Remembering Sirius

Chapter One: Prologue: The Chance

Author's Note: This is my first fanfic, so I'd really appreciate some feedback. I have the first 7/8 chapters posted on MNFF, so if anyone is impatient (I know I am) you can go there and read it. The updates should be coming quickly, as 8 chapters are finished, but after chapter 8 gets up…you have been warned. If you review mine, I'll review yours, and I'll also respond to everyone who reviews.Thanks so much for taking the time to read this…please review!

Harry sat alone on his four-poster—all the other sixth-year boys had left. It was Christmas break, and though Harry had been invited to Headquarters along with Ron and Hermione, he couldn't stand the thought of being back in Number 12 Grimmauld Place. That would mean walking where Sirius had walked, eating where Sirius had eaten, and—worst of all—facing Kreacher the house-elf, who had betrayed Sirius with a smile on his face, drowning in his own sickening laughter. A hot rage swelled up inside of Harry, as it always did when he found someone to blame for losing Sirius—Kreacher, Bellatrix, Voldemort, even Sirius himself. It had been like this all year—he'd distanced himself from his friends and spent most of his free time being angry or depressed. He didn't want to get as close to anyone as he had been to Sirius—they'd all leave sooner or later. First his parents, and then the closest thing to a parent he had—who was to say that there wouldn't be more? Harry wasn't willing to take that chance, not when he was still tearing himself apart over Sirius.

The break was almost over, but Harry's presents lay unopened at the foot of his bed. He threw them unceremoniously under the four-poster and wondered if he would ever have another happy Christmas--or happy thought. It was then that Neville walked in--no, stumbled, as he always did, thought Harry savagely. He had forgotten that Neville was staying at Hogwarts, and as far as Harry was concerned, anyone who disturbed him was just someone to direct his rage at. He swung his hangings around, but soon found out that just knowing that Neville was bumbling around the room was enough to drive him away. Ripping the hangings back open, he stormed out as Neville gave a feeble, "Harry?"

Harry tore down the steps to the common room, but he knew he wouldn't find shelter there. Glancing around, he found that he was right—a few people were scattered around the place. Scowling, he made for the entrance. As he flung open the Fat Lady and started to rush out, he ran straight into someone coming in. Harry fell to the floor with a thump. So much for seeking shelter in an empty classroom, he thought, for as he placed his glasses back on and looked up, he saw McGonagall with her hands on her hips, her lips pursed, and her expression stern.

"The headmaster would like to see you, Potter," she said stiffly, then turned on her heel, clearly expecting Harry to follow her. Harry quickly got up and trailed behind McGonagall, not daring to say a word to the already disgruntled professor. They walked down endless staircases, occasionally skipping a step or jumping to the next moving platform just in time. Past Muggle Studies, Charms, and various other classes they walked while Harry analyzed the situation. What had he done? Why would Dumbledore want to see him? He didn't think he'd done anything wrong, but before his confused thoughts could work out an answer, they arrived at Dumbledore's office. "Bertie Bott's," ordered McGonagall, and the gargoyles sprang aside obediently.

"I believe you know what to do," she said, gesturing toward the now-familiar circling staircase that led up to Dumbledore's office. Harry stepped on it and waited to be carried up to the headmaster.

"Oh, and Potter," said McGonagall before stepping out, "Do make certain that the headmaster is not coming out while you are going in."

And with that, she swept out the entrance, her long black robes billowing behind her.

Harry stepped off the staircase and knocked on Dumbledore's door.

"Come in," answered the old wizard inside. He walked in cautiously, finding everything exactly the same since he had been here last—with the exception of the things Harry had broken in his temper the previous year.

"Ah, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Sit down."

Harry did not sit down. He was still harboring some anger at the headmaster. As if Dumbledore had read his mind—and he probably had—he said, "You have been avoiding me. All year. I understand, and I will not pressure you to stop. You have to make that decision on your own—you have to heal. After what was said at the end of last year, your resentment is completely understandable. I realize that you have been experiencing grief beyond anything you know. You can barely remember your parents, and though you mourn that loss, you knew Sirius. Cared for him. Loved him. You want to be left alone, but you can't bear it by yourself. I have given you time on your own to grieve, but I know you need closure. I can give it to you."

Harry went over this in his head.

"I don't understand," he said.

"I don't expect you to, not yet." Dumbledore turned and walked over to an instrument that Harry had had experience with—the Pensieve. He placed his wand on the side of his head and pulled the silvery memories out. After placing them in the Pensieve, he turned back to Harry.

"I don't know if you have realized this, but on my Pensieve, you are able to travel beyond the memories of whomever you are exploring. This is not true for every Pensieve—one of my inventions that I preferred not to release. A structured time-travel, if you will—you are able to visit the past, but as it is only a memory, time cannot be affected by your actions. I have used it on earlier occassions to better analyze how much of the prophecy Voldemort was aware of. However, in light of...recent events, I thought it unwise to inform to Ministry of my find."

Harry still didn't understand—granted, he had the general gist, but how would his "actions" do anything anyway? Memories could only be looked upon. Then again, Harry never really understood anything Dumbledore ever said.

"The memory I have deposited in the Pensieve is one at the time of Sirius Black's sixth year at Hogwarts, over Christmas break. Precisely the same time as it is here—a few days after Christmas, but a couple days left before term starts." Dumbledore strode over to the entrance, but he turned back when he reached the door. With a twinkle in his eye, he said, "You really do look just like your father, Harry," and walked out of the office.

Harry was alone with his thoughts, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to be. What was Dumbledore thinking? Wouldn't seeing Sirius dig deeper into a wound that was already bleeding? Harry took a tentative step towards the Pensieve, then backed away. The temptation of seeing his godfather was overwhelming. Just the fact that he had the chance laid at his feet absorbed him, and he sat in the office, drinking in memories of the way Sirius' eyes had glittered conspiratorially when he was involved in the action; the way his laugh had sounded like a bark . . . the way his laughter had faded when he'd fallen through the Veil. Harry buried his head in his hands—it had been nearly half a year since the Veil had consumed Sirius, but his emotions were still raw. He felt like crying, and what was he supposed to do? Obviously, Dumbledore thought that this would make things easier, but Harry wasn't so sure. Wouldn't only being able to see Sirius make him yearn for more; yearn for things that could never be? Wouldn't Dumbledore have realized this? A silent battle raged inside of Harry. No, he told himself firmly. He couldn't, he wouldn't do this. He rushed over to the door, but his hand was on the doorknob when he ran back to the Pensieve and sank to his knees.

"What should I do..." he moaned, torn between seeing Sirius again and protecting his heart, but the temptation was killing him. "It'll help," he told himself, "I know it will," but his voice sounded like he was making a statement, not stating a fact. An image of Sirius, eyes twinkling, face lit up in laughter, hair tossed back, filled his thoughts. He was going to see Sirius again, he was! Harry couldn't believe how long it had taken him to reach this conclusion. He stood up, leaned into the Pensieve, and saw an image of Dumbledore's office, some years previously. He was stroking Fawkes, and appeared to be talking to him. Smiling, Harry leaned in farther, and felt himself being swept away, away to a time where he had nothing to worry about, away to where his dreams would come true, and most importantly, away to where Sirius still lived without a care.

"My goodness, Fawkes, I have gotten gadgets, and widgets, and what-cha-ma-callits galore this Christmas, I need yet another bookshelf for all the new books I have acquired, but alas, my sock droor remains as full as it was before. Well, I'll have to let by-gones be by-gones, and maybe next Christmas a pair of warm, wooly socks will complete my pile of presents. Yes, I certainly hope . . ."

Harry was mildly amused by Dumbledore's little chat with Fawkes, but he had more pressing matters to attend to. Like finding Sirius.

Dumbledore chuckled to himself as he descended the circling staircase. Harry would have his reservations at first, but eventually he would give in to his desire to reconnect with Sirius. Oh yes, thought Dumbledore, Harry will be in for quite a surprise when he finds his godfather—or when his godfather finds him.