Innocence
"The innocent and the beautiful
Have no enemy but time."
A man fell against a hard, cold, damp stone wall, cracked in places and with the slight smell of must from years of decomposing inhabitants, and yet still standing, as ferocious and unforgiving as ever. The man looked around the small, hardly-lit room, the only light leaching feebly in from a flickering torch some lengthy ways away. Some might not even call it light. But for this man, and the darkness he'd seen, his eyes having gotten used to the constant straining dilation they suffered, the dribbling torchlight was as bright as a lighthouse beacon. He squinted into the distance, once again trying to make sense of his surroundings, but was, without fail, unable to. All he saw were shadows; shadows and moans of the dying, deranged occupants and the beings that sucked incriminating life out of them. He had watched them come and go—most of them only leaving when their long dead cadavers had to be moved. Some got released by a stretch of ridiculous luck; how, he wasn't quite sure.
And yet, as he slumped painfully against this uneven rock, rubbing his aching shoulder, he mused on the maddening irony of it. They got to leave; he did not. They, who, most likely, were completely at guilt and yet got to be free. But he, no…he was forced to stay in this depressing room, even though he was completely innocent. Not like anyone would actually believe him—he'd tried, oh yes, he tried endlessly, to make all of them see reason, but they refused adamantly. Claimed he'd gone insane. Ha! He laughed humorlessly to himself. Him? Insane? The words, he thought, would never have been used in the same sentence.
Yes, even he'd admit it, he had his moments; his moments where he went a little over the top, sarcasm used when it was inappropriate. But crazy? Demented? He grinded his teeth at the very mention of it. They'd told him that just when they threw him in the cell. "You'll go mad in here before you know it; your efforts to try and 'convince' us of your innocence are futile! Now come quietly and maybe you'll get food once every ten days…" He'd always heard some undesirable tales of what the Ministry had done to people, or said to people, but having those harsh, cruel words thrust so fanatically at him was just unthinkable.
There had been many long nights where he'd pondered his current situation. Hell, when you had a life sentence, you were bound to do lots of sardonic musing. And he was no exception. Many a time he had wondered just how he had gotten here in the first place—what sort of twisted wrong he had apparently caused to endure this torture. The image of the day he'd been accused would live on in his memory forever; there was no doubt in his mind that would happen. He let out another bark of laughter, brushing back his ragged, once-unfairly handsome, hair out of his face—a face he'd grown to despise.
It wasn't like he was immune to what was going on, much like all the other prisoners were. No—he was endowed with being able to remain sane throughout all of it. Why, he had no idea. Why he was nearly the only one during any stint of time here that could keep his head level and his mind straight. Yes, it was an abominably awful and torturous place and he could almost see how they could go crazy, and he had come close, but never had. A small, venturing voice inside his head told him to stay focused. What he had to be focused on still remained to be seen. But despite all of it, he had stayed painfully aware of everything that went on. He saw people come in to talk to the wasting away miscreants, tears and shouting matches alike being held, and then those people would trickle out, leaving people to their own dizzying thoughts. He'd never had any visitors…go figure, he snorted. Like I actually have anyone left that would believe me.
The only person that was left that he had honestly felt would trust him still was an uncountable number of miles away in a place he'd once called home—more home than where he'd grown up, anyway. He'd heard snippets of conversation when some higher-ups had filed in, sneaking furtive glances in his direction, as if he couldn't actually see them. He'd heard of the goings-on in general; Hogwarts even wasn't exempt from that. The day he'd caught wind that his last remaining friend was at the school, a feeling had risen up inside him that he never thought he'd feel again. Hope. Not the hope necessarily that he'd ever get out of this God-forsaken rock, but hope that he wasn't forgotten completely. He knew for a while he'd be the talk of some townspeople, those either wondering how in the world he could have turned, or else those that whispered about how dangerous and maniacally homicidal he had been. What he hadn't known, however, was that at least one person, the final member of their once closely-knit coterie, had still thought of him as the boy he'd once known. The hope that perhaps, by a stroke of luck, the false accusations against him would be forgiven.
Or at least that was one of the thoughts that kept him going, anyway.
He managed his way over to one of the corners of his boxed cell, a corner he was now quite familiar with—twelve years of trying to find the most comfortable piece of stone you could got you indescribably sentient with every embrasure in the walls and in the bars. He rested his head against the north wall, or at least what he came to think of as north, feeling the dribbling, squirming, rivulets of saltwater making their half-hearted efforts down, finally some taking residence in the already matted confines of his hair or attire. But he was past such frivolous cares—where once he had the attractively haughty air about him, absolute youth and vivacity encompassing every step he took, he now was sunken and haunted, his still fathomless silvery eyes turned icily detesting with every hour he spent here. There hardly was a moment where he got a truly happy feeling, or at least one where he could sustain himself. And every time he did have one, it would start to seep out of him slowly; he would grasp onto it, hold it with as much energy as he could, but in the end, it wasn't enough. It was never enough. Because he was trapped here no matter what he tried, no matter what thoughts arose in him.
He sighed heavily, breath coming out in rattling exhaling, as he held his head in his hands, trying to imagine his own formerly handsome face shining through this new mask. There wasn't a mirror in the cell—there wasn't anything in there—but he could only envision what his face could look like now. Gaunt, graying, hollowed…the thoughts sickened him, and yet there wasn't anything he could do. His hands parted, eyes finding a spot on the floor in front of him, fine, barely noticeable mist streaming up from the ocean's swarming below. Images started to form in his mind, and before he could stop it, the horrifically wonted memory shot back to him like an enemy coming back for an umpteenth round with him.
He looked around the square frantically, the street bustling with people without a care in the world; those people who had no idea what he'd just caught rumors of. His breaths came in ragged gasps as his dark eyes scanned the village, finally coming upon a familiar house that normally was inviting, homely, but now seemed to emit a sickening aura, Darkness emanating from it. The house that now was no longer its humble yet stately, welcoming self…now it was ruins. Pure ruins, windows shattered, bits of roof caved in, walls crumbling. No one else seemed to see it—but he did. He, having been told their whereabouts by someone he had previously handed off the task of keeping a secret off to. Fighting the sinking, devastating truth, he ran faster than he'd ever run before, every thought but the one spurring him forward leaking from his mind. His eyes were trained on the house, all other figures and voices berating him for running into them turning into blurred, vague perceptions.
As he tore open the gate unceremoniously, intakes of oxygen now more panting than breathing; but it wasn't because of the distance he'd just run—rather the fear of what he'd see. He walked, slowly and half-determinedly this time up to the front door—or the unhinged remnants of it, rather—fighting the awful feeling that threatened to overtake him. His hand rested upon the so reminiscent doorknob, which was now well out of its socket in the doorframe. He had to shove open the door into the house, the awkward position of it blocking the entrance into the house. Finally, he edged his way in; it was dark—so dark he could hardly see, all except the dim moonlight shining through the frosted windows; not even the chinks in the blasted walls showing luminescence. His steps seemed heavy and loud, echoing off of the walls. For a moment, he saw nothing and the feeling almost eased a bit, but then, as he walked further into the home, he got a glacial chill down his spine, one he'd never felt before but knew he didn't want to find out what it meant.
And yet, forced to surrender, he looked to the part of the foyer behind him, and the breath died in his throat, horror replacing any other emotion within him as he stared down at what he wished with all his heart was a hallucination. Feeling the color drain from his face, he walked towards it, but stopped as suddenly as if hitting a brick wall. There was a body lying a mere couple feet from him, prone in a position so unnatural it was grisly in and of itself. If it weren't for the pure terror and shock at seeing it, he was sure he would have cried out. As it was, he stared, transfixed, at the lopsided, cracked glasses sitting on the charming face, open in surprise; the playful hazel eyes; the heartbreakingly familiar jet-black hair sticking up in the back just like it always did, perhaps a little smoother than normal, but still ever-present. He was looking down at the face of the best friend he'd ever had—James Potter, clearly dead.
The sight becoming blurred, he turned away from it, afraid that if he stared at it for much longer, it would make it more real than it was. His eyes turned, automatically it seemed, to a room on the left, yards away but still viewable. The walls were a whitewashed cream, but now appeared a menacing blue-white, moonlight being its only illumination. His heart skipped another two beats and he felt as though once again, he was suffocating. The thick, dark, beautiful red hair was spread ghostly across the hardwood flooring, the mesmerizing face of Lily Evans-Potter staring up at him, emerald eyes open just like her husband, but hers were more pleading; desperate; protective. He fell to his knees beside her, the collapsing inevitable as he stared at her, unable to believe it. Just over a year ago, she had stood grinning brilliantly, embellished in white, exchanging adorations with his best friend, him the only witness and yet standing near them both, as happy as they were. And now both Lily and James, the former having become just as important to him as her husband, were lying here deceased, their strong forms now finally fallen.
He couldn't believe it—he wouldn't. The Potters dead? No, it couldn't be…they'd survived certain death thrice, how could they succumb this time? He didn't dare look behind him—he knew what was there if he did—and instead put a hand to Lily's face, brushing her hair out of her eyes, shutting them, not able to look into their green, now forever extinguished, depths. He hardly felt the few tears escape his eyes, feeling the overwhelming effects of their demises engulf him with the surging power of a thousand knives. James had been his best friend…sometimes his only friend, and Lily—Lily was there when James, for some reason, whether detention or preoccupations, couldn't be, even though he was fairly sure she'd still harbored grudges against him. And yet she'd been there…no matter what the instance was. James had survived so much…everything with Remus…seven entire years, and years after that…he wouldn't believe James was dead, gone forever.
As he took another gasping breath, amazed that he could still be living, he was jostled by a cry, a lone sound penetrating the darkness. He looked around, caught off-guard by the noise. Was there someone here? He barely had the strength to grab for his wand, but somehow he did, his grip loose and lifeless but still present. He couldn't bring himself to stand up, but his eyes probed the blackness. Finally, the moonlight shifted, and came to rest upon another small and yet standing, body, its little hands gripping the bars with the naïveté that rested with the young. Its green eyes—so like the woman now at his feet—were staring up at him questioningly, like he was simply wondering what this new arrival was doing in his house, not aware of the two deaths he'd undoubtedly witnessed…
He now rose to his feet and ambled over to the crib, staring at the little boy, so vastly unnoticing of what had just occurred around him. His own steely eyes gazed into the boy's foresty ones, and he looked down as the one of the boy's small hands fastened around one of his fingers, the boy's entire hand barely fitting around it. The man reached up and touched the boy's forehead, which now bore a dark, deep cut in it, the perfect lightning-bolt shaped scar thrust into relief in the eerie light. Slowly, as if touching the boy would cause James and Lily's deaths to be even more real, he picked him up, the boy throwing his arms around his savior's neck, the latter cradling him to near suffocation—the boy, his last link to two of his three best friends, who now lay dead on the floor.
And so, grasping the young child closer to him, wishing the entire night had just been some gruesome, disturbing nightmare and that the infant he was holding in his arms was not an orphan…not someone he was now, by title, to raise. The baby rest its head against the man's chest, who was walking with the abandoned deliberation of someone who had just experienced the worst, most painful, most debilitating scene of their life, and yet had a phenomenally important task ahead of him now. He looked down again, at the now soundly sleeping child, seemingly completely ignorant of the obviously Dark scar that the man knew would remain there forever.
That was the night Lily and James Potter perished. The night Sirius Black became their only son's guardian.
Sirius collapsed from the wall onto the, if possible, harder floor, not able to get up for the moment, still reeling unsteadily from the memory. It had stayed with him as vivid as when he had first witnessed the bodies of his best friends, the recollection attacking him when he least expected or wanted it. He had been so incredibly distraught and tortured that night; the night he had given up the godson he had just been sworn to protect with all his being. He wasn't sure what made him make that now foolish choice. Maybe it was that Hagrid had claimed it was on Dumbledore's orders that Harry James Potter be taken; maybe it was a spastic, frightened part of him that thought he wasn't capable of raising his friends' son.
Now he had no idea why. Every day he regretted that decision. Every day he wished he hadn't given Harry up. He was, after all, the one man appointed by James and Lily even before Harry's birth to watch over him, should something happen to them. And then he had just let Hagrid wrench the infant from him. He wasn't necessarily despising of the groundskeeper, or Dumbledore for that matter, for he reluctantly assumed Dumbledore had his reasons, but that didn't mean he wasn't still a little wounded by it. It hurt that Dumbledore didn't trust him with Harry's life, especially when he had, in his opinion, been a wonderful godparent to the boy to date, not to mention his parents, whom Sirius had known extremely well since they were eleven-years-old. Maybe that was the reason he had given Harry up, heartbreakingly hard as it was. He had felt so dejected and betrayed by everything that his judgment wasn't sound, and he had, for that fateful moment, thought Harry safer without him.
The day after, of course, he was so horrified by what he'd done that he vowed to go and get Harry back, orders from Dumbledore or no. He hadn't, at first, had any idea where Hagrid would have taken him, seeing as how he wasn't able to think of any relatives at the moment—certainly not his parents'…seeing as how they hadn't actually accepted their own son. And then he had wracked his mind for any remembering of what perhaps Lily's family consisted of—he knew James had no siblings, and James's parents had already died by that point, not having any siblings of their own. Lily hadn't talked too much about her family, as if it hurt her too much to recall them, and although James and Sirius himself had questioned her multiple times, she hadn't conceded. Except for one time, when she was coerced into it finally, and he and James had found out about a lone sister, Petunia, evidently. It was she who Sirius then judged as his best shot. Dumbledore would have taken Harry to a relative, and as far as he surmised, Petunia was the only one. Even though he knew she detested her sister, James, Harry, and Sirius by extension, he was now sure that's where Dumbledore had placed the baby. For Petunia's blood remained the same as Harry's, just as Lily's had.
And so that night, Sirius set off.
He had lent his enchanted motorbike—a gift from James and Lily jokingly, for how they knew how interested he was in Muggle cars and motorcycles—to Hagrid, his only means of solid transportation. So, he pictured Harry's face, hoping that would suffice, as he knew neither where Petunia lived, nor what the house would look like. The deep green eyes and black hair stuck in his mind, Sirius spun on the spot, felt himself compress and feel as though he was suffocating, finally landing with a small pop and landing in the middle of a deserted street. He looked around; it was a suburban neighborhood as far as he could tell, identical houses pressed close to each other. Wondering now which abode to choose, he cast a spell, one designed to test for a magical presence. To his satisfaction, a home not too far from him glowed as brightly as a firework, and Sirius walked up to it, finally standing in front of a Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.
Taking a shaking breath, brushing the dark hair out of his haunted but still handsome face, he knocked. He saw a curtain open in a nearby window, and a woman's face peer beadily out, her pale eyes resting on his form standing at the stoop. For a moment, he was afraid that the door wouldn't open and he would be left in the dark and biting cold, but then eventually, the same woman stood there stiffly, glaring at him. He knew at once this was Petunia. Not because he had seen a few sullen pictures of her, which he had, but because of the resemblance she had to Lily.
While Petunia had none of the natural beauty of her sister, nor the vibrant emerald eyes and bright red hair, her eyes were the same shape, her face heart-shaped, if a little horsy-looking. He heard vaguely a television show in the background, and idly wondered whether it was her husband—where was her husband? His large frame and little neck couldn't really be missed—or her young son, Dudley. Nevertheless, he cleared his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets.
She took in his rugged appearance, lips pursed, and he knew his new task of convincing her was daunting, but with the determination he had, not impossible. "Are—are you Petunia? Petunia Evans?" he asked, momentarily forgetting she was married now. "I—I mean, Dursley. You're Lily Potter's sister?"
She pressed her thin lips together further, and for a split second, he was forcefully reminded of his former Transfiguration teacher, Professor McGonagall. He took this as confirmation. "Who are you?" she asked sharply.
"I'm Sirius, Mrs. Dursley," he said, voice growing more confident. "Sirius Black. I'm Harry Potter's—"
"There is no one in this house by that name!" she hissed, tone suddenly shrill. "And I've never heard of you. What are you doing here!"
"Well, so much for your likenesses to Lily…" Sirius mused, though not bothering to keep it silent. Whereas Lily was warmhearted, wittily sarcastic sometimes, but still kind constantly, this Petunia exuded coldness.
She stared glacially at him. "As far as I'm concerned, Lily is not my sister," she said icily.
Sirius was taken aback for a moment. He knew Petunia had a ridiculous grudge against Lily, but to disown her? That was a little much. Sirius's shoulders dropped. "Mrs. Dursley—Petunia—please…I know Professor Dumbledore has talked to you but I need to take Harry—"
Petunia's face had blanched at the mention of Dumbledore, and Sirius frowned for a moment. She may not have—well, definitely didn't—liked the old man, but Sirius didn't think that paling was an appropriate reaction. Still, he was too distracted now by trying to force Petunia to believe him. If she didn't, he didn't know what he'd do.
"I know not of a Dumbledore!" she shrieked, red splotches appearing in her cheeks, marring her already sketchy face.
Sirius sighed, body crumpling, yet, miraculously, still standing. "P-Petunia, please…I need to take Harry from you…he belongs with me, no matter what Dumbledore said…he's your sister's, but I am supposed to have him now that they're—they're—gone…" Sirius's voice cracked, and for a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of, could it be, sadness, in Petunia's eyes.
"If my outcast of a sister is dead, not to mention her good-for-nothing husband, then it is no business of mine! Son or not, I—"
Before she could finish her sentence, Sirius had his wand to her throat, eyes wild, not knowing what had possessed him to bear down upon her like that. He was well accustomed to hate, even if it was to someone he loved, and he didn't know why now he was reacting so harshly to it.
"Don't make me hurt you, Petunia," Sirius said, not necessarily meaning to be frightening.
Fear flashed over her face, and he knew it was for good reason; she was a Muggle, unlike her talented sister, and she could not defend herself if Sirius did actually carry out his threat. "Y-You c-cannot have him…" she said finally, words stuttered.
Sirius's wand dropped by a fraction of an inch. "W-What?" he asked, his turn to stammer. She despised Harry and his parents, and now she was wanting to keep him?
"I said you can't take him; you can't take Harry," she repeated, whispering.
Sirius's face contorted. He couldn't believe this. "Petunia, why are you—"
"I have heard of you," Petunia had murmured in admittance, not looking at Sirius. "She—Lily—sent me pictures…letters…I barely looked at them, but…she mentioned you…"
"Lily wrote to you about me?" Sirius asked, thoroughly confused.
"Her wedding," Petunia said slowly, like every word caused her pain—not pain like Sirius had been experienced, but like she didn't want to associate with Lily or anyone connected to her. "Hers and—and—"
"James." Sirius said through gritted teeth. The word hurt him, but he wasn't going to stand by and let her pretend she didn't know her now deceased brother-in-law.
"Yes," Petunia said, her voice so quiet Sirius had to strain to hear it. "They—she—she said you were his godfather…she—Lily wanted me to be his godmother, but I—"
"You refused?" Sirius seethed, unable to contain his anger, and he swore red sparks came out of his wand, judging by Petunia's face and the temporary crimson tinge in the air. She looked fearful. "The highest honor someone can bestow upon you, and you refused? Lily is—was—your sister! Harry is your nephew! How can you not have accepted? You horrible—you're—how could you—"
Words had failed him. He wasn't sure whether his mouth even moved, but he was positive Petunia could fill in the blanks well enough. Her face paled even more, and for a moment, he thought he saw remorse shine across her eyes, but then it was gone. How could she have hated Lily so much? Hated James; Harry; Sirius? It was just unbelievable. Hating Lily Potter was like declining oxygen. It wasn't possible. And yet Petunia was standing there with derision in her expression. Sirius was lost—and not just for words, this time.
"He must stay here," Petunia said finally, and though it still sounded resentful, Sirius heard the familiar determination there. The determination he had.
"And what would make you want to house him?" Sirius shot back viciously. "How do I know you won't just throw him in the next orphanage you see because you don't want to deal with him? How do I know you won't mistreat him? What is your reason for wanting it? How could he be better off with you than with me?"
Petunia's gaze didn't falter this time. "Dumbledore, he—he said…" Petunia started, almost not seeming to want to indulge Sirius, but his death glare spurred her. "He said something about a…a protection or something…by staying here he would live…because of Lily, Lily and I sharing blood…his blood…I'm not really sure, it was all in a letter this morning…"
It was Sirius's turn to flush. Of course, he had thought miserably. As long as Harry stayed with a direct relative, he was safe from Voldemort. From whoever wanted to hurt him. Sirius downcast his eyes, breath coming in a short, shuddering gasp, one he hadn't intended to exhibit. Petunia looked uncomfortable, whether at Sirius's reaction and arrival, or that she had agreed to Dumbledore's letter.
"But you don't want him," Sirius continued, now exhaustively in despair. Harry, his last connection to James and Lily, was gone. "You don't want him at all! You wish he were out of your house! I can protect him, I can take him in!"
Petunia shook her head very slowly, looking nearly surprised at her own actions. "I can't…it won't work…" her tone was stoic, no semblance whatsoever to her usual icy edged one. "He can't leave until…until…when it ends…I'm not really sure when…"
"But—I need—" Sirius cut himself off, running out of words to say.
There was another awkward silence between them, a surreal one, Sirius standing on the doorstep to Harry's aunt and uncle's house, the same television program gurgling in the distance, Petunia claiming Harry as the one she was supposed to care for. Sirius didn't want to trust her, to surrender to her, but he was afraid if he struggled too much more, he'd die himself, just like Lily and James had. And yet, he needed Harry. Harry, he knew, would hate it here; Petunia and her husband would hate him there; he still didn't fully understand why Petunia was so shockingly adamant about this.
"I—I am sorry."
If she hadn't been the only one in his presence at the time, he wouldn't have believed the four syllables coming from her mouth. For a moment, her eyes gained the same gleam that Lily's always held, and while they weren't nearly, not even in the proximity, of loving and selfless, they were surprising, considering the source. Sirius's breath caught in his chest, and he couldn't even bring himself to nod, but instead cast his eyes to the potted plant right under the porch light. It was in bloom. Mocking him, it seemed, when he was so far from being happy and content.
"Just—Just don't lie to him about them…about Lily and about James," Sirius said, voice breaking again. "Don't let him forget his parents. Please."
Petunia was about to reply, when someone interrupted. "Petunia! Dudders is throwing a fit again! He wants you! He said 'Mama'!"
"C-Coming, V-Vernon…" Petunia replied to her husband's booming voice, but she was still staring at Sirius; at his torn face. "I couldn't forget my sister even if I wanted to, not with him living here."
Sirius realized this was the closest answer he'd get, even though he ridiculed the response. He doubted Harry would know much more than their names, but for the time being, he knew that would have to be enough, much as he hated it. His parents deserved to be remembered more than that, no matter how much Petunia disliked them. She owed that to her nephew, whether she acknowledged him as such or not.
Sirius gave her one last look before turning away, not wanting to face dejection anymore. "W-W-Wait…"
He looked to Petunia again, who appeared as though she was fighting herself, but then she fled from the doorway, leaving it wide open. He wasn't sure what was going on, but he was fairly certain she hadn't left it open for no reason. He waited a good five minutes, almost ready to just give up and leave, when she appeared, a bundle in her arms, secure, although with her looking like she didn't really want to be holding it.
Frowning, Sirius peered over the blanket, and he felt the back of his eyes burn, for lying there, awake, was his godson, lightning scar and all. He gently took the baby from Petunia's arms, looking him fully in the face for the first time. He looked exactly like James from the baby pictures Sirius had seen, but the eyes…they were identical to Lily's; there were no variances whatsoever. There was no shred of anyone but his two loving parents in him, something Sirius was strangely satisfied about. They did live on in their son, more than even Sirius had expected.
Harry smiled at Sirius, grinning as broadly as his small face would allow. He reached up a soft, miniature hand, grabbing onto Sirius's shirt firmly. Sirius was torn between wishing Petunia hadn't bothered to show Harry to him again, and ecstatic that she did. After what seemed both an eternity and only a second, Harry's eyelids started to droop, before finally closing over his eyes, his face now the exact reminiscence of Lily's in death. His hand slipped from Sirius's chest and fell to lie on the blue blanket he was still wrapped in. Sirius hugged Harry closer to him, knowing this very well could have been the last moment he had. Separating the infant from him, he gave Harry a swift kiss on the side of his head, before ultimately, wrenchingly, giving him back to his aunt, who accepted him with hesitation, and then holding him as well as, Sirius imagined, any other baby. Sirius tore his eyes from Harry again to Petunia, wishing the mother in her would keep Harry safe from even Muggle problems, although he didn't, sadly, hold out too much hope.
"Th-Thank you…Petunia," Sirius said, swallowing the melancholy in his throat.
She gave him an almost imperceptible nod, subconsciously throwing the blanket further over Harry's little body, an action Sirius was surprised she did. "Goodbye—" she stalled.
"Sirius."
"Sirius," she finished, decibel nearing silence.
He turned again, walking down the steps laboriously, each moment causing him more hurt. The last thing he heard before the Apparating transported him was a last, sudden cry from what he knew was Harry, a shockingly soft "shh"ing noise from Petunia, and then the door to Number 4 Privet Drive, the house to be Harry's home for the next seventeen years, shut with a note of finality.
The twelve-years-older Sirius didn't collapse again this time, but rather just took another heaving breath, sick and tired of the memories piercing him like that. The last one he'd had wasn't, perhaps, as horrid as the one of seeing James and Lily again, dead, but it was unwanted just the same. That night was the first and only time he'd seen Petunia Evans-Dursley act like that, so human. He, of course, being trapped in the God-forsaken rock that was Azkaban Prison, had no direct knowledge of Harry's mistreatment, but combined with his low expectations of Petunia, Vernon, and Dudley Dursley, along with the rumors he'd picked up from the various visitors, he gathered it wasn't exactly paradise for Harry. But nevertheless, he had stayed there; Petunia had housed him after all. And Sirius was indebted in that regard. Not that he'd actually voice that to any of them.
He sighed again, trying to relieve himself of the still evident dregs of memory, his hand moving to one of the many fraying threads of his prison uniform. The stripes had faded, material worn thin from years upon years of wearing it. As he pulled on it, the thread whined in protest before detaching itself from its host. Sirius threw it to the side to lay I a small puddle of water. He edged over, looking down into the almost inconsequential pool, but he saw part of his face reflected in it despite its miniscule size. He looked away, not wanting to see into his own skull-like eyes and face. He'd much rather have been able to see the same attractive looks he had pre-Azkaban; the days when he, logistically, could charm his way out of anything—or entrance any girl he wanted, for that matter. But what he didn't want to see was a decaying structure, a man aged beyond his years. A man that, judging by his appearance, would have thought you lying if you said he was only thirty-four years old, supposed to be in the prime of his life, not shut up in a rusting cell.
He stared straight ahead of him at the wall opposite, which looked just the same as the others, and vaguely considered turning into his Animagus disguise just to break the monotony. He had to admit—when he didn't feel the chills from the dementors, or from his memories, boredom threatened to kill him. He occupied his time by turning back and forth into Padfoot, counting the leaks in the stones, trying to guess what crime the other inmates had committed judging by their moans, recall his family tree as far back as he could (why, he wasn't really sure), or, when he got so bored he honestly felt like keeling over, he counted sheep. As humiliating as it was to confess it to himself, counting fluffy animals leaping over a fence was more exciting than just sitting there. More than once he'd wondered exactly why he hadn't gone crazy in there like the rest of them, but trying to ponder that just made his brain hurt; much like trying to figure out time travel did. And so he gave that up in a hurry, figuring if he ever, by some miracle, got out, he'd decipher it then.
Just as he was about to go into Padfoot's form, there was a large clanking in the distance, he jumped with surprise, but then sat back against the watery stone, literally twiddling his thumbs, awaiting the arrival. Hey—if it could release some of his boredom, he'd take it. His eyes scanned the flickering aisleway, trying to make out figures, which at the moment were indistinguishable. Finally, three shapes started down the way, passing each room with disgusted determination, some of the inmates crooning at them, either in madness or in some sort of backward logic state. And then they came to stop at Sirius's door, he not suppressing his the raising of his eyebrows. He couldn't even remember when the last time someone came to see him. However, as he took in the angering, blustering outline of the Minister and two constantly undulating shadows he knew to be dementors, he scowled darkly.
Cornelius Fudge cleared his throat, and as he came into the shifting light, Sirius maintained his steely gaze upon Fudge's dark one, the latter looking a little disquieted or even cowardly at being in such close proximity to a supposed murderer. Sirius found this oddly humorous, internally—to think that the Minister of Magic was afraid of someone who wasn't even a criminal in the least was laughable. Though Sirius kept that to himself. Maybe it'd provide scarce amusement later on, when he had to come up with new ways to occupy his neverending time.
"Sirius Black, I am Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic," Fudge introduced pompously, and Sirius resisted the urge, with grueling difficulty, to roll his eyes. Like he cared of Fudge's title? Undeserved title in his opinion. "You remember on which grounds we last met."
"Yeah, cause that's a day I'll forget easily," Sirius retorted acidly, tone drenched in despising contempt. "'Sirius Black, charged with the murder of twelve Muggles and one wizard, Black's former friend, Peter Pettigrew. Life sentence in Azkaban Prison, restricted visiting to only law enforcement officials', wasn't it?" he spat, his voice sounding as dangerous as, he imagined, the populace believed he was.
Fudge's cheeks turned a blotchy color of crimson and white, a mixture between fury, embarrassment, and paling at Sirius's words. "You-You do remember, then."
"Have we not already gone over this, Minister?" Sirius snapped carelessly. "Is there an actual point to your visit or am I just supposed to enjoy this lovely chitchat?"
Fudge shifted his weight, then surreptitiously—though not unnoticed by Sirius—looked over his shoulder, then slightly shuddered, and Sirius immediately knew he was getting uncomfortable with the dementors' presence. Sirius still hadn't quite gotten used to the chills and depression the dementors caused, and he felt it a little now, but he wouldn't show it if it took all his strength to do so (and, he admitted, it just might do). Sirius felt the want to smirk at Fudge's anxiousness, but he resisted. He wouldn't let Fudge know he was almost enjoying Fudge's so far unimportant yet amusing visit. When you were stuck in a hellhole like Azkaban for over a decade, a sight of a man being uneasy in your presence was rather entertaining, compared to anything else you'd experience while there.
"The—The Ministry wanted to know your—er—progress—in here," Fudge said awkwardly.
Sirius's eyebrows raised again, and he almost laughed, semi-surprising himself. "My progress?" he asked, though he inferred perfectly well what Fudge was implying. He wanted to know how crazy Sirius was getting. Sirius enjoyed the fact that Fudge would be rather disappointed, considering how close to normal Sirius knew he was.
"Yes," Fudge said. "Whether you've, erm, gone—"
"Mad?" Sirius offered, and Fudge twitched. "Not that I know of, but then again, I'm just a measly prisoner you so elegantly threw in here, so my opinion doesn't really count, does it?"
If Fudge was more astounded at Sirius's plainly sane demeanor or at his caustic attitude, Sirius couldn't quite tell, but he was enjoying the effect it had on Fudge just the same. "And—And so the dementors, they-they haven't, er, affected you?" Fudge squeaked.
Sirius let out a disbelieving snort. How could Fudge think they didn't affect him? Powerful wizard or not, dementors always affected you, no matter what. "Of course they have," Sirius said nonchalantly. "But you knew that. After all, even Voldemort would feel it a little, and he was as if not more evil than the dementors themselves."
Fudge had knocked his bowler hat off in his jumping at Voldemort's name, and Sirius actually did roll his eyes this time. How people could be afraid of the name, especially now that Voldemort was gone—at least for the time being; Sirius wasn't so sure he was gone for good—Sirius had no idea. He certainly wasn't afraid, and nor had James or Lily been, not to mention Remus. With a jolt of hatred, Sirius recalled Peter had always been reluctant to even hear the name. If Sirius had only thought that weird at the time…
"Oh, and you know this for a fact, do you?" Fudge said, a smile coming to him, as if he actually felt he had an upper hand over Sirius.
Despite that Fudge had, in fact, put Sirius in jail, Sirius still felt rather strongly that Fudge was quite weak, Minister or not. "I haven't asked him face-to-face, if that's what you're insinuating," Sirius retaliated. "How many times do I have to tell you people? I am not the one at fault!"
Even before he said it, Sirius knew full well his efforts were futile. Fudge would never believe him. Such was the inaccuracy and unfairness of the Ministry these days. Throwing people in Azkaban with not even a trial was just absurd. Sirius had never really been fond of the Ministry, but he had tolerated it. Now, however, he thought it inadequate and full of self-righteous bastards. Fudge included. In his opinion, there were very few people there that actually deserved Ministry of Magic titles, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley being the main ones, Sirius mused.
"A likely story!" Fudge blustered.
"Exactly," Sirius said stiffly. "So what's new in the Wizarding or, hell, Muggle world? I'm curious. And I really miss the crossword. I wasn't great at it, but it sure was fun watching me attempt it. Do you mind?"
Fudge looked incensed, which Sirius reveled in. Getting a rise out of the Minister of Magic was an impressive feat, although, now Sirius thought on it, Fudge probably wasn't the most resilient of authorities. "You—You dare question the news? You want the bloody crossword?"
"Obviously," Sirius said calmly. "Considering there's not much going on in Azkaban at the moment."
Fudge seemed unable to respond at the present time, Sirius now indulging himself in a smirk, and then Fudge finally reached into his jacket and pulled out a nicely tied paper, flinging it threw the bars of Sirius's cell. Sirius caught it easily, reading the name upside down. The Daily Prophet. Sirius was mildly yet satisfyingly shocked that Fudge actually complied to Sirius's orders, as they all thought he was a murdering convict; even giving him a paper was, in Sirius's mind, an achievement.
Sirius looked at the front cover. "'Ministry of Magic Employee Scoops Grand Prize,'" Sirius read, half to himself and half to Fudge. The corners of his lips twitched at seeing the entire Weasley family there. Arthur and Molly had been ahead of him Hogwarts-wise, and he had never really met their family, but he would still recognize them anywhere. "'The Weasley family will be spending a month in Egypt, returning for the start of the new school year at Hogwarts, which five of the Weasley children currently attend.' Well, I'm glad they won."
Fudge looked disconcerted, as if he wasn't expecting this reaction from Sirius. Sirius frowned—what did Fudge think? He'd cackle something about a blood-traitorous family and their lack of gold? Sirius scoffed. "Yes, well…" Fudge trailed. "They're, er, in Egypt…"
"I can see that." said Sirius coldly.
He glanced down to the paper again, and did a double take. Looking closer at it, he stared solidly and unblinking at the photograph. His eyes widened in realization and pure loathing antipathy, for there, sitting idly on what looked like the youngest boy's shoulder, was a rat. A rat that Sirius instantly recognized with a horrible acidic feeling in his stomach; he knew that rat. There was no mistaking it. He'd seen the transformation countless times; he'd taught the two-timing bastard how to do it. Sirius's hands tightened to the point of mercilessly crumpling the paper, his knuckles turning white through the stretched skin. His breathing became labored, and his jaw set furiously as he watched the rat squirm in the moving picture.
"Yes…?" Fudge asked warily, having witnessed Sirius's unanticipated response to seeing the picture.
Sirius looked into Fudge's face, and for a moment, saw Peter Pettigrew's twisted smile, imagining his pleased expression when he reported to Voldemort about Lily and James's whereabouts. Sirius fumed menacingly at the recollection, and, ignoring Fudge's still perplexedly wondering face, was catapulted into the last memory he had of Peter; the last time he thought he'd seen Peter alive.
Sirius Black roamed the streets of the city, his eyes, still frighteningly tormented, scanning each corner of each shop, each road, each person, looking for the one cowardly man who double-crossed not only him, but his two best friends. He had been searching for Peter Pettigrew for a long time, ideas of where to start scarcer than those of whom he had been thinking of for Harry to stay with. The Dursley household and thus Harry's home was much easier to predict than where Pettigrew, a lowlife traitor, would have scampered off to. Sirius didn't know whether he'd be in human form or as Wormtail…he didn't know even in which city to start…all he had to go on was the last place Pettigrew had been seen; perhaps his mother had known as well.
Sirius had gone to Pettigrew's childhood house, telling his poor mother that Pettigrew and Sirius himself were the best of friends—a lie, of course, Sirius had known that, but after all they had once been friends…—and that he had lost track of him. Mrs. Pettigrew had looked saddened for a moment, but had recognized Sirius's name, which Sirius was somewhat glad for. At least he wouldn't have to convince someone else of his identity and importance. She had told Sirius the latest place Pettigrew had written to her from (some week and a half prior); Sirius had thanked her through clenched teeth, and left, more resoluteness to find him than there was for him to find Harry, which was quite remarkable in and of itself.
"He sent you a letter from The Leaky Cauldron?" Sirius had asked her, incredulously. As if that wasn't the most ambiguous and untraceable location for him. He could've been anywhere by that point.
"Yes," Mrs. Pettigrew replied, her eyes just as watery as Peter's. "He—He said he had been getting some small wages working for a repair shop in the back lanes of Diagon Alley. A no-good place for an upstanding citizen like my son, but…if it makes him happy…"
Sirius's hands had clenched to the point of pain at hearing Pettigrew's mother talk about him as an 'upstanding citizen', but he, astoundingly, prevented himself from completely flipping out. "Oh—yes—I think I know that place," Sirius had responded, voice forced. "Yeah…except he wouldn't actually stay in Diagon Alley…maybe in the London equivalent of Whizzey's…" Sirius mumbled to himself, before turning again to Mrs. Pettigrew. "Excuse me, I have to go now. Goodbye, Mrs. P—Mrs. Pettigrew."
He had stumbled on her last name, it coming out more derisively than she had probably deserved, but then again, she shared the name with her double-crossing son, and so, as far as Sirius was concerned, he could address her any damn way he liked. "It was nice to see you again, Mr. Sirius," Mrs. Pettigrew had said blandly but genially.
Sirius gave a grim, obviously strained smile, more like a grimace then a look of pleasantry. Mrs. Pettigrew didn't seem to notice. "Yeah, you, erm, you too," he mumbled, the words unfriendly to him.
He had left unsuspiciously enough, but barely before he'd shut the door, he had Apparated into one of the backstreets of London, an alley that, if it were in Diagon Alley, would be close to Whizzey's Reparos (the store where supposedly Peter was employed at…Sirius felt he wouldn't be there for too much longer…). He walked purposefully into the street, no one really giving him a second glance, except for perhaps the occasional one of somewhat pity, and he realized after the first few (he assumed them witches or wizards, considering he doubted anyone Muggle knew of Lily or James too much) that they'd recognized him as the Potters' closest friend. He didn't like being felt sorry for—he wished they'd just stuff it and go on with their own lives. Living with Lily and James's deaths was hard enough without strangers constantly reminding him of it. Ignoring them, he wandered a few shops down, before he found his destination, a decaying shop with dimming lights and peeling paint—an all around sketchy business, but, Sirius mused, it fit Peter's verminous personality perfectly. It was a shop, he noticed, that looked different to Muggles, as he sincerely found it hard to believe that Muggles would believe the obvious magic surrounding the store. Undaunted, however, he walked up to the window, squinting into the flickering light, trying to see who was inside.
Finally, sensing someone outside, the receptionist looked up, and his pitiful eyes widened to the size of saucers as he noticed the person glaring at him. Without another second's hesitation, he Apparated—apparently not worried about Muggles seeing—but Sirius had been ready and for it and quicker—silently, he'd cast a form of an Anti-Apparition spell, one that would cause the recipient to Apparate instead to right in front of the caster; in this case, Sirius. It worked. Peter cracked into the space right in front of Sirius, Sirius immediately putting a Binding Jinx on his legs, so he couldn't move from the spot he was in.
"There you are, you slimy, two-faced son of a bitch!" Sirius roared, voice drenched in undiluted venom.
Pettigrew cringed, cowering as much as his bound legs could allow him. "S-Sirius?" he asked waveringly. "Wh-What do you m-mean?"
Sirius was furious beyond reason. How dare he play ignorant? "DON'T EVEN TRY IT, PETTIGREW!" Sirius yelled, and now passersby had literally stopped to see what was going on.
"S-Sirius, I'm your old f-f-friend…" Peter whimpered.
"FRIEND?!" Sirius bellowed, sparks issuing from his wand. Right now, he didn't care that Muggles were seeing him use magic. "Lily and James—you—you—you filthy miscreant! I can't even—" Sirius was lost for words, even in his given fury. He seemed so enraged that he couldn't even function words.
Peter got a traitorous look in his eyes, and Sirius narrowed his own, another chill running down his spine, an eerie feeling creeping into him. Suddenly, without warning, Peter erupted. "YOU SOLD OUT LILY AND JAMES! LILY AND JAMES, SIRIUS! HOW COULD YOU?!"
Sirius did not flinch, but he looked ready to kill. And indeed, his grip on his wand tightened menacingly. "Me, you despicable bastard? ME?!" yelled Sirius, now the majority of the street listening, though most giving them a wide berth. "You belong to the deepest circle of Hell, Pettigrew! It's time you go there!"
Sirius raised his wand, pointing it straight at Peter's heart, and his eyes held no glitter of caring whatsoever. "Avada—"
But before he could utter the rest of the Killing Curse, the street exploded in a shower of concrete, wood, and dust. When it cleared somewhat, Sirius saw dead bodies around him, a cloak where Peter had been, and a fragment by it that looked sickeningly like his finger that had just been attached to his hand, which was, like the rest of him, vanished. Things clicking into place, his mind ignoring the screams and shrieks of the Muggles around him, he shook his head in disbelieving wrath.
And then he laughed. A full-out laugh. Mirthless, it was true, but loud and echoing regardless. Peter had just framed his own death…in pure Peter fashion. If he wasn't able to get out of it alive—he knew ever so well that Sirius could maim or kill him in a trice—he would fake his demise. And Sirius found it humorlessly funny and tragically ironic. After all his searching, all his efforts, Sirius had lost his only source of revenge. Peter was gone with the other worthless sewer rats…Merlin knew where he'd go next. Now, Sirius realized painfully, there was virtually no chance of ever seeing him again.
Still cackling with the same horrific emotions, Sirius barely felt Apparating around him, Ministry officials looking stricken at the scene in front of them. He barely heard them cast spells to see what they had witnessed, then Obliviate minds left and right; barely felt thick cords shoot around his wrists, some blurring words saying, what he assumed later, were convictions or questions to him or something else he couldn't decipher. All he noticed before someone Apparated him to a holding cell was a very familiar-looking rat with a now missing paw scamper away, retreating into a grate, giving Sirius a mocking glance before disappearing. That was the final time Sirius actually saw daylight.
"What are you looking at, Black?" Fudge wrested Sirius from his thoroughly unwanted memory, this one less heartwrenching than the others, but yet ingraining so much abhorrence Sirius wasn't sure he could contain it all.
"Pettigrew…bastard…" Sirius muttered, but so quietly Fudge couldn't hear him.
"Yes, well, I just came to—to—do an inspection and see if you'd—if you'd—"
"Gone insane, yes we've covered that!" Sirius sniped, turning his dark eyes onto Fudge's, who recoiled. "Go on then. Go do your damn inspection. Useless Ministry…"
Fudge gained an expression of lividity, but then turned around, storming out, and Sirius, had he not been so affected by the memory associated with the article, would have snickered to himself at how he incensed Fudge so much. As it was, however, he picked up the newspaper Fudge had left for him, staring at the black and white picture again, of the Weasley family standing in front of a pyramid in the sandy Egyptian desert. So Peter wasn't completely gone after all. He was with the Weasley family. And from what Sirius had heard, they were close to Harry, his long lost godson. Sirius lay back, ideas forming in his head, for all he knew was that he had to get to Harry. And a, granted risky, but solid, plan was already gaining shape. All he knew was that he, Sirius Black, was innocent. All he knew was that—
"He's at Hogwarts…he's at Hogwarts…Peter Pettigrew is at Hogwarts…"
Well, I am hoping you all liked it. And that the ending wasn't too bad. Anyway, please review because they make me joyous, and I'd love to hear what you think.
P.S. The quote is from William Butler Yeats. So that credit goes to him.
P.P.S. I hope you didn't think Petunia was too out of character. In consolation, while it obviously seems a bit unlikely, it's not necessarily out of canon, if you think about it. Petunia never contributed to that she didn't know Harry had a godfather, nor did she say anything about hearing Sirius on the news, apart from looking out the window, which doesn't really say much. So in that regard, I don't think it's completely impossible. I know it's a rare side of her and she was rather nice, but I chose to make her that way and that she actually has a heart. Anyway, that's my explanation on the matter, in case you had a few qualms with it.