Hazel Watkins never liked walking past the Godric's Hollow graveyard, even in the daytime. While she didn't have a particular affection for places like this anyway, this one had an especially eerie feel to it, something extra-supernatural. It was a lovely, solemn place, not at all spooky or rundown -- but she couldn't help feeling it was the type of place Padfoot might stalk.
The bells of St. Anne's tolled eight, while the sky muted itself into the dusky hues of twilight. She hesitated at the gates of the graveyard, drawing her jacket a little tighter. about her shoulders. Through the middle was the quickest way to her flat, but something about cutting through all those tombstones seemed terribly sacrilegious. Her feet took an involuntary step backward.
Something heavy bumped into her. Hazel started, since she'd been alone on the street corner before now. She looked around at her feet, just in time to see a large black shape trot past and into the cemetery. Her eyes widened. What was it I just saw? She peered further into the dim light, but the figure had receded into the darkness.
Hazel stood, a moment longer, clutching her jacket. She then gulped, and turned around. She decided to take the long way home.
* * *
The pale, lamp-like eyes of the dog panned the rows of headstones before him as he made his way though the grounds. He was an enormous animal: although emaciated and a bit threadbare, he still had a menacing bulk about him enough to intimidate anyone. The garishly colored package he gripped between his jaws did little to subtract from his appearance.
The dog wandered very purposely through the grounds, stopping here and there to examine a headstone; occasionally he paused longer, to stare mournfully at a name he recognized. But he pushed on, working his way northwest.
He finally found what he was looking for, after the sun had gone down. He slowed and then stopped a few feet from a twin headstone in a quiet, secluded corner. He set the package down and studied the site. He swiveled his head around, checking for company. He was alone. The dog then sat on its haunches, and stopped being a dog.
The thin, ragged man crouching in its place did not take his eyes off the grave, although he did stand up, scooping up the package. After a pause, he spoke, as though to keep himself from succumbing to some deeper impulse.
"Hello James. Lily, hello." He gulped. "It... it feels so strange now, finally coming here. By all rights this should have happened... well, not a long time ago, but certainly a long time in the future." He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. "Damn me," he rasped. He was silent for a second more. "But... it has to be done. You know me, James: I'm no shirker. There are things I've got to do. I just... needed to come and talk them over with you two first."
He shifted his weight a little, not quite sure what to say. The plot before him remained disarmingly quiet. "I saw Harry yesterday," he interjected. "If only you could see him. I can't believe how much he looks like you, James. I thought it was you, for a second there. I almost ran up and bowled him over, you know, like we used to do... I suppose it's a good thing I didn't. When he saw me -- well, it was Padfoot, not me -- he was scared enough. It was fun looking like the Grim for a while, back when it was new, but... Maybe if I had been something cuter, fluffier, he'd have come over, or let me come up to him."
A steely edge entered his voice. "But that's just the point. I've never been cute and fluffy, not like that anyway. A lap dog would never be able to do what I must.
"I'm going up there, to Hogwarts. Wormtail--" Briefly he choked, in anger, but he continued. "Wormtail is there. If I can get him, then all this might be resolved. I'm the only one who knows. And I've got proof, too. He's the pet rat of Harry's best friend, Ron Weasley. And he's missing a toe. I've got a picture--" He began to draw it from the inside of his robes, but then thought better of it. "There's no need for you see him," he said softly. "You've suffered enough at his doing."
The man paused again, collecting his thoughts. "God, I miss you two," he whispered. "You can't have any idea how hard it's been without you... without everybody. I wish I could tell you about Moony, or Dumbledore, or any of the others, but I don't know anything to tell you. I saw so many people I know in this yard now -- so many more than there should be. But damnit, you least of all..."
He knelt down at the foot of the grave, still holding the package. "I'll make it up to you, somehow, I promise. As best I can. I promise as fiercely as is possible, and more. They will not win. Wormtail will pay. Harry will know all about us. I'll give him a home, I'll do whatever it is you would have done. I promise, I'll pay for what I've done..."
The man remained in that position for several minutes, feeling his grief flare up and consume him. While no sound escaped his lips, his face was contorted with dammed-up anguish. He then began to breathe again. He looked up, and remembered the package. He cleared his throat, and then began tearing open the cardboard. "I've brought you something, you know, a little fun to break the monotony. I had to steal it from an open crate behind the Zonko's back in town. They're a little beat up, but I hope you'll forgive me." Eight long tubes with balsa wood sticks poking through the ends rolled into the man's thin hand. "Filibuster Fireworks," he said, mostly to himself. "'They're a blast wherever you are'."
Laboriously, he drove the sticks into the earth on top of the graves, arranging them in a chaotic, haphazard jumble until they resembled some bristling tropical plant. When he was satisfied with his work, he sat back, and studied his handiwork. "Well Prongs," he said finally, "hope you and Lily are happy and together. We miss you terribly back here." He paused. "I wish you could watch Harry growing up. He seems a credit to you both."
A quiet breeze blew through the graveyard, rustling the leaves of a nearby oak. All of Godric's Hollow seemed to have descended into an otherworldly silence. The man sat before the graves a moment longer, and then stood up, and turned to walk away.
The hissing, fizzing sound behind him did not catch his attention. He was a few feet away when a shrill whistle erupted, and a burst of sparks showered the area from above.
The man looked back, and his jaw dropped. A small but dazzling display of fireworks was illuminating the somber cemetery; the red and gold lights showered upon the man, bathing him in sparks which did not hurt at all. A smile spread over the man's face, and for the first time in many years, he began to laugh.
For a full minute, the prank explosives were the most beautiful things he'd watched in his life. When the exuberant shrieking died away, and the final fireworks dissolved into the air, Sirius Black remained still, his eyes closed, relishing the joy he'd felt that brief moment. When he opened them again, a calm had replaced the sorrow: he felt absolved. He studied the charred paper remains of the fireworks, not really thinking anything, and then he turned away once more. A few steps further, and paws began to tread the ground. Padfoot left the graveyard, and began heading north.