I'm not about to follow them, so I still hover near the beginning of the maze with Minerva close to me, her hands shaking. Moments later, Amos Diggory emerges from the hedges, in tears, with Fudge trailing close behind. Two people come out after them, carrying the prone, dead body of Cedric Diggory. I hear Sprout gasp in horror, but don't pay it any attention as Dumbledore comes around the last bend, walking extremely fast.
"Did you see where Harry went?" he asked.
"With Alastor," Minerva said, "Professor Dumbledore, what's—" He stopped her in mid-sentence with a hurried 'follow me'. He's walking more rapidly know, and from the glimpse I've just caught of his face, he's understands something very clearly. We get up to Moody's office, and Dumbledore tells us to hit the door with a Stunning Spell immediately. Minerva and I follow and we all say "Stupefy" together. We step over the splinters of the door, Moody on the floor, predictably stunned.
"Moody," Harry said, "How could it have been Moody?" His voice is raspy, his eyes are dull, and he is bleeding from both his arm and his leg.
"You have never known Alastor Moody," Dumbledore said, radiating anger. He then sends me to get the strongest truth serum I have—Veritaserum. I return from the dungeons only to find someone I never thought I'd see again sprawled on the floor in the exact place that Moody had been when I'd left.
"Barty Crouch," I exclaimed, and Dumbledore held out his hand for the Veritaserum. I gave it to him numbly, watching him pour it into Barty's mouth.
Oh, we are in for quite a confession.
* * *
SiriusI sat in that garden, howling, until someone untied me. I wasn't paying attention to who it was; all I know is that he, or she, led me to Dumbledore's office and told me to wait for him. I transformed back into my human form—safety be damned. "Harry's dead," I kept saying softly, "He's dead, he's dead…" Eventually, Dumbledore walked through the doorway; his face alighted with a weariness I'd never remembered seeing. The next moment was a mixture of immense happiness and anger—Harry walked in after the headmaster, but he looked horribly exhausted. I exclaimed "Harry!" and practically knocked a chair over in my hurry to get to him.
We all sat down and Dumbledore explained what he had heard from Barty Crouch. When he was done, all I could do was gape in disbelief. He then asked Harry to tell him what happened in the maze. "That can wait for tomorrow, can't it?" I asked, but Dumbledore shook his head and said it would help more if Harry told what happened, and, after Fawkes healed his leg wound, he started.
His voice haunted me, and the mere memory of what he sounded like sends goose bumps racing down my arms. During his story, he conveyed an air of extreme exhaustion, complete helplessness, and his face looked utterly defeated. At that moment, he wasn't a fourteen-year-old teenager with petty worries. He had truly become a full-fledged adult. His story was macabre, and he talked for a good while until he stumbled on the part about people coming out of Voldemort's wand. His parents. Oh, God. My grip on his shoulder must've hurt at that time, but he said nothing about it. By the end, he looked horrible, and Dumbledore sent him down to the hospital wing, thankfully allowing me to stay with him—as Padfoot, of course.
He's given a potion for dreamless sleep, and I stay awake, determined to keep vigil along with three of the Weasleys, Ron included, and Hermione. The wing is quiet for a little while—until McGonagall furiously storms in, arguing with Fudge, who was practically spitting in anger. Dumbledore breaks it up, but not before Harry wakes up. Fudge makes some ludicrous comments towards Harry, spawned by Skeeter's articles, no doubt, and if Dumbledore hadn't been there, I probably would've attempted to take a bite out of Fudge's jugular. Fudge refused to believe that Voldemort had returned to his body, no matter how much Dumbledore—or Snape, for that matter—tried to convince him otherwise. He left in a childish huff.. How in the seven hells did that idiot become the Minister of Magic?
Dumbledore sends Madam Pomfrey, Bill Weasley, and McGonagall out of the room. He told me to reveal myself when they had gone. I remember thinking 'has he gone insane?' but I didn't want to disobey him after all he's done for me. Snape looked like he was about to kill something when I transform, and Mrs. Weasley screams (immediately quieted by Ron) but Dumbledore smoothes things over, saying we had to work together. He wants me to shake hands with Snape, growing impatient when we stay away from each other. We grip each other's hands shortly, before Dumbledore tells me to inform the 'old crowd'. All I know is that I can wash my hand one million times, and it'll still be coated with the greasy residue from Snape's hand.
* * *
End
A/N: Another one-shot that will get, at best, two reviews, but I enjoyed writing it nonetheless.