The Bitterest Night
The room is dark and musty, and cobwebs hang like a thick mist from the low ceiling. Pale moonlight filters in from the partially open windows, the panes tinted grey by the accumulation of dust. The clouded glass diffuses the rays of moonlight, reducing them to a feeble glow.
I sit on the edge of my bed, sleepless even though every muscle in my body is tired and worn. My mind is still too alert, too confused. I can't help worrying — I feel a sense of foreboding, borne through my dog-like instincts, which tells me that something is definitely wrong.
I look out of the window, and the pale silvery orb of the moon shines faintly back at me. A wry smile curls my lips, and I remember the times we used to run with the wind, through the Forbidden Forest, under the baleful watch of the full moon overhead, leaving everything behind us as we immersed ourselves in the moment.
Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs. It's been too long since we last rode together.
I remember the times when we used to roam the Forest — Prongs and Wormtail leading the way, Moony and I always getting caught up in wrestling matches and tumbling down slopes. Moony and I were the most closely related in species — the dog and the wolf, similar in everything from muzzle to four paws to bushy tail. We sparred ever so often, playfully nipping at each other, snarling and growling, generally trying to be as macho as we could in animal form.
James is my best friend, but Remus is more like my kindred spirit. We understand each other in a way that cannot quite be defined — when James is upset, I can normally tell from the stormy expression on his face, but I know when Remus is down even if he masks his troubles with a smile. I can sense what he's feeling, and he understands my temperament. Perhaps that's the reason why we're the closest when reduced to the simpler, less complex animal form — other than the fact that wrestling with Prongs would result multiple stab wounds from his antlers, and sparring with Wormtail would probably flatten him.
I chew thoughtfully on my lower lip. Could Remus really be the traitor? Maybe it's the blood of a werewolf, running through his veins. Werewolves are Dark creatures, and they naturally tend toward evil, although the Remus I know is nothing but pure good. But it's hard, sometimes, to battle constantly against your true nature — there will always come a time when you finally relent.
Sitting here all alone in this strange room, I realise how much I miss my friends.
James, Lily and little Harry are in hiding, at Godric's Hollow. Remus is running wild, somewhere out there in the dark forests, under the influence of the full moon. Peter is in hiding as well, an extra precaution since he is the Potters' Secret-Keeper. That is the best idea I've ever come up with — Peter has always been the wallflower in our little group, the most unobtrusive member of our clique. James had wanted me to be his Secret-Keeper, but I convinced him that using Peter was the perfect decoy.
I feel terribly restless, like a phantom itch is writhing somewhere under my skin. Finally I get to my feet, slip on my robes and get my wand. I need to see Peter, to reassure myself that everything is all right.
"Peter?" I knock cautiously on the door, but receive no answer. I knock again, more sharply than the previous time, but silence reverberates back in response.
Finally I take out my wand. "Alohomora," I whisper, and am answered by the metallic clang of bolts retracting as the door creaks open.
I step inside — a strange smell stings my nostrils, and an empty room greets me. I look around, puzzled — where can Peter be at this time of the night? It's Hallowe'en tonight, and the clock on the wall informs me that it is fast approaching midnight.
The small room is in an orderly condition — Peter always had a thing for tidiness. The bed by the wall is still untouched, the sheets unruffled. A wax candle has burned down to its stump by the bedside, the source of that foul-smelling odour.
"Peter?" I call tentatively, feeling a sense of dread rising inexorably inside me. I stride forward, looking frantically around, but there is no one there.
Voldemort, my mind immediately leaps to the thought, and my heart sinks. Voldemort has got Peter — taken him away to torture James and Lily's whereabouts out of him.
But something doesn't quite fit into the picture, like a mismatched piece of a jigsaw puzzle. The calm neatness in the room is particularly unsettling — the dinner plates have been washed and stacked neatly in the cupboard, and Peter's cloak has been draped carefully over the back of a chair. No sign of any break-in, no sign of any struggle.
Something is definitely wrong.
No.
I stand rigid for a moment, unable to believe it, feeling as if an invisible hand is choking my throat. Realisation slowly dawns on me, and my blood freezes in my veins.
It's not possible. It can't be Peter. It can't be.
Panic rises frenetically in my mind, and I spin around and bolt out of the door.
Please, I pray fervently. Please let it not be true.
The acrid smell of smoke wafts up my nose and stings my eyes as I race toward Godric's Hollow on my flying motorcycle. I can see thick, grey smoke billowing up into the inky sky, obscuring the pale moon overhead until all that is left is darkness all around.
And I know it's true.
I descend next to the charred remains of what used to be James and Lily's hideout. The entire structure of the house has caved in, flattened to a smoking pile of rubble. No one can possibly have survived within.
With a sinking dread, I raise my eyes toward the sky, and hovering distinctly above the ruins is the emblem of death. A leering green skull mocks me, and the serpent protruding from its mouth rears its head and bares its deadly fangs.
Prongs, I whisper in disbelief, staring at the debris.
The thick gloom descending across the sky is all that is left, as well as the mangled remains of James' and Lily's last dwelling place. The fire has subsided, but the damage never will. I stare at the wreckage, filled with utter horror and helpless despair.
It's too late.
I wasn't there when it mattered. I didn't think of the consequences. I never thought of the possibilities, the slenderest chance that Peter might have been the one siphoning information to the Dark Lord.
It's all my fault.
A bulky, hulking figure emerges from the grotesque shadows of the ruined house. He looks familiar, and I recognise him as Hagrid, gamekeeper at Hogwarts. He appears hunched over, as if cradling something in his arms.
I don't know how I get my legs to move, but I manage to stagger over to him. He looks up at me, a grim expression on his face, no traces of his usual jovial smile.
"James and Lily?" I whisper hoarsely, knowing the answer even before he utters it.
Hagrid doesn't say anything. He simply shifts the weight in his hands to one arm, and then reaches over and embraces me with the other.
Pressed against his musky coat, I cannot hold back the tears any longer.
In silent, heaving sobs, I mourn the friends I lost tonight — James and Lily through my negligence, Remus through my distrust, and Peter through his betrayal.
Hagrid pats me on the back, consoling me, although I can feel tremors of suppressed emotion quivering through him as well. When I finally pull away, his black eyes are glazed with unshed tears.
For the first time, I look down at the bundle in his arms, and my heart skips a beat.
Little Harry lies nestled in Hagrid's massive arms, swathed in blankets, the hems of which have been singed by the flames. Harry is awake, and he blinks up at me, looking confused and scared. He has his mother's emerald green eyes, and there is a stark, red gash across his forehead, shaped like a lightning bolt.
My godson, Harry Potter.
And James' laughing words sound poignantly in my head: Harry's going to learn to fly and play Quidditch before he learns to walk, I'll make sure of that.
So many hopes and dreams, all lying shattered in the ruins of evil. So many lives, torn apart by another's selfishness and greed.
I gingerly touch Harry's cheek, which is flushed slightly pink from fear or exertion, I don't know which. In response, he gurgles softly, and his tiny palm closes over my finger, gripping it tightly with all the strength his small hand can muster.
I look up at Hagrid, who looks sad and sombre. "Give Harry to me, Hagrid," I plead earnestly, already subconsciously reaching out for the young child. "I'm his godfather, I'll look after him..."
I owe James this much. I owe him so much more, but this is all I can do now.
Hagrid looks pained, but he firmly shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Sirius," he says gruffly. "On Dumbledore's orders — s'posed to take li'l Harry ter his aunt's and uncle's..."
"He's going to live with Muggles?" I protest weakly, utterly shocked. "He can't go to live with Lily's folks, Hagrid!"
Hagrid shrugs helplessly. "Jus' followin' Dumbledore's instructions, Sirius," he says apologetically. "He tells me, get Harry and take 'im to the Muggle folks, tis safer for him there."
Little Harry looks up at me with his big pleading eyes, hazed over with drowsy innocence. He still doesn't let go of my finger, gripping it so hard that his tiny fingernails prick my flesh. I squeeze his little hand back in return, gazing hopelessly at him. James' only legacy.
"Harry," I whisper brokenly, feeling the sting of burning tears start again.
Hagrid's eyes dart around warily. He looks shifty. "Sirius, I — er — have to take Harry ter Dumbledore right away," he says, but I make no move to break contact. Neither does Harry — he gazes up at me, and gives me the smallest of smiles.
I don't think I will ever forget his smile.
"All right," I finally croak, my throat tight. I force myself to step away, and slowly pull my finger away from Harry, who is starting to look quite sleepy. He lets me coax my hand out of his grip, and I reluctantly let go of him and turn to Hagrid. "Take my motorcycle — it's faster that way — I won't be needing it anymore, anyway."
Hagrid looks surprised, but glad. He must have been wondering how he was going to get to the Muggles, since he couldn't Apparate or use advanced magic.
"Thanks," he says, then offers me a small smile and a wave as he climbs on my motorcycle, Harry still clutched tightly to his bosom. "G'bye, Sirius," he says contritely, then fires up the engine and takes to the skies.
Muggles are already gathering around the house, but they are too intrigued by the massive destruction to notice a motorcycle levitating into the air and racing through the skies. I slowly make my way around the charred hedges, when something stops me in my tracks.
Perhaps it's my animal instinct rising to the fore. Perhaps it's just the hysteria pent up inside my mind. But I'm quite sure I sense a certain presence, an all too familiar person lurking in the shadows. Perhaps it's all the time we've spent together that makes me so accustomed to his scent, his presence.
He has to stay till the end of the fireworks, doesn't he? I think grimly, as I briskly turn and follow my innate senses. He has to see it through till the end, the twisted work of his own hands. His service to his Master.
I abruptly round the corner and slam the first person I get my hands on against the wall. Even before I get a clear look at his face in the fleeting moonlight, I know it is him.
The ashen face of Peter Pettigrew stares back at me, his mouth slack, gulping air like a goldfish out of water. "S-S-Sirius," he stammers, his voice strained, his eyes bulging madly. "W-What are you d-doing here?"
"You sick, traitorous bastard!" I snarl savagely, throwing him roughly against the wall, my fingers digging brutally into his shoulders. "How could you? How could you betray James and Lily!" I shake him roughly, my sanity blurred by seething rage. "HOW COULD YOU KILL THEM, PETER!?"
He says nothing, remaining limp in my arms, and just stares back at me with dilated pupils, still gasping for breath. We stay locked in that antagonistic position for a moment which seems to freeze in time, and I can think of nothing except what I would like to do to him, how desperately I want to avenge James and Lily's death, how to hurt Peter as badly as he has hurt me.
Suddenly, I notice a quick, furtive movement of his hand beneath his robes, accompanied by the silver glint of a metal blade. The next instant, a bloody finger falls to the ground, and I stare at it for a moment, uncomprehending.
Before I realise what is happening, Peter abruptly starts screaming at the top of his voice, startling me.
"LILY AND JAMES, SIRIUS!" he hollers at the top of his voice, wrenching himself out of my grasp. "HOW COULD YOU!"
I stumble backwards a few steps, completely thrown. "What?!" I splutter, aghast, staring wildly at Peter. But before I can move forward, he has his wand behind his back, and the spell he utters is drowned by a deafening explosion and the frantic screams of the Muggles as the entire street behind us is ripped to shrapnels.
I'm flung backwards by the force of the eruption, but come up short against the wall. Dust, tar and smoke choke the night air, and I close my eyes for a moment, coughing. It takes a few seconds for what just happened to sink in.
When I open my eyes again, Peter is gone. In his place stands a gaping crater in the road, penetrating as deep as the sewers beneath. The entire street is matted with blood and disfigured corpses of the unfortunate Muggles at the scene of the explosion. I'm surprised that I have escaped relatively unscathed, considering I was standing just in front of Peter.
Hysterical screaming and panic-stricken cries slice through the still night, and I slump against the wall and sink to the ground, still numb with shock. Some of the surviving Muggles are gesticulating wildly at me, but I barely notice them. I don't know how long I sit there for, or why I am huddled on the corner of a devastated street a stone's throw away from where James' and Lily's bodies lie.
All I know is the truth, and that is the worst punishment there is.
Everything feels surreal and unearthly, like a dream; a horrible, living nightmare that I will never wake from. The understanding of what Peter has done hits me like a breath of icy air against my face.
I see members of the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol Apparating all around, first on the scene. The shrieking Muggles are screeching and pointing in my direction, so this is the natural way that the Ministry wizards are heading.
The disgrace of being framed the traitor of James and Lily is almost more than I can bear. I reach for my wand, thinking of taking my own life, but something stops me.
Very slowly, I get to my feet, a bitter smile of resignation on my face. My vision is slightly blurred as I rise, and the vivid memory of Harry's smile surfaces in my mind, pure and innocent of the knowledge of the sheer evil that has happened tonight.
Perhaps there is still a slender ray of hope. Something left to live for.
The wizards from the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol have surrounded me, forming a tight circle steadily closing in on me. One of the wizards yells, "Don't move! We're armed, and we will not hesitate to Stun you!"
Life from the ashes.
I give a strange, humourless laugh, and in a smooth movement, whip out my wand and fling it to the ground. I raise my empty palms in muted surrender, as they continue to approach me very cautiously, and one comes near enough to hit me with a Binding Spell. Cords twist themselves around my wrists, fastening my arms behind my back. I do not resist.
Harry is a survivor, and so am I.
I face a life term in Azkaban. He faces spending the tenderest years of his life with complete strangers who don't understand him or accept him for who he is.
I know we will both make it.
And someday, I will see him again.
~~~