Notes - Just a quick note to say I'm really excited about this one and I hope you enjoy it. Cassandra, in case you haven't guessed, is an original chracter. It's a dangerous game to play, I know, but there was no-one else to do the job...so I invented her. Just to make this perfectly clear - I LOATHE Mary-Sues and self-insertion, and Cassandra is neither. She is not stunningly beautiful, nor is she perfect. She makes a lot of silly mistakes, as you will soon see. so please, don't judge her before you know her.
Disclaimer- I do not, in any way, shape or form, own Sirius Black nor any of the other characters/locations etc associated with Harry Potter. They are the property of the eternally talented Joanne Rowling. I do, however, own Cassandra. Not that it matters.
Chapter One
Cassandra Starr sat pensively in the window seat of her London townhouse, watching the torrential rain as it lashed against the glass. It had been squally all day, ruining a week of perfect July weather. That morning's edition of the Daily Prophet lay, crumpled, in her lap, its headline smothered by a photo of a recently escaped prisoner.
She found herself wondering where he was now. It had been two days since his escape from Azkaban and she'd heard nothing from him as of yet. She supposed he'd be lying low for a while, until the initial spark of panic had fizzled out and it was safe to make a move. He certainly wouldn't risk coming to London; there were too many people looking for him now that the muggles had been alerted too.
There was another issue, of course: it was only a matter of time until the Ministry questioned her again. She had, after all, been Black's only regular visitor in the twelve years he'd been incarcerated, and was the last person to speak to him properly before the break out. Well, they could interrogate her all they liked. She'd been as shocked as anyone by the news of his escape, having met with him just three days before it had happened and being told nothing. He'd made some odd hints; hints that made much more sense now that she thought on them…
Cassandra gave a weary sort of sigh and turned her head to the flickering photograph in her lap. He was younger there, not like the gaunt, skinny creature she'd first met about a year ago.
It had all started upon her return to England, after an entire two years of visiting the remotest wizarding colonies in the world. Travelling had been exciting but she was ready to return to an ordered life- and where better to start that to resume her studies, training as an auror?
It was an exciting profession, as she soon discovered, definitely worth the danger. There was an incident within her first week of schooling, when her reflexes had failed her during a duel, and left her with a long silver scar across her left cheek. Her mentor, a young auror by the name of Shacklebolt, had used all the dittany in the department to try and cure it but with no such luck; it was permanent, there, as he'd said, as a constant reminder to be vigilant at all times. That aside, however, her first term of training was her greatest adventure yet. She'd mastered advanced spells, broken the most complex of curses and even glimpsed a mission with her tutor. Yet the day that changed her life forever was the day she'd had her first tour of Azkaban prison.
It was everything she'd dreaded it would be: a great, moss-covered, looming giant of a fortress, floating off the treacherous coast of the north. She had never seen a more chilling sight. It seemed to sprout out of the iron sea like an eerie stone plant, every turret and buttress covered in lumpy coral, making the entire structure look as though it were carved from the seabed.
Inside was no better. It was a dark maze of passages, with numerous heavy doors lining every wall and dementors gliding out of the shadows. There were tiny, barred windows at the top of the doors, where the faces of the detained would appear, some glaring, some leering, some even howling as she was escorted through the corridors with Shacklebolt. Now and then he would point out a particular countenance, and tell her that the angry looks he was receiving from them were due to his being the captor who brought them here. There had been a surprising amount of them- dark wizards he'd caught- and they did not relent to show their animosity. At one point, he had actually stopped to debate with one of them, telling her to go on alone.
This she had done, ignoring the rude comments and catcalls her presence occasionally attracted. It had crossed her mind that most of these men had probably not seen a woman for years…and yet she hadn't been worried. There had been a warden on her left and a dementor drifting somewhere ahead of her, so even if they'd managed to break free of their cells, they would not get far.
Some time later, still being alone, she'd passed a cell that appeared to be empty; by that she'd meant there was no jeering face at the window or no obscene cries from within the cell walls. Out of sheer curiosity, she had sidled to the door and peered through the bars. To her surprise, it was actually occupied. There was a man there, sitting on a roughly hewn bench directly opposite her. He was thin, dressed in ragged, black robes and had a pale, gaunt face, common amongst the long-term inmates. She'd recognised him instantly: it was Sirius Black, murderer of a street full of muggles, or so they said. Though Cassandra had never seen anyone who looked less like a murderer. True, if she met him in a street, the skeletal face and messy appearance would frighten her. Yet one look into this man's eyes and she saw something she had not seen since stepping through the barred gates- sanity. There was calm awareness, gentleness, shrewdness and just a hint of sadness. So dark and deep were those eyes that she could have got lost in them.
She'd stood there for a moment, just watching him and him watching her back. She didn't even blink when he rose silently to his feet and glided across the small cell until he was right in front of her, his face close to hers, separated only by metal bars and a few inches of wood. He said nothing; just scrutinised the young woman with the intrigue of a tiger cub.
Then she'd done something either brave or foolish, she still wasn't sure which. She didn't even know why! It just tumbled out of her mouth-
"Mr Black. Might I talk with you for a moment?"
She'd had no idea what she was thinking. She had nothing to say to him, yet there was something that had made her think he had something to tell her. He nodded thoughtfully and the warden had rushed forward, wand in hand, and opened the cell. Black stood back with all the courtesy of a gentleman, allowing Cassandra to enter and even as the door was locked behind me, the confidence that possessed her at that moment did not fail. She'd walked boldly up to the alleged murderer and shook his hand, before seating herself on his bench. He'd sat a respectable distance away, though he was close enough for her to touch him.
"What do you want?" he'd asked her, not rudely. "I've seen dozens of your kind touring this place, admiring your handiwork. You're the first who ever wanted to talk to me. So what is it?"
As bluntly as could be, she'd answered with her own question: "You're not a murderer, are you Mr Black?"
For a moment, he had simply stared. Then, his pale face broke into a painful smile and he actually laughed.
She couldn't recall every word he had uttered in that twenty minutes he spent with her. Sometimes she had found it hard to hear him; his voice was so hoarse through lack of use. As she'd summarised it in her head, he had told her he was an innocent man and that he'd been set up by his treacherous friend Peter Pettigrew, the one he'd supposedly killed, who was in fact still alive and well, as far as he knew. And she'd believed him. What was more, she still believed him. She was a rational woman, and would not normally entertain such tall tales… but there was just something in those eyes of his when he'd told her. There was real anger, real pain. His face was practically etched with sincerity. She couldn't not believe him.
Her mentor had turned up some twenty minutes later, demanding that she left Black at once and continued with their tour. She had said her goodbye. She had promised him she'd come back again to visit as soon as she could arrange it. He'd looked unconvinced and she could hardly blame him, after all he'd been though.
For the days and weeks that followed, Sirius Black had dominated her thoughts. She simply couldn't believe that the system she worked for had failed: failed to uncover the truth. And for that blunder, an innocent man was wasting away in prison for a crime he did not commit.
It was about a month later when she had acted upon her promise to Black and returned to Azkaban to visit him. The governor was much less compromising without Shacklebolt's influence, but eventually he'd agreed to let the trainee auror into the prison.
Black had been sitting on the floor of his cell, his knees hunched up to his frail chest and a grubby, threadbare blanket drawn around him for warmth. He appeared fully surprised that Cassandra had kept her word.
"You came back," he'd exclaimed, simply, though it was unclear from his face whether he had been happy about this or not.
Nevertheless, their second meeting had commenced and passed. Black opened up more to Cassandra. He'd filled in the gaps he'd left in his story- how he'd been friends with the Potters since his school days, how he'd persuaded them not to use him as their Secret Keeper, but to go for the much less obvious Peter. He had described in heart wrenching detail the guilt that had wracked him after his friends' deaths and the swelling hatred he'd felt for the traitor Pettigrew. He had captivated Cassandra, moved her to the point of tears then swiftly apologised, telling her she shouldn't concern herself with him. Yet this had only intrigued her more.
Her third visit was a surprise. She'd apparated to the remote island the fortress was built upon at 6 pm on Christmas day. Again, it had taken some persuasion for her to be let in, this time owing to the large basket of treasures she had insisted upon bringing. But eventually, with the aid of bribery, the human guards had let her in.
"What is this?" Black had croaked, getting to his feet and holding out a thin hand for her to shake. Cassandra had deliberately ignored the claw-like appendage and instead pulled him into a tight embrace. He'd stiffened at first, as though he had forgotten what to do in face of such intimacy. However, his old human emotions had soon returned to him and he'd quite happily melted into Cassandra's arms. They had both waited a moment before pulling away, upon which point she pressed her basket into his grasp and stood back, smiling.
"Is this a present?" he'd murmured, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. Cassandra had simply laughed and pulled back the cloth that covered the contents. Inside was the array of seasonal delicacies she had prepared that morning: slices of rich roasted meats, puddings, an assortment of ripe fruit and a platter of cheeses. His face had lit up with delight and gratitude.
"There was a bottle of wine," Cassandra had explained apologetically. "But your captors took it upon themselves to confiscate that. No doubt they though it might conceal some potion or other."
He'd given a harsh laugh and begun to delve enthusiastically in the basket, pulling out the parcel of sliced turkey and ripping into it.
"No matter," he'd mumbled, through mouthfuls, "I probably couldn't handle alcohol anyway."
He'd given his visitor a roguish wink, which made her laugh. She'd had to agree- he looked so thin and malnourished that even a single glass would have made him drunk.
The dementors, undoubtedly excited by the burst of happiness that must have been emanating from the cell, had begun to clamour about the door. Cassandra recalled being quite frightened. Only the wizard that had been standing outside, overlooking the visit, was stopping them from charging in and draining this poor man's cheer. If that warden had chosen to turn a blind eye…they'd have been upon him like dogs upon a fresh steak. Black, however, had seemed much less concerned.
"You get used to them," he'd shrugged, through a great mouthful of Christmas cake. He'd swallowed loudly and flashed her a weak smile. "Besides, they won't come in here now. They'll wait 'til you've gone, like they did last time."
At once Cassandra had felt incredibly guilty. She hadn't even thought that any happiness she tried to bring him whilst he was here would just be plundered from him tenfold at some point or other: was she effectively making it worse?
Her emotions must have showed in her face, for Black had paused in his ravenous consumption and put a skeletal hand on her shoulder.
"I've been here for eleven years and I've not gone mad with despair yet," he had said, simply. "Nor do intend to. If they steal these thoughts from me too, then so be it. I have my innocence to stop me going mad."
Cassandra had nodded, though she still couldn't help but feel terrible. It was odd that she'd felt compassion for this shell of a man, this creature she barely knew.
For a while, she'd just sat with him, taking some odd pleasure in the way he bolted his food with such relish. Even if the happiness she had brought him lasted but minutes, it was happiness all the same.
She'd waited until he'd consumed every last morsel before getting to her feet.
"I'm afraid I can't stay today, Mr. Black," she had whispered, delicately. "I just wanted to stop by…as it's Christmas."
"I'm glad you did," Black had replied. "And, please, call me by my first name. We're past formalities here."
Cassandra had laughed and, nervously, she bent down and kissed him on the cheek.
"You're right," she'd said. "We are."
And without another word, she had left his dingy cell, giggling at the look of wonder on Sirius's face. The warden outside the door had given her a peculiar look as she'd exited, an expression of shock mingled with disgust and, eventually, annoyance, as he'd struggled to control the dementors that were lurking outside the cell.
From that moment on, an unconventional closeness had developed between Cassandra and Sirius. It was by no means a proper relationship: after all, for such a thing to develop in a damp, cold cell, surrounded by emotion-hungry horrors was nigh on impossible. Yet what passed between them had all the raw ingredients of a potential romance: compassion, mutual understanding, self-sacrifice and intimacy.
Cassandra had visited him once every month after Christmas, each time staying as long as she could before the wardens removed her. She and Sirius would talk about each other's lives, past and present, until they knew one another as well as they knew themselves. Occasionally, they'd recreate the kiss Cassandra had given him on Christmas Day, each time venturing a little further: from cheek, to lips, to the sensitive flesh on Black's slender neck. Rarely were these kisses ever enjoyable: often they were performed in grotesque imitation of the love they could have shared, had their worlds been not so tragically aligned. There was a cruelty to them that bordered sadism, a darkness behind them that threatened to engulf them both. Each time they indulged their growing affection for one another, they left, lingering on the other's lips, a desperate trace of dependency.
Cassandra thought it good that Sirius had escaped when he did. Had their relationship continued the way it had developed…well, only tragedy could ensue. However, his being free of the nightmares of Azkaban meant there was a chance, however small, that their liaison could grow up into the light and blossom into something beautiful.
