Esto Perpetua

Chapter 7 – Hanging By A Thread

The Knight Bus screeched to a halt in front of Sirius, headlights blazing. He stumbled back a few steps, but thankfully managed not to fall, then threw his hands over his eyes to screen them from the glare, and peered around them gingerly. The door was thrown open violently, and a scrawny youth with large ears leapt down from the bus and looked around cheerfully. Upon spotting Sirius, his eyes brightened.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus - Safe an' efficient transport for the stranded witch or wizard! My name is Mitch Shunpike, an' I will be your conductor today."

Sirius groaned. The enthusiastic voice grated against his pounding head. "I know, I know," he mumbled, and hauled his trunk closer to the bus. Seeing him struggling, Mitch hurried forward to help. With his luggage off his hands, Sirius managed to climb up the steps with little trouble, but once inside, found his legs were trembling too much to walk any further. He discreetly wiped the front of his t-shirt, where a spot of blood was blooming.

Mitch didn't seem to notice, and kept up his usual bright manner. "And where does choo want to go today?"

"Ketgate, north of Thirsk, Yorkshire."

"Hear that Ernie?" Mitch hollered cheerfully, dragging the trunk by one hand and Sirius by the other to a bed at the very front of the bus, "can we take 'im as far as Thirsk, then?"

Ernie, the driver, an elderly man with thick glasses, looked back and grunted. "The route ain't going as far as Ketgate. Outskirts of Thirsk's all I can do."

"That'll be fine," Sirius said quietly as he settled down on the bed. Though it wasn't fine, not really. The adrenaline rush that had carried him through the row with his parents with admirable sarcasm and minimal injuries had all but worn off completely now. The pain from his broken bones was returning in full force, as were the aftereffects of the Cruciatus curse. The only good thing – the only good temporary thing, Sirius corrected himself – was that the damage to the nerve-endings in his right foot had rendered the entire leg numb. Potter Manor was in Ketgate, the tiny hamlet that stood at the foot of Heiarn Fell, five miles due north of Thirsk. He'd have to walk all that way, and he very much doubted if he could go as much as ten feet without collapsing.

"That's thirteen sickles for the fare an' a cup of 'ot chocolate," Mitch broke in, having deposited the trunk at the foot of the bed. Sirius grunted and rummaged around in his money bag for the coins.

"Spare me the chocolate," he said, handing the money to Mitch.

His insides churned at the very thought of sweets. The bus did not help either; it set off with an alarming lurch at that very moment, and Sirius turned very green. He grimaced and hastily closed his eyes, hoping that he wouldn't sick up all over the bed. Mitch was seated on the conductor's chair just opposite, watching him with a smile, appearing completely untroubled by Sirius' plight.

"An' fifteen sickles for a toofbrush in the colour of your choice," Mitch said hopefully, when Sirius dared to open his eyes again.

Ernie made a wild turn in order to avoid an oncoming fire truck, and Sirius hung on to the bed post for dear life. "No thanks," he mumbled, once his head stopped swimming.

"But choo can have one in any colour! We've got in a new stock – mauve, lilac, viridian, ochre…'aven't we, Ern?"

"I said no!" Sirius snapped. Mitch subsided, looking hurt. "Look," Sirius went on, a little more calmly, "I'm going to try to sleep for a bit – er, not feeling well. Wake me up when we get there, okay? Thanks."

Sirius fell into an uneasy sleep as the Knight Bus travelled the length of Britain, offloading its usual complement of customers. The curtains shut out most of the glare from the neon signs and strobe lights whenever they ventured into muggle nightlife districts, and the candles cast a soft glow around the pillows in his bed. The gloom and the dim yellow shimmer of the candles were reminiscent of Grimmauld Place, but the oppressive weight of an atmosphere saturated with dark magic was absent here, and for that, Sirius was supremely thankful.

He awoke with a start some hours later when Ernie braked, and found himself on the floor with Mitch looming over him.

"Choo awake, then? Still got a few customers to let off before we get ter Thirsk. You'd best be careful round those parts, there's trouble brewing wherever choo care ter look."

"Oh?" Sirius was not particularly interested in what he supposed were village brawls, but Mitch's next words caught his interest.

"Aye. There's been a few attacks on Muggles round about Cornwall, Devon, Peterborough and Ripon." Mitch lowered his voice and pointed a cautious finger towards the stairway. "Had a few unsavoury lookin' blokes wantin' lifts ter those parts. Ernie and me didn't like it much, but we can' refuse anybody needin' transport. Bus policy, that is. Thank Merlin I live in Clapham – we ain' had much trouble there of a few centuries."

Muggle attacks? Sirius frowned, a thread of concern making its way to his mind despite the dull ache in his temple. Of course there was Muggle baiting and uprisings now and again throughout Britain, especially in areas that were heavily populated with magical folk, but he hadn't heard of any so close to home. James hadn't said anything about it in his last letter. He supposed he'd learn more once he got to Potter Manor, but until then, he'd have to keep his wits about him.

Ernie stopped at several points along the route to Yorkshire to let off more passengers – and true to Mitch's word, three sinister young wizards with long cloaks disembarked outside a seedy pub in Peterborough – but at last, they halted on the main street leading out of Thirsk.

"Here choo are, then!" Mitch announced, taking hold of Sirius' luggage and hauling it towards the stairway. "Be safe on your way there, and get those bruises looked at. You look in a real bad way in a good light."

Sirius grunted his thanks and heaved the trunk down the steps.

"Aw right. We'll see choo later, then, eh? You're the last customer tonight. Good thing too. I can' wait ter get back ter the missus an' little Stan. Bye then!"

The Knight Bus took off with a bang and Sirius was left waving limply in the middle of the deserted street. He inhaled deeply and took stock of his surroundings. Thirsk was a predominantly Muggle place – the Potter's country seat was one of the few magical dwelling in the area – the bulk of the wizarding community was located several miles to the southeast of Ripon. Streetlights – Remus had told him they ran on something called ecklectrickity – situated at intervals of twenty feet along the street cast a hazy glow onto the cobblestones. Pubs were closed for the evening, and all the people appeared to be in their homes, so at least he wouldn't present a suspicious sight, all battered and bleeding. Muttering a prayer under his breath, he set off up the road.

The journey was long and arduous. Sirius kept on tripping on loose flagstones, and his knees threatened to give way beneath him more than once. About four miles in, the monstrous bulk of Heiarn Fell reared up before him in the distance, and he knew he was close to home.

The last mile was steeply uphill, and Sirius' vision began to flicker as his breathing grew ever laboured. At one point, he was chased across a field by a farm dog who resented anybody intruding on his property, and only got away in the nick of time. He stumbled with a thankful sigh into the tiny village square of Ketgate, and made straight for the drinking fountain in the square.

Yes, that's better, he thought, liberally dousing his head and shoulders with clear, cold water. It temporarily washed away the clouds of darkness that were gathering on the peripheries of his vision, and gave him a smidge of energy to labour up the final mile.

Only the thought of his brother-by-choice and the warm, welcoming fireplaces at the house kept him going. "James," he murmured, tripping on a twig, and lurching forward. Find James. Find home.

An eternity – which his watch informed him was actually twenty minutes – later, he felt the tingling in his fingertips and at the base of his spine, which signalled the start of the Potter property. It grew steadily stronger as he went forwards, but it was a warm, melting sort of feeling, one that whispered home to his fuzzy brain, very unlike the oppressive atmosphere of Grimmauld Place.

The gate, when he reached it, was warded. Luckily, Mr. Po – Uncle Charlus had added his signature to the wards the first time he'd spent the holidays there in First year, so now it was simply a matter of providing wand identification. He tapped the sleeping stag on the coat of arms with his wand. It groaned feebly, but didn't open, and Sirius didn't feel the customary tug in the region of his stomach which told him that the wards recognised him. But then, his stomach was churning too much to feel anything, anyway. Frustrated, he tried again. This time, the iron stag opened one eye blearily, but the gates still didn't open.

They finally did admit him on the third try, but not until he kicked the bottom railings angrily, and the stag opened both green eyes and whickered in remonstration.

"Shut up," he told it irritably. "I'm sick, okay?"

Lamps sprang to life along the path as he made his way to the house, but there was no flicker of light inside the house. Several of the blinds in the upper storey windows were shut, including the ones at James' window, Sirius noticed with a groan. He felt along the gravel at his feet for a pebble, and threw it with all his flagging strength at the window. It rattled satisfyingly, but no tousled head appeared.

"Come on Prongs," Sirius shouted as loudly as his hoarse throat allowed.

He debated for a moment whether to rap on the front door and wake the house elves – he wasn't sure if the senior Potters were at home, since James had mentioned a visit to his uncle's house – but decided in the end that there was no need to disturb them. They'd make an endless fuss and try to kill him with kindness. All I need is a bit of a rest in James' room. He knew that was a lie, even as he said it to himself.

Seconds ticked by, as Sirius waited for some sign of life, trying not to let his knees give way beneath him.

Suddenly, the window opened and James looked out. "Padfoot?" He didn't sound surprised. Sirius hadn't really expected him to. "I'll be down in a minute." And his head vanished.

A minute passed, and Sirius marked time by counting the number of tiny cuts he could find on his palms.

There were thundering footsteps inside the house, growing ever nearer, and suddenly the door sprang open to reveal the sleepy eyed and dishevelled figure of James.

"Padfoot." James rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "You've come."

Sirius gave a strained smile. He was suddenly extremely tired. "I gather you weren't expecting me?"

"Oh, I was – but not at this time of night, mate." He sobered suddenly and peered closely at Sirius. His face twisted. "You'd better come in. I'll call my parents."

Sirius put out an arm and caught James' sleeve. "No. Not yet, please, James."

Sirius followed James, who nodded understandingly and lead him down the entrance hall towards the staircase. Sirius shook his head minutely, and sent James a pleading look. James sighed softly, looking even more concerned, turned around, and went towards the drawing room, one hand holding Sirius' arm in guidance.

James lit the lamps with a flick of his wand, steered Sirius onto the couch, and, on taking in his appearance in good light, gasped with horror.

"What on earth did they do to you?"

Sirius gave a hoarse, humourless chuckle. "Funnily enough, Reg asked the same thing. Why doesn't anybody ask what I did to them, eh?"

"Padfoot!"

Sirius dropped his light-hearted manner. "A Scourgify, a Smacking hex…a couple of Cruciatuses; the usual."

James' eyebrows disappeared into his fringe. "The Cruciatus was Bellatrix, wasn't it?"

Sirius nodded and slumped back onto the couch, wincing. The wound on his front had started bleeding again. With a tremendous effort, he pushed back the dark spots that had begun to crowd in on the edge of his sight. "How did you know?" He mumbled.

James shrugged. "Seems like her style. And – are you quite sure that was all? Nothing – else, Padfoot?" James was looking very intently at Sirius, who quickly cast about for something to focus on, and found a figurine of a revolving ballerina on the mantelpiece opposite.

"No," he said, staring the ballerina's pink porcelain skirt. "That's…not it, but I'd rather not say just now." His words had begun to slur together. He tasted blood at the end of his tongue.

James' brows crinkled, but he nodded knowingly. "All right," he said. He glanced at the growing sheen of sweat on Sirius' skin. "I'll call Mum and Dad – no, Padfoot," he said warningly, as Sirius began to protest, "you're seriously injured, and they can heal you best."

"No, no," Sirius mumbled. "I just need a bit of a kip –"

"We'll take you to 's, mate. You need a hospital."

"NO! No, James, not 's."

"Would you rather I let you bleed to death all over my rug?" James sounded angry now, but when Sirius looked up, all he could see was a tan and hazel blur.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sirius slurred. "'t ain't so bad. M' can manage…"

"Sirius," James said, and at the tone of his voice, Sirius' head rose, almost against his will. "You need medical help right now, and you know it. Please stop resisting."

Sirius fell silent and returned his gaze to the blurry figurine.

"Tessie!" James called loudly, and with a soft pop, the Potters' house elf appeared. "Get my parents, will you?" James asked, before Tessie could speak.

Tessie took one look at Sirius and disapparated wordlessly.

There was a minute's silence, during which James kept a wary eye on Sirius, and Sirius counted the dots of silver paint on the ballerina's shoes. One – two – three – five – ten – twelve – he couldn't stop counting. The more he counted, the more appeared.

The room was becoming unbearably hot. Sirius undid the top button on his t-shirt with a shaking hand. The usually high, white ceiling suddenly seemed very low, and it was looming nearer with every second. There were black spots on the silver of the ballerina's shoes. Three spots to each splash of paint – multiply that by fifteen – no, seventeen shoes, and you had –

"Padfoot?"

James' voice was very far away.

There were footsteps rushing into the room. Sirius tried to turn his head to see who it was, but his neck wouldn't move.

"Padfoot? Padfoot – Mum! Mum!"

Somebody was whispering – no, shouting. But it sounded like a whisper.

"Prongs?" Sirius' throat was closing up. He tried again, harder. "Prongs?"

"Sirius? Sweetheart?" That was funny. When did James turn into a girl?

"Mum – he's going to" –

Spots of darkness swirled on the edges of his vision. He tried to speak, but his tongue kept on getting in the way.

"Sirius – Sirius, stay with me, dear" – Someone was slapping his face, but gently. "Sirius?" –

But Sirius couldn't.

The pain, continuously suppressed over the course of several hours, would hold back no longer. It rushed up his body, setting alight his arms, legs and torso with an internal fire that burned savagely. He cried out, but could not hear his own voice – felt nothing but the flames consuming him wholly now.

He slipped off the couch, and fainted quietly at Dorea's feet.