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Runaway

By

DracoNunquamDormiens

In this chapter: Sirius is right about dates, everyone and their mum gets stoned on Ministry orders, the press goes wild, Shacklebolt shamelessly plugs his Hit Wizards — okay, that sounded wrong, so very wrong — Rasmus makes first contact, Remus is conflicted and in luuurve, Snape looks like a Tibetan monk and is evil, and James decides enough's enough. Also, a verdict. As usual, totally not in that order.

Part Twenty-Five: Conspiracy Fridays

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Remus Lupin's ears had long been his favourite trait. No, it wasn't that they were special or remarkable; they weren't pointy or tapered or furry and in need of a shave (at least not today; he checked). It was that he could dissect sound with as much ease as he could smells, without the added burden of having to fight off his, often overwhelming, hunting urges.

This close to the full moon, they were hard to keep in check at best, but oddly it was working out in their favour — he was following Marlene back to the Third Floor corridor where she'd overheard Nina's conversation, and it was so easy to find her scent. It prickled his nose, distinct and clear.

"This is where she was," Marlene told him, gesturing at the door where he could see smudges in the dust that completed the story he had heard moments earlier.

Nina's scent was strong here, easily spotted because of the state of disuse the corridor was in. He could scent Marlene's too, her fright lingered here still, overwhelmingly strong.

Even though he tried to focus on that alone, he couldn't but catch old whiffs of James' and Sirius' more familiar scents too. They had scrubbed this corridor weeks before the holidays… It seemed that nobody had set foot here since.

He felt a flutter of anxiety at the thought, the now familiar pang of dread that came coupled with every reminder of what his friends were doing right now.

But the wolf in him was on a hunt, fighting for the upper hand in the matter. Remus let it; there was nothing he could do about anything else, and focusing on Nina's whereabouts was the best distraction he'd had in days.

He didn't need to look at the classroom at all, but he couldn't tell Marlene that, so while she searched the place for any clues — she was inspired now — and retold the entire story all over again, Remus tried to pretend like he was looking too.

"Well, there's nothing here," he established.

"No, I didn't think there would be," Marlene replied. "But I thought there was a fireplace at least, how do you think she was communicating with that man?"

That was a surprisingly good question. Were this his closest friends, he'd have a suggestion or three — he himself was carrying a Two-Way Mirror in his pocket and waiting for James to update him on the goings-on at the Ministry — but he didn't have an answer for Marlene.

"Beats me," he said. "We should try and find her though. I'll look for her," he added before Marlene could speak up. "You go to your Common Room, maybe you'll find something there."

"All right," Marlene agreed. "I'll see you at dinner." She stepped close to him, looked him in the eye. Remus thought she looked beautiful, all flushed and excited, her eyes glinting in a way that made him nervous. He swallowed it back. "Are you sure this is the right thing to do?"

"Positive," he replied without hesitation. "If she wanted to hurt anyone she's had a lot of chances… But we should look into it anyway. Just in case."

"'Kay," she replied, as they made their way back to the Grand Staircase together.

"Dad? Dad!"

The voice made Remus stop in his tracks. It was faint, coming from further down the corridor they were in. It was also Nina's.

"Did you hear that?" He asked, listening intently. Marlene stopped in her tracks, her heart beating so loudly it was distracting. She shook her head, but didn't speak. At least she was smart enough not to.

"This way," Remus muttered, taking her hand. It was soft and warm. He tried not to focus on it, turned into another corridor, his nose confirming what his ears had caught. Nina was still here.

"Dad, please answer." And she wasn't supposed to have a father. Didn't James say her family had all been killed in Germany?

"Hey, princess. Did you need anything else?" It was another voice, male, older. Remus strained his ears, followed the faint sound as quietly as he could.

"I need to talk to him again."

"He's…"

"Someone heard me. It was Marlene, I think. I don't know if…"

"Let me get him for you."

"This way," Remus whispered, and together, he and Marlene tiptoed around a corner.

"You were heard?" A new voice reached Remus' ears. It sounded strangely familiar. Only not, because he was sure he had never heard it before.

"Yes," said Nina. "I didn't see who it was, but… I'm pretty sure it was Marlene McKinnon. Her scent is unmistakable."

"Did she see you?" The male asked.

Remus frowned. Scent? Did he mishear?

"What?" Marlene mouthed. Remus shook his head, followed the corridor, then took a right…

"You sure?" The male voice was asking, and now they were close enough that Marlene could hear them too. Nina was very close by.

"Yes," Nina was saying. "I'm not even sure if she overheard anything, but… Gah, I'm sorry, Will."

"It's Wilberforce," the voice corrected, and to Remus' and Marlene's surprise, they were both laughing a little. This conversation didn't sound like Remus imagined it would, all dark and ominous. This was light-hearted banter.

"That's got to be the most hideous name ever created. I'd rather just call you Will."

"Fine, as you wish," said Will, as he and Marlene inched closer to another corner. They could hear the conversation quite clearly now. "You need to be careful, Nina. There's so much going on all over the place, any misguided suspicions can get out of hand. You've seen what they did to Sirius, and they bloody saw him fighting the Death Eaters. They could easily do the same to you."

"Should I look for—"

"Nah, it's probably nothing. Just take it easy. And be careful. There's a hidden corridor not far from where you are now, you could always use it instead of being out in the open."

"I meant to hide better, but I felt so ill…"

"Just try and make sure nobody suspects anything next time," Will said lightly. "Everyone is so bloody jumpy it's not even funny, they're all too frightened to think straight and jump to the worst conclusions at the drop of a hat."

"I'll do that," Nina promised. "How is the trial coming on?"

Remus and Marlene exchanged a confused look. Will sighed.

That had sounded familiar too, somehow.

"It's going. I don't really know, the Wizengamot seem to be favouring Crouch's opinion just now."

"Could they send him to Azkaban?" She sounded earnestly concerned.

"I don't know. I'll let you know as soon as I know something. Or Elf can tell you, if I'm… you know. Out of it."

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Just dizzy right now. Could be worse. I keep being told to go lie down."

Remus frowned again, shrugged at Marlene. The more he listened, the more confused he was… and the less this sounded like a dark plot.

"You probably should," said Nina. "You look like you'll keel over any second."

"Ach, ye of little faith. I'll be okay. We're going to pay a few people a visit later, get our sea legs back before the big operation. Elfy and Batsie went to scope out the Evanses last night, but I don't know if we should start with them."

"Just be careful, whatever you do," said Nina, even as Remus' stomach plunged into an icy pit. There was the ominous feeling he'd feared.

"Oh, we will," said another voice; this one was female. "Come on, Mr. Force, let's get you sorted while you can still walk."

"I feel fine," groused Will.

"You don't look the part. Nina, how are you liking Hogwarts?"

"It's all right. Just too full of Aurors."

"Let's hope they'll be leaving soon. Do let us know as soon as they are gone, we wouldn't want to be recognised."

"I will. Give everyone my love, I'll talk to you later."

Whatever she was using to talk to this Will character, it disconnected a moment later. Remus and Marlene hurriedly backed off into a niche, squeezed into a dark corner behind a statue of a peacock.

He watched closely as Nina appeared, her expression tense. She stopped for a moment, listening for any noise… and was she sniffing the air?

She was.

Could it be…?

Remus' nose was working overtime, and there— he hadn't noticed it before, because she'd been around James and Sirius and a million potions at the time, but now he smelled animal along with witch.

Could it be that she was… like him?

He couldn't get a wolf scent from her, but that was mostly because Marlene was so close to him, and the wolf — and Remus as well — was getting distracted. Remus' nose was filled with Marlene's strawberry shampoo, he could feel her body pressed against his, her heartbeat drumming against his chest in time with his. Remus had never before been so close to Marlene — or any other girl — and, he decided, he liked it.

Nina walked away, but it still took him and Marlene an additional while to move. Remus didn't want to, for one. He wasn't stupid, or blind, and he was milking this chance for all it was worth. Honest, he could stay here all day, and could anyone blame him? Marlene was pretty.

"Is she gone?" Marlene whispered a few minutes later.

"Let's wait a little longer," Remus suggested, a smile plastered all over his face. He was enjoying this entirely too much.

"Should we go to the Aurors?"

"Not just yet," he answered. "But we should definitely keep an eye on her."

"But they said—"

"Nothing that gives us definite proof," he told her, looking down into her eyes. Suddenly he understood the PISS and why it was such a big deal to James. "She could have been talking to her family, nothing more."

"What do we do now?" Marlene asked, shifting nervously. Remus extricated himself from behind the statue, helped Marlene step out into the corridor too. "Who are the Evanses they were talking about? Not Lily's—"

"A lot of people are named Evans," Remus said, trying to remain objective despite his own misgivings on the matter. "Maybe there's another reason why they… they don't want to be recognised."

"But what if they're working for the Dark Side?" Asked Marlene.

"What if they're not?"

Remus' question hung in the air between them, heavy and daunting.

"You heard them, it could be they're not even connected to the Death Eaters. A lot of people are in hiding these days," he said fairly. "Maybe her family is too— I swear to you, Marlene, this is the first time she's acted suspiciously in any way. Please, let's not say anything just yet. Not until we're sure."

"Until we have proof, you mean."

"Yeah," Remus conceded

"Okay." Marlene hated it, he could tell. But she also seemed to have made up her mind. "I'll look for evidence in my Common Room," she said bossily. "And you and I, we're watching her every move until we're sure."

"You can count on it," Remus promised at once. He was already worried it was a huge mistake, and should they take these chances at all? On account that Sirius more than liked her? Really?

He hoped they weren't condemning the "Evanses", whoever they were, to a fate that was becoming increasingly common of late.

"Let's go then," Marlene decided, taking Remus' hand in hers and leading the way back towards the Grand Staircase.

Neither of them noticed the flutter of movement behind them as they turned a corner; Nina pulled the hood of an invisibility cloak from her face, her expression tight-lipped as she watched them go.

.

.

Back in Courtroom One, someone else was getting eaten up by conflicting emotions, but James' couldn't have been more different: the only thing he was torn over, was whether to sock Fudge one on the nose or use his words to ruin his career.

It would be a service to the world at this point.

"Mr. Potter, kindly join your parents on the dais," Dumbledore prompted, and James' choice was made. He crammed the rest of the chocolate into his mouth, sent every ounce of its energy to Sirius, then got to his feet and vaulted over the wooden railing that separated them.

The Aurors stepped back, but either he was very lucky or Dumbledore was stopping them from shackling him, because James made his way unhindered all the way to Sirius' side.

He was still out of it, shivering on and off and looking rather blue in the face.

Not that the host of witches and wizards cared; they were talking amongst themselves, shooting the same sort of glances at James and his parents as they had Sirius earlier. Like they were something to be feared.

It was ridiculous.

"That's enough," James said clearly, addressing the Wizengamot and the tittering crowd around them.

"What are you doing, Mr. Potter?" Dumbledore asked. It might be a question, but James had spent enough time around the old wizard to know a warning when he heard it. He didn't care right now, though. As he saw it, Crouch and Fudge and their helpers, whoever they were, had let this drag on too long already.

"I'm putting an end to this tripe, sir," James informed the Headmaster shortly, then turned to the rest of the Wizengamot. "So look lively and take notes, because I will now tell you everything you need to know about Sirius Black."

"This isn't how it works, Potter," Crouch snapped. "You'll get your own trial."

James ignored him.

"Shacklebolt, do I have to do this with Veritaserum?" he asked instead.

"Only if you so wish," the Hit Wizard answered, confused.

"You'll probably be forced to accept my testimony as rock solid if I do, so give it here. Yes, I know it's Veritaserum, you've used it to make him suffer all day with it. No, I haven't taken any before, so just three drops will do."

The spoon was proffered. James stuck it in his mouth. Dizzy as he'd been for hours now, he hardly felt the rush of the potion, but he allowed the Hit Wizard to direct him to a chair.

"State your—"

"Save it, Mr. Shacklebolt," James muttered. "I know how it goes. My name is James Copernillius Potter, and I'm alive right now thanks to him." He pointed a finger at Sirius' unconscious form.

"You might want to nitpick over every last spell he used, what colour his underpants were, whether or not he killed anyone, but I'm here to tell you things as they happened and as they are," he said next. "I'm no expert on Wizarding Law, but I've done my research, and you've got nothing on him. Self defence or defending others is an exception to the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Wizardry, so he never even broke the law! Everything he did was to escape a bunch of murderers, to protect not just me or my family, but my village too, and then our school. Every bit of magic he did was to help us, to keep us safe. Every bit of magic we… that I did, was to help him. We didn't take him in to harbour a fugitive, but to protect someone we — I — know beyond any doubt is incapable of killing anyone, much less like that." He gestured in the air, shook his head.

"Sirius Black destroyed—" Fudge yelled, but James waved him off dismissively.

"So he broke a street, big deal! It's not like your department had any trouble fixing everything, including the memories of any eyewitnesses, all that within the hour. Am I right, Mr. Fudge? I am right, aren't I?"

Fudge blanched; the red mottles on his skin suddenly stood out more than before, his eyes flashed furiously. James decided he liked him better that way.

"I… I…"

"Oh, I know I'm right," James interrupted with a shrug. "You erased all the evidence, didn't you? Why else would you accuse him of murder, when there were surely people in Penarth who'd seen it all, who'd seen what, twenty, thirty Death Eaters trying to catch one kid in a deserted street?" He shot at him next. "You're trying to send Sirius to prison when you should be giving him a bloody medal." Around him, people began talking to each other, but it was short-lived. James had them all riveted.

"You want to know exactly what he did?" he asked redundantly. "He jumped out of a fourth-storey window after being tortured for hours, just to warn me that the Lord Thingy would come for me and my parents. He successfully escaped from all the bloody Death Eaters in the country for days, and even when he was dying right in front of me, all he wanted was for me to go home where I'd be safe. Even if it killed him, and it nearly did. I saw it, I was there. He took all those curses so I wouldn't have to. And you're treating him like dirt, threatening him with Azkaban and throwing him in a room full of Dementors, publishing slander about him left and right just because his name is Black? You make me sick, the lot of you."

"This court will not be insulted by you, Potter!" Crouch shouted.

"This court is an insult all its own," James shot back. Part of him regretted saying it out loud like that, but the truth potion was coursing through his bloodstream and taking control of his mouth, so he didn't even hesitate to add, "This trial is a bloody joke."

"This court—" Crouch started, but he was overridden at once.

"This court has its own voice," Dumbledore boomed suddenly. "Mr. Potter is under Veritaserum, which as you know, suppresses any inhibitions. He speaks the truth as he sees it, and the Wizengamot wishes to hear everything he has to say. Stand down, Prosecutor. Your work here is done." The Headmaster nodded at James. "Please continue with your testimony, Mr. Potter, and give us all the details as you see fit."

As he saw fit.

This was a surprising turn of events. Dumbledore had just given James the freedom he needed to make his case.

"Thank you, sir," he said earnestly. "Well, we decided to keep Sirius at home until he healed, because we couldn't trust the Dark Side not to kill him at St. Mungo's or anywhere else. He wouldn't have survived the trip there, for one. So yeah, we heard he was accused of murder, but I know him. He wouldn't ever do anything like that, he told me and my parents as much, and you've seen already that he didn't kill anyone. He was very bad off," James added, his memory refreshed from the gruelling morning he'd spent with Sirius down memory lane.

"What you saw on him, that's nothing compared to how he was then. Those wounds are from the night the Death Eaters and the Lord Thingy attacked my Dad and him at home. Now, I wasn't in Godric's Hollow that night, but I know for a fact that he faced off all the Death Eaters and the Lord Thingy by himself. I know they nearly killed him, but he managed to trap them all in that big muzzle we saw on the paper. I also know," James went on, "That he did all of that to save my Dad's life, after Voldemort's — oh, get over it, it's just a name — after Voldemort's pet viper bit him."

"Wait, you mean to say he was in Godric's Hollow all that time?"

"Yeah, he wasn't well enough to leave. When the Death Eaters went to our house, he'd barely gotten well enough to get out of bed."

"How did he fight all the Death Eaters then?" Old Tiberius Ogden asked. He looked very curious, his previous animosity forgotten. He wasn't the only one, either.

"It wasn't difficult, he told me he goaded them into forming a killing circle," James answered. "They've been trying to kill him since he escaped them in London, and like he said, he'd pissed them off. There are anti-apparition wards all over our grounds, so he distracted them from realising they couldn't apparate away while he transfigured the back garden into that maw, but… you heard him earlier, he needed them focused on him while his spell took hold."

"So that's when they were…?"

"Yeah, when the Lord Thingy tried to kill him," James replied. "He said it was worth it."

"You don't agree?" Shacklebolt wanted to know.

"I think setting himself up as bait was the stupidest plan in creation," James said without a doubt. "But… but he's right. It worked, even if they did nearly kill him."

"Why do you think he decided on that particular course of action?" Dumbledore wanted to know next. James frowned.

"He told me he was sure he was toast," he answered after a moment. "He just wanted to make it, y'know. Count."

"Did he tell you that?"

"Yeah, but he didn't need to. I know it, because I know him." James' impatience flared up again. "I also know, Sirius hasn't recovered from any of that even now. That night, he saved Godric's Hollow, just like Pellinore Owens will tell you again in a bit, I'm sure."

"What happened after that?" Shacklebolt asked keenly.

"He recovered at our beach house," James' Dad said, saving James from spilling much more than a can of beans. "That was our decision, as his adoptive parents and guardians."

"Fair enough," Shacklebolt said, before Fudge could interrupt. Crouch, James noted with satisfaction, had not said a word in a long time. "Didn't your parents take you there to recover as well?" he asked James.

"Yeah, but he was already there when I arrived."

"So he wasn't with the Death Eaters for the twelve murders at the end of January."

"He wasn't even awake then," James pointed out. "He couldn't even see until like, February."

"But he recovered."

"Sort of. He wanted to go straight to Hogwarts the second he could stand."

"Why?"

"To get this whole matter sorted," James felt like he was pointing out the obvious. "'Course, if I'd known you'd treat him like this, I wouldn't have let him come back at all. He wanted to turn himself in since he woke up after New Year's. We had to knock him out to get him to stay."

Shacklebolt chuckled, shook his head. James wondered what was funny, and absently noticed he too, had gone on standby, just waiting for another question to be asked.

"So what happened when he returned to Hogwarts?"

"He was ambushed by the Death Eaters along the way and overheard their plans to take over the school," said James. "And he stopped them all, as we've told you already. He said it was by accident, but I don't think so— he hates the thought of that lot touching our school."

"Why?"

"Because it's Hogwarts," James retorted, was Shacklebolt stupid? "It's our home, all our home. Honestly, I'd have done the same, and that's what I don't get— you're all trying to make him out to be one of that lot when he's really no different from loads of kids at school. Anyone of us would have protected the castle, if we'd known."

"So you're saying he saw the chance and took it?"

"Yeah. He did what he could— you're all just bothered because he did it better than you."

"He was seen with the Death Eaters—" Fudge erupted again. James rolled his eyes theatrically.

"We all saw him, Fudge. He was fighting the Death Eaters, you'd have to be blind and stupid to think he was helping the Dark Side in any way. He marked the spots with the Bark Mark and everything, and blasted them with that big wave from the Lake. You saw it too, Headmaster."

"I did," Dumbledore confirmed, eliciting a new wave of muttering. "Everything happened exactly as Mr. Potter said."

"Even the Aurors who arrived first saw it. None of them are here, though, except for Moody," James pointed out dryly. "And you conveniently got him kicked out of this trial for insubordination so he can't testify, right?" Some of the plum-robed elders shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Others looked genuinely confused. "But that doesn't mean it didn't happen. Sirius even sent me a message to call the Aurors, did you know that?"

"He did?" Shacklebolt asked.

"Yeah, don't look so surprised, he wanted you guys there. All he was trying to do was to mark the spot so you could find the breach faster!" James answered forcefully, and the red-robed witches and wizards had the grace to look abashed. James took advantage of this opening and plunged on. "But what do you do when you finally do get there and make a gazillion arrests he had trussed up for you? You treat him like the scum he bloody well isn't. It's you all who should be shackled to that damned chair, it's you who should answer for your crimes, not him. So if you're going to arrest us all for doing the right thing, tell me now. Otherwise, let him go already so we can go home."

A shocked silence met his words. James crossed his arms mulishly over his chest. Raised an eyebrow.

"Well? What's it going to be?"

.

.

Peter found that brewing potions calmed him down.

There was no wand movement to do, no incantation to get just right, no real thought behind it. All he had to do was follow instructions, and that was something he excelled at; he wasn't creative like Sirius and James, he lacked their natural talent for all things magical, much less the fast-paced casting they loved so much. Potions ingredients, though… those he understood, and he found the activity calming, focusing.

He needed that now.

Peter was worried, and had been for some time now… but somehow things had just kept escalating until now.

Oh, of course he shared the same nervous energy as most of his friends were all but exuding, but his worry ran deeper than even Remus'. His werewolf friend was incapable of rational thought, fretting over that blasted trial's outcome.

Sure, Peter was worried about what would happen if Sirius was sent to prison, he was more worried about James also getting himself arrested… But he was not like them, so his worries stemmed from his dread of life without his friends, rather than from an understanding of their actions.

He had always been different: self-sacrifice wasn't something he was keen on ever having to do, and part of him understood implicitly that Sirius, and even James, were going down a path he was dreading above all others. This, their temperaments that led them to duels and battles and things, was in their nature.

It wasn't in Peter's.

And frankly, he was more worried Sirius would open his big gob a tad too far and land him in Azkaban too, for being an unregistered Animagus.

Damn you, Sirius, damn you if you open your overlarge bloody mouth, he thought, bitterly and without a shred of shame, as his hands deftly sliced, diced, chopped and crushed and strained ingredients. Maybe you should have died when we thought you had.

At least then he wouldn't have to worry himself to pieces about what he could do for himself from now on.

Things would have worked themselves out by now.

When he got the news of Sirius' death, he had mourned him. He'd felt bereft of something that was a part of him for years, and he'd genuinely missed him, even if he could be a right shit sometimes. He'd come to terms with his death, as well. It wasn't as though it wasn't a disaster waiting to happen for years, after all.

Although he'd been sad, Peter had not been surprised.

If you thought about it, and knowing Sirius… it was even expected to some extent.

Then James went and told him and Remus the truth, and it still cut Peter deep. Remus had already forgiven him for lying to them, but Peter was still angry. He still felt betrayed.

All the years he'd spent his time doing whatever they — mostly James — wanted, all the long nights practising to become an Animagus — only to become a bloody rat — or setting up some practical joke or other, playing lookout for them, being the butt of countless jokes… It all felt like a bit of a waste, to be honest.

What purpose was there in having so-called friends, when they could abandon him like that at the drop of a hat? If Sirius hadn't been such a bloody Gryffindor, he'd never even have been on the wrong end of all those curses. If James hadn't spent all that time goading Snape, he wouldn't have gotten himself almost killed, either. They wouldn't have made Peter feel, for the first time in his life, like he was truly alone. Exposed. Vulnerable.

He didn't like this feeling.

When James asked Peter for all those potions during the holidays, Peter had brewed them, day in and out. Mostly because it helped him think, and he'd spent a long time thinking. About what his future could hold without Sirius around to take the brunt of curses meant for him, without James to turn away any bullies and make them run.

Even that one moon he'd spent on his own with Remus had been frightening. He was a rat, not a huge hulking animal. He feared the wolf then, for the first time, and for weeks now, he'd fretted and worried.

He hadn't even found an answer to any of the things that plagued him.

What if Sirius and James didn't come back? Crouch had been nothing if not adamant in his promises of tossing them both in prison and throwing away the key. He wasn't ready to step into their shoes, not even for Remus. He wasn't ready for anything at all.

And even if they did return, they'd not suddenly decide to stop fighting the Dark Side. Peter would never tell them this, but he knew, deep down, they were goners.

And what would he do then?

He paused, a Fire-ant held carefully between forefinger and thumb. He placed the inch-long insect on his board, using the tip of a knife to remove its legs. Like the ant, he'd be torn to bits if — when, rather — James and Sirius, and even Remus were crushed by the Death Eaters. And they'd make him follow them. They always had, and what had once been the best feeling ever had now soured in the face of reality. He was a target by extension, and how could he save himself from their fate?

That he had grown and learnt and become a better person out of knowing James and Sirius, conveniently escaped his mind just now.

"Oh look, if it's not little Pettigrew." Peter froze as the voice reached his ears. Slughorn wasn't here, he was alone in Dungeon 6.

Alone with a very bald, very much dangerous-looking Severus Snape.

Shit. Oh, shit.

"Leave me alone, Snape," he spat, trying for a tone he'd heard often enough from James and Sirius. It sounded weak in his ears, but he didn't dare call him Snivellus. Not when all that separated them was his bubbling cauldron, not even if Sirius would probably have said he looked like a deflated volleyball. Shit.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Snape drawled, placing his own cauldron one table over and lighting the fire with a flick of his wand. "Not so mouthy now your friends aren't around to hide behind."

"I'm just here to finish my assignment." Five more minutes, and he'd have been done. Why couldn't Snape just have gone on a loo break or something before coming here? "I don't want any trouble."

"When will you ever stand up for yourself? When will you get fed up with playing the sycophant to the likes of Potter and Black?" Snape asked, his crooked yellow teeth bared almost like a beast's as he selected ingredients for his own potion. Whatever it was, it couldn't be in the curriculum: ashwinder venom wasn't used except in poisons. "What will you do when they end up in Azkaban tonight and never come back? Will you hide behind Lupin, perhaps? Maybe someone else?"

Did the damn kid also read minds now? Peter had to wonder.

"Shut up Snape, you don't know anything." He picked another Fire-ant from his tray, but his hands were shaking and he squished the bug. Cursing at mid-voice, Peter wiped his hands and selected another. Maybe Snape would take the hint and leave him alone; they often worked alone in the same potions dungeon, after all. They hadn't ever exchanged more than a glance before, never mind words.

Don't let him see your fear, a little voice in his head suggested, sounding suspiciously like Sirius'. Peter had no idea how to do that. His heart was hammering in his chest, and all he could think was, Damn you, Sirius. Damn you for causing this.

"Think about it, Pathetigrew. What if you're all alone come dinnertime?" Snape asked, placing jars and herbs and whatnot on his work table, deliberate and slow, and was the poison meant for him?! "It's a fair question, we both know you're useless on your own. Unless you want to practice duelling? I've learnt a few interesting spells I would love to try on you."

"I said, leave me alone!" Peter shrieked, Fire-ants and potions forgotten. Something like instinct had flared up, and being a rat… he was already looking for an opening to scurry away, a dark corner to slink into until the danger passed.

There was no way out, though.

Three figures were blocking the doorway, and Peter recognised Rowle, MacNair and Flint, Snape's new best friends. This was getting uglier by the minute.

"Oh, that's quaint," sneered Snape. "I'm shaking in my boots, Pete Pathetic. What are you going to do when Potter and Black don't return? Will you hide behind that half-breed Lupin, eh? He looks like a strong wind can topple him over half the time. I'd actually like to see that," he added as an afterthought. It earned him a few laughs. They sounded ominous to Peter's ears.

Pete gulped in some air. He had gone very pale.

"They will come back," he said nervously. He sounded, to his own ears, like he was trying to convince himself.

"And how long do you think they'll last?" Snape asked casually, picking up a knife to chop up some billywigs. Behind him, his ghoulish friends sniggered nastily. "The Dark Lord is taking over, Pathetigrew, and your stupid little friends are going down. It's only a matter of time, can't you see it with those mousy eyes of yours? Black won't make it through this year, nor will Potter. And what will you do then?"

Pete didn't have an answer to that now any more than he had all day.

Snape chopped up his ingredients expertly, making a show of measuring out three quarters of a dram of wormwood. Peter swallowed dryly.

"Think about it, Pettigrew," he drawled. "We could reach an arrangement, you and I… and all of us." He gestured with his knife in the air, and Peter heard the door of the dungeon shut, a locking spell right after.

Shit. Oh shit.

"All I need is for you to give me something in return," said Snape, now chopping up some plant. Tentacula, Peter's mind supplied nonsensically. "Information, for example."

"No," said Peter, his voice shaking. What he was saying no to, though, was lost on no-one in the room.

"No? Hm. Let me put it this way," Snape said. His tone had turned threatening. "If you're not with us, you're against us. All of us." He had come very close to Peter's face all of a sudden. When did that happen? Peter squeaked and backed away, into the damp dungeon wall.

Behind Snape, Rowle, Flint, and MacNair now towered over Peter, their wands drawn. Peter's eyes wandered to his work table, to his own wand, which he'd foolishly set aside. He wouldn't know what to do even if he'd had it, though.

His eyes wandered to the Slytherins. Their grins were almost feral, and Pete could only yelp out in fear as they packed him by the front of his robes and yanked him to the centre of the room. He tried to get away, but four wands were nearly pushed up his nostrils.

The next instant, he was sent flying against the wall. His head smacked stone with a thunk, and his cry was one of sheer terror as he slid down, scrambling into a corner out of instinct.

It had been so long since he had last felt this small, this vulnerable… Years, in fact, since the first train ride to Hogwarts. He realised that this was his answer to the question he'd been asking himself.

Never mind his future, reality had caught up now.

Damn you, Sirius. Damn you too, James. You should be here, damn you both. This is on you.

Peter's cauldron wobbled dangerously on the fire, and a little of his half-finished potion — a Strengthening Solution he'd been making for an extra credit — splashed out and on the floor, burning a hole into the stone with a hiss.

It smelled like burnt plastic.

"Oh, you haven't added the crushed ants' legs yet?" Snape laughed at the terrified Peter, who stared at them with wide eyes, his mouth opened in a silent scream. "Dangerous things, these potions," he added, laughing nastily. "At this stage yours is no better than acid, and it would be dreadful if some accidentally spilled on you, wouldn't it?"

While Peter looked on in horror, he ladled up some of the potion, splashing some on the floor inches away from Peter's foot.

"No! Don't!" He squeaked out.

"That's not the word I want to hear from your mouth, Pettigrew. You're either with us, or against us. I'm pretty sure you've seen how your precious Potter and Black ended up for standing up against us. That's only going to get worse and worse, until they…" Snape let some potion dribble onto Peter's foot. Peter tried to pull away, but strong hands were pinning him down as a few drops fell onto his shoe, sizzling holes through leather, skin, bone. "Like that. And you know it."

Peter screamed. Tears were falling now, he was babbling, pleading, begging for them to stop. He twisted away from the grip holding him, his hands flying to his foot — and more of the burning, smoking potion splashed on one of his hands.

"STOP!" Peter shrieked, reeling with pain and fear. One of his fingers was gone, his hand was a bloody, sizzling mess— gods, please make it stop, make it stop.

"But I have stopped." Snape gestured for the others to let him go; they did so at once. Peter tried to stand, to get out of there, but the pain was crippling. He moaned and wept, and in his mind he cursed his friends, who should have been here, should have stopped this from happening. Like they always had.

Until now, when everyone was so caught up with Sirius and his stupidity and everything else was shunted to the proverbial back burner… and they forgot all about Peter.

You should have died. Why didn't you fucking die?

"That's what Potter and Black will end up as, nothing more than holes in the ground. Do you want to throw your lot in with them? Do you think they can protect you?" No, they couldn't. And would they even care? "Look around, Pettigrew. They're nowhere near, and that's your future, and theirs. With us," Snape added, "you wouldn't have to worry about any of this." He swirled the ladle around, and Peter cried out in fear again. "Stand against us… and we might just as well upend the entire cauldron now."

"NO!" Peter yelped out, his voice cracking in his panic. "I'll… I'll do it. Just please, please stop."

"You heard him, lads. He's one of us now." Snape tossed the ladle back into Peter's cauldron as his goons stepped back.

They laughed, a sound full of derision that rang in Peter's ears long after they were gone. He didn't know it yet, but that sound would never leave him.

"So we're clear. You'll tell us everything as soon as you learn of it. You'll help me with whatever I need. I'll make sure you're left in peace. And I'll also make sure the Dark Lord hears of it, he might even make you a Death Eater." Snape rolled up his left sleeve, showed him the Dark Mark burnt into his forearm. "I know what I'm talking about."

Peter stared at the moving lines on Snape's skinny forearm, his world shattering. Snape was right, and though every fibre of Peter's being strained against it, it was his childhood ending, nothing more. He acknowledged defeat, understood without a shred of doubt, that the side of the Light was fighting a losing battle.

"Yes… yes," Peter sobbed out. His foot felt like it was on fire, his hand felt like it was still being dissolved, and he hated himself for it, but Snape was right: they were too strong, and with James and Sirius gone — for the day, or forever — what else could he do?

"Yes what?" Snape raised his eyebrows inquiringly. Flicked his fingers against Peter's mangled hand.

"Yes, I'll do it," Peter howled out. "I'll… I'll do whatever— whatever you want. Just please let me go."

Rowle was still laughing as he made his way to the door and opened it.

"Some Gryffindor, you are," Snape grinned at him, his fetid breath all up Peter's nose. It mixed with the acrid smell of his partially dissolved hand and made his stomach threaten to spew his lunch.

"Hey, it's Regulus," said Rowle, like nothing was the matter. "Want me to…?"

"No, I'll talk to him myself." Snape patted Peter's head, gave him another grin, his hooked nose almost touched Peter's cheek. "We're recruiting, you see," he explained. "And my Lord just wants a Black for his collection. And pretty soon, that one will be the only one left. I'll see you around, Pete. You might want to get that looked at, you clumsy clot." He hopped to his feet, "Hey, Regulus! Wait up! There's something I need to talk to you about!"

The next instant he was gone with his goons, leaving Peter sobbing brokenly on the dungeon floor.

.

.

Potter had single-handedly made the entire trial veer into another direction, and now the Wizengamot were crossing their t's and dotting their i's, corroborating Potter's story with the Veritaserum-induced testimony of the older Potters and a handful of Aurors who were called back from their duties for this purpose.

No, Voldemort wasn't happy with what he was hearing; while he'd known all along the Black brat would be exculpated, he'd been too eager to turn Rasmus' mind around regarding his plan that he'd completely overlooked what, exactly, this roomful of fools would be discussing.

He was still angry at the mockery of his name; the bloody brat just had to announce that terrible nickname to the winds, to sympathisers and foes alike, gah.

And now they were discussing worse. So much worse.

His only defeat to date.

The ridicule of all his Death Eaters.

To the last detail.

And to make matters even worse, he rather desperately needed to do a wee.

If Voldemort had mastered the art of the real death glare, Sirius Black would have spontaneously combusted on the spot ages ago.

Especially now they were getting a blow-by-blow of the events that had occurred the one other day he wished to erase from his memory: the failed attack on Godric's Hall. His failure to bring the Wizarding World to its knees through the Hollow Massacre. He'd even picked a name for it and everything.

"I saw it," Pellinore Owens' unnaturally shrill voice jarred his ears. "I was doing my rounds when I came across it. I'm part of the Hollow Watch, you see…"

Voldemort made up his mind. He excused himself from Rasmus as delicately as he could and stalked off to the lavatories a moment later, trying not to wobble too much in this blasted footwear.

He'd heard enough mocking of his Cause, of his Death Eaters, of his very identity, for a lifetime. Black's words were not merely insulting — they were heavily undermining the fear the general public had for him, the image he had forged upon the blood of scores of witches and wizards.

He would have to change that and soon, Voldemort decided, as the lavatories came into view. But first, he had some important business to attend to—

"Madam!" a scandalised wizard cried out from the urinals.

Oh.

Right.

A moment later, he had backtracked and was crossing the correct door to the ladies'. He was quite alone in the loo, which was a blessing at this point; he was furious. Had anyone walked in, the unfortunate witch would have been obliterated on the spot.

His unfamiliar reflection in the mirror, however, distracted him quite effectively from his anger. Martha Riordan had been a good pick, he realised; there were so many less comely witches in the world, that he couldn't but appreciate it. He liked the soft, flowing brown locks framing his face, the softness of her gaze.

She was the perfect disguise; beautiful, perfectly positioned to collect inside information from the MLE… She looked good. Inspired trust.

"Why, hello, Minister," he said in the falsetto that came so easily to him. Batted his eyelashes experimentally at the mirror.

"Hello, love," the mirror replied sleepily. Voldemort smiled thinly.

He would use this shape more often, Voldemort decided, while sorting out the ways women did their business. It was not as bad as all that, was it? He would need more strands of hair from this particular witch.

Eh, he'd just take the entire head.

Even the heels he was wearing were strangely comfortable once he managed to keep his balance while walking. He touched up his make-up expertly with a few flicks of his wand, made sure his blouse was arranged properly, that there was not one hair out of place around his lovely bonnet.

Calming down and bracing himself to hear more ridicule heaped on his name took a little additional time.

By the time he had managed somewhat and made his way to the courtroom, Voldemort had to learn another lesson the hard way: apparently witches had to keep part of their focus constantly on their rear — he crossed the entire first corridor eliciting giggles and badly-muffled laughs before another, red-faced and laughing witch told him politely that the hem of his skirt had gotten stuck up his pantyhose… and there was a bit of toilet paper stuck to his shoe.

It did very little to improve his mood, and he reached around to adjust the twisted fabric and clippety-clopped back to the courtroom, just to escape the lookers-on mocking him.

Therefore, it was refreshing to return to his seat and find that Black was having a rather nasty waking of it when he came to again. It gave Voldemort something to focus on that wasn't the position of his bonnet, that wasn't making sure he had managed to get every item of clothing in place, that wasn't his self-righteous anger at that cursed schoolchild.

Being the Dark Lord, he could, of course, sense the Dementors reaching out for Black even now they had been forced into their dungeon. What was most interesting to him, though, was how much those creatures seemed to like the damned brat, how much they seemed to affect him.

Earlier, Black had regaled them with another very satisfying display of genuine distress, once more thanks to the Dementors' excellent work. If anything, the mere fact that there were screams that time, made Voldemort eager to see a repeat presentation. It had been music to his ears.

Yes, it was petty as far as revenge went, but he could see ever so plainly that the Dementors were so much more effective than his Death Eaters at making him suffer that he couldn't get enough.

This weakness, Voldemort was definitely going to exploit.

"Vant chocolate, my loff?" Rasmus offered, looking much more like his composed, unshakable self now the Dementors were well out of sight. He looked happier too, ever since the trial had turned up a more detailed story than Voldemort himself could ever have given him. Instead of looking disinterested as he had before, now he appeared to be besotted with the Black brat. And, Voldemort noted with a grim sort of satisfaction, the Potter brat too.

You don't fool me, Thanatovich. I have you right where I want you.

"No, thank you, darling," Voldemort chirped up with the sweetest smile he could muster. It came out rather feral. "I'm perfectly all right."

"All right," said Rasmus, his eyes fixed on the raised prisoner's chair, where Black was shifting uncomfortably, frowning at the chains as though only just realising he was bound.

Good, thought Voldemort, serves him right, the little beast.

"How are you feeling?" Shacklebolt interrupted the older Potter's interrogation to address the brat.

Black just gave him an unfocused look. Frowned a little, as though he had a hard time processing the question.

"Like I'm going to spew all over you any second?" he ventured.

Shacklebolt took a step back, "Take deep breaths, you'll feel less dizzy that way."

"It would be easier if you stopped making the room spin around like that."

But it wasn't the Veritaserum making the room spin, Voldemort was well aware of what was happening. He was also wondering, albeit a tad mischievously, if he could get away with unleashing the Dementors on these unwitting witches and wizards once more. It had been over half an hour since they'd tried to eat Black's face; maybe, given another chance, they'd succeed this time and finally put an end to this farce of a trial.

It would improve his mood, if nothing else.

.

.

This trial had perhaps, been the most intense Tiberius Shacklebolt had witnessed in his day. It had been full-blown chaos since the young Mr. Black set foot in the Ministry, and amusing as he'd found most of the boys' responses to an otherwise hair-raising ordeal, he couldn't overlook the fact that, for Black at least, this trial had lasted hours longer than he was capable of dealing with.

Tiberius was convinced of the outcome of the trial even before James Potter swayed everyone's opinion, but it wasn't up to him to decide when the interrogations would end. He was instructed to take the depositions of the elder Potters using Veritaserum, then had to help defuse another Dementor attack before it got out of hand — how had they escaped from their dungeon again? — and had listened to Pellinore Owens' grand rendition of his testimony…

And while it was nothing if not clear — even to Barty Crouch, who had already stated the prosecution would pursue the matter no further — that Black was guilty of nothing except trying to come on top out of a most extraordinary situation, Fudge had apparently not yet gotten that memo.

He came out with yet another theory.

Just as the Wizengamot gave him the go-ahead to end the round of testimonials.

"I object!" cried Fudge. "There are still many questions left unanswered — what if he's under the Imperius Curse?"

Tiberius had just been about to free Sirius from the chains, and he whipped around to the much shorter wizard.

"Do you really think he is?" he boomed, making half the courtroom jump.

"He said he can throw it off, and that is supposed to be well-nigh impossible! For all I know, he could be! In that case everything he said would have been a lie."

"How dare you—" James Potter leapt from his own chair, incensed all over. Tiberius raised a hand to stop him from lunging at the fat little man.

"Very well. Let's give that a go," he said. "Sirius."

There was no response. Tiberius snapped his fingers under his nose.

"Oy, Sirius."

Sirius' head went up again. Unfocused eyes wandered around the room, until they finally fixed themselves on Tiberius' own. Each time it came harder, and it was impossible to miss how he was only reluctantly responding to commands because of the insane amounts of Veritaserum in his system.

"Are you currently under the Imperius Curse?"

Sirius swallowed, shook his head, waggling it from side to side. "No."

"Did any of the Imperius Curses you were subjected to remain in place?"

"I told you, that curse doesn't work on me."

"Do you serve Lord Voldemort?"

"Don't say the name anymore, please!"

"Ugh. No." Sirius might be on the verge of passing out, but he still managed to look utterly put off by the idea.

"Have you helped him or the Dark Side in any way?"

"No. At least, I don't think so. Gods, I hope not… I didn't, did I?"

"No, you didn't," Tiberius reassured him with a smile.

"Yeah, I didn't think so."

"Do you sympathise with the Dark Side's ideas?"

"What, the pureblood supremacy grout? Hell, no. That's just pathetic."

"Did you lead the Death Eaters to James Potter?"

Sirius blinked. Slowly, he shook his head. "No. I got there by accident. I'd never..." He was shivering; so, Tiberius saw, was James. "No."

"Would you help the Dark Side in any way?"

"Gah, how many times?" Sirius asked in a long-suffering tone. "I already said I wouldn't, I won't, that's why I'm here at all, aren't I? So let me just spell it out for you, one last time. Maybe then it'll stick. I didn't help them, I won't ever help them, I kicked their arses and they hate me for it. That's the breaks, nothing more, nothing less. Got it?"

"Loud and clear. Is there anything you want to do regarding the Dark Lord? His followers?"

Sirius shrugged one shoulder.

"The Lord Thingy? I'd like to give him a taster of his own medicine. The rest of them as well."

"How would you go about that?"

"I don't have to do anything. I just say hi, that's all it takes lately."

"Did you have a hand in the raid on Hogwarts last Monday?"

"'Choo mean?"

"Did you help the Dark Side attack Hogwarts?"

"No, I already told you," Sirius rapped his fingers impatiently on he armrest of his chair. "I overheard them calling in reinforcements from Hogwarts, that was just by accident— So I went to see what hey were doing."

"And you helped them break the wards in the school!"

"No, I was trying to find where they were breaking the wards to tell the Aurors."

"Oh yeah? Then why didn't you?" Fudge yelled.

"I told James," Sirius answered with a shrug, "he told Dumbledore. That's as good as, right?"

"Why didn't you do it yourself, then?"

Sirius shrugged, snorted.

"They spotted me before I could, so then I had to kick their arses. But one got away to warn the rest, so I had to kick their arses too."

"Bullshit!"

"The only shit here is what's leaving your mouth."

"You want me to believe you just fought off all those Death Eaters on your own?"

"I don't give a fig what you believe." Sirius still hadn't managed to make eye contact with Fudge, so he directed his glare somewhere in his general range.

"How did you manage?" Shacklebolt asked curiously.

"I pissed them off," was the answer. "They have terrible aim when they're angry."

"Come on, Tiberius! You're not telling me you believe the tosh he's feeding you! Nobody can just fight all those Death Eaters he listed!"

"You reckon?" Sirius asked innocently.

"I know it, you little punk!"

"It's a fair question, Sirius. How did you do it?"

"I was told to play to my strengths. I've yet to meet anyone who can piss them off just by saying hi."

"I don't know how you're doing it, boy! But mark my words, I'll figure out how you're managing to lie through the potion!"

"I'm really not."

Tiberius looked up at the Wizengamot, raised his eyebrows inquiringly. He got fifty-two nods in return.

"Thank you, Sirius, you've done an excellent job. That will be all." Tiberius turned to look at the fuming prosecutor's aide. "There you have it, Cornelius. He's under Veritaserum. He can't lie. And I, Tiberius Shacklebolt, Head of the Hit Wizard Division of the Ministry Special Forces, declare this interrogation ended and defer to the Wizengamot to emit its ruling."

The Wizengamot cleared the room to go and decide on the outcome of the trial, not before instructing Tiberius to call in Medi-Wizards to treat Black and the Potters, who had all ended up taking the potion.

Tiberius undid the chains holding the boy in place, while a suddenly very happy James Potter suggested to make a plush settee appear in the middle of the room.

"What? Is being comfortable a crime now?" he asked when he caught Tiberius' raised eyebrow. Tiberius decided it wasn't and helped transfer Black to his new seat. Too bad he couldn't undo the shackles around his hands and feet until the Wizengamot gave him the all-clear.

When the Wizengamot returned five minutes later, the Medi-Wizards had given Black as much Veritaserum antidote as they could, and a well-placed reviving spell later, Sirius was awake enough to hear the verdict.

"The Wizengamot has conferred on the matter," Dumbledore declared from his high seat.

"Oh, good," Sirius muttered.

"…And we have found all allegations against Sirius Orion Soren Pendragon Black the Second, unfounded and without grounds. He is hereby exculpated from all accusations, and no appeal to this verdict shall be granted."

Cheers filled the room, but Black just gave a small start at the explosion of sound.

"What's wrong with this lot now?" He asked nobody in particular.

"It's over, Sirius," James informed, grinning widely.

"Over? Over, over? You sure?"

"Yeah, we can go home now."

"Oh, good. I was starting to think we'd stay here for ages and ages."

"And I," said Tiberius, "reckon you don't need these." The shackles fell off, and Sirius immediately made to stand. He keeled over the next minute, but Tiberius caught him and delivered him to the Potters, who had clustered around him.

"Further," Dumbledore made them look up at him once more. "The Wizengamot has ruled all accusations against Fleamont Copernillius Potter, Euphemia Beatrice Potter, and James Copernillius Potter as unfounded and unenforceable. You are all free to go, with the Wizengamot's recommendation to stop by St. Mungo's first, and Mr. Black?"

Sirius looked up at the Hogwarts Head.

"I hope to see you back at school to resume your studies. I hear there is an important match looming, and your team is in dire need of a Beater."

"What's he on about?" Sirius asked in confusion. "I thought it was Friday."

"It still is." James informed happily.

"But we don't have Quidditch practice until Monday. Did you change the schedule and forgot to tell me?"

James shook his head, chuckling.

"Honey, it's over," Betty told Sirius through tears of relief. She pulled him into a tight hug.

"Did it go alright?" Sirius asked. He still spoke in the Veritaserum-induced monotone, and looked like he could barely stand.

"You did great," said James, as he, too, helped support his friend. His smile had become rather forced.

"Why do I have the distinct feeling that's a lie?" Sirius asked.

"Well, you did make a bit of a fool of yourself, as usual, but Mum got there before you could do a complete strip dance."

Sirius looked horrified. James laughed and clapped him on the back, making him totter forward.

"Yep. You were right lucky she's so quick, otherwise everyone would have seen you completely starkers. Let's get something to eat, shall we?"

"Starkers?" Sirius echoed, and now Tiberius could see his expression change a little. He looked rather scandalised.

"Not so fast," Tiberius called after the little group, who were about to get mobbed by press and admirers alike.

Sirius froze under James' grip. He straightened up, turned around to face Tiberius once more. Dread was written all over his face.

"Yes, sir?"

Tiberius handed everyone their wands. "You'll need this back," he said, then added, "You're a very brave lad."

"I don't really feel the part, sir."

"That's part of what makes it so. You would make a great Auror someday, but something tells me the Hit Wizard squadron would be lucky to have you. Come and find me when you leave school if you're still wanting to fight the Dark Side, will you? We're always looking for top duellists. Something tells me you'd fit right in with us."

Sirius stared. Then blinked, then nodded.

"I'll... do that, sir."

As he walked out of the courtroom with James, Tiberius heard him ask, "How'd he know?"

James snorted.

"Mate, he even knows what your lucky knickers look like. But I'm hurt, I thought we were going into professional Quidditch together."

"So did I..." Sirius frowned. "But I reckon there won't be any Quidditch if the war goes on, so we'd have to end that first, wouldn't we."

"Sirius?"

"Yes?"

"Stop thinking. You're giving me a headache."

"Don't pick on him, James," Betty admonished. "Can you walk all right, Pumpkin?"

"I don't think so, Mrs. P."

"We still have to sign our depositions," Coop Potter informed them as he joined them, Sirius' exoneration scroll in his hand. "And the Wizengamot ordered Sirius to be checked over at St. Mungo's before we do anything else."

Tiberius took the chance to approach them.

"I'd be glad to offer an escort of Hit Wizards to accompany you wherever you need to go," he told them.

Sirius groaned out loud.

"Hit Wizards, now?" he sounded frustrated. "Will they clap me in irons again too?"

"I promise you they won't," Tiberius assured him with a smile. Sirius stared up at him, trying, and failing, to focus.

"Your teeth are really white," he said in a daze, then shook his head to clear it. "Not sure where that came from. Never mind me." Tiberius frowned.

"I believe it would be best if we went to St. Mungo's sooner rather than later. The antidote might not have been sufficient," he told Betty and Coop. "Come along, you can finish all the formalities at the hospital. A squad will be ready in a moment, and I shall accompany you to take your official statements."

Tiberius made short work of organising his team. One squad went ahead to secure the hospital and alert the Healers, another assembled at the doors, ready to take the Potters to an express Floo point.

The Potters nodded at him, and ushered their boys towards the exit, where the press was already jostling to get a picture, a statement. Tiberius directed the Aurors to open a path for them.

"What do you think, Tiberius?"

"Oh, I think he won't go for professional Quidditch," said Shacklebolt.

"You know what I mean."

"There's not a drop of darkness in that one. Or the Potter kid. You should consider them for the Order."

"Like you're considering them for the Hit Wizards?" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled like beacons. "I overheard your little propagandist speech."

Tiberius shrugged and smiled.

"Can't fault a bloke for trying. Alastor gets all the attention lately. And the trainees."

"They're too young, Tiberius." And yet Dumbledore was earnestly considering inducting them into his Order as well.

"Maybe, but they're already fighting the war, and you heard the Black kid. The Potters are already being actively targeted. Might as well nudge those two in the right direction."

"When they leave school."

"If they survive that long."

"Not before then. They're still children."

"Hardly. Well, the Potter boy is, but Black? That ship's sailed."

"They're underage, Tiberius."

"Look after them, my friend. Those two are a force to be reckoned with. Few would have gone through what that kid did, fewer still would have risked life and limb to help, like the Potters did... I don't know, but I'd say they have a pretty good idea of what they're already facing, children or no."

"They haven't even taken their OWLs yet."

"And yet, they have more field experience than most of the Aurors in the Ministry. Don't leave them out of your sight, 's all I'm saying."

"I do not intend to. Watch over them, my friend, James is right to doubt the safety of St. Mungo's."

.

.

Getting to leave the courtroom was harder than he'd thought. Not that Sirius was doing much thinking just now; he was incredibly dizzy and staggered forward more than he walked, the incessant squeak of his leg brace made his head pound something wonderful, never mind the babble of voices all around him.

"A word, Mr. Black—"

"Sirius! Please, a statement for Witch Weekly!" Rita Skeeter was suddenly in front of them, and Sirius could feel the loathing James felt for her. She'd been a rock in his shoe for ages, and now she'd left Hogwarts last year, well. She hadn't improved. "What is your perfect Sunday?"

"My perfect Sunday is…" Sirius' mouth still had a life of his own. James' Dad stepped in front of them, and swept them towards the doors.

"You don't have to answer that," Mr. P. said, smiling. "Come, boys, we'll stop by the hospital, then we can get something to eat."

Sirius tottered forward. "I hate crowds," he muttered.

"I hear you, Pads. We're nearly there."

He couldn't see very well, either, as though the entire world had gone fuzzy and nobody seemed to mind. Not to mention, every few paces he had to check that the Potters were still there at all. It was as though whenever he lost eye contact, he lost his hold on reality itself. It wasn't a fun feeling.

"Boys! Look at the camera!" A flash blinded him when he turned. James tugged for him to follow.

"Sirius! What is in store for you now you are free?"

"Er…"

"Don't answer that," James advised him. Sirius' mouth snapped shut.

"James, a word for the Prophet!"

"I'll give you two," said James brightly. "Shove over."

"Sirius Black, the Wizarding World needs to know. Will you continue fighting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" Sirius thought he could vaguely recall the reporter blocking their way; he'd been in Sixth or Seventh Year when he first got to Hogwarts. He couldn't remember the name, though.

"I suppose. Will you?" asked Sirius, but he didn't get an answer. James pushed the reporter aside and pulled him out of the courtroom…

Where not one, but ten Hit Wizards were waiting.

Sirius back-pedalled, or tried to. It was actually more of a backwards stumble, really, but James held him fast.

Easy, Pads, said James' voice in his mind. It had been a constant since he'd been bound to that chair, and was quickly becoming his only anchor in the sea of his increasingly blurry, dazed perception of the world.

They're—

Not going to take you to Azkaban, okay?

They are!

No, they're not.

Look at them, James. They're bloody Hagrid-sized.

Yeah, but they're here to protect you. All of us.

That's what Dumbledore said about the Aurors at school.

Yeah, but these are friends.

Good. Then, a moment later, James, I feel cold. It's not them, is it?

Gods, I hope not. Lean on me a bit more, there's a good man. Sirius did, but his mind was on to something else. Something he usually avoided thinking about like the plague; while most of his worse memories filled him with a terrible sort of shame, this one made him feel every bit as worthless as his parents claimed he was.

"James?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you see what those things…"

"Nope," James said flippantly. Sirius couldn't tell if he was lying or not. He hoped he wasn't, even though deep down, he knew better.

"What did you see?"

"Pimply Patsy," James replied at once, grinning widely. "That night we were celebrating the Quidditch Cup in Third Year."

Sirius stared at James, let out a startled laugh.

"Come off it? That's your worst memory?" he asked, even as a weight fell off his shoulders.

It was a lie, he could see it despite the fog addling his perception.

But it was a good one.

James shrugged, as the Hit Wizards now opened a path for them to walk out. He didn't look the least bit embarrassed.

"It's the stuff of nightmares, I'll have you know. Remember how we—"

"Snogged each other's faces off and then you went kissing each of her zit—"

"Shut up, Black, it was traumatic enough when it happened. Just... forget I said that."

Sirius let out a chuckle, gave James a lopsided smirk.

"You know me, Potter. I don't forget anything."

.

.

"Come, my loff," Rasmus prompted, taking a sip of his Polyjuice. "We haff to go for to shake hands."

What?

Rasmus was already gone, and the next instant he was also standing in Sirius' way.

"I just wanted to congratulate you on the outcome of this terrible misunderstanding."

"Who are you?" asked Sirius.

"Oh, apologies. Derek Riordan, I work for the DMLE."

"He saved your behind from the Dementors," James prompted. Gave Rasmus a grateful smile. Sirius hesitated. Took a tentative step back. "Go on, don't be rude and say hi."

"Thanks, I guess," Sirius mumbled, but he was an open book. He clearly didn't trust Rasmus, but in the end he did shake his hand.

It felt cold.

"I hope you make a full recovery," Rasmus said. Next to him, Voldemort sniffled impatiently. "Oh, forgive me, darling. This is my wife, Amy."

"Martha," Voldemort corrected under his — her — breath.

"Amy Martha!" Rasmus amended brightly, with a wide smile. "She also works for the DMLE."

"Pleasure." Sirius didn't move to shake her hand, eyes narrowing. "I'm sure I've seen you before," he said.

"Nonsense," Voldemort snapped. "Maybe on the stands, earlier. I watched the entire trial. It was lovel— terribly entertaining. Come, love, we don't want to be late for our next engagement. Cheerio."

As Voldemort stalked away, Rasmus could distinctly hear Sirius tell James, "That witch gives me the creeps."

"Her? Come off it. Look at her, she's fit!"

"She's way too old."

"So? She's got such well-formed, vast… tracks of land—"

"I don't think she's a witch at all."

"Sirius, my dear new brother… That's the Veritaserum talking."

"No, it's not," Rasmus said under his breath. He gave Sirius Black a few perception points, as he caught up with the Dark Lord and offered him his arm.

"I feel for you and your addled perception. That witch is fit, take my word for it. Maybe you need some Potter-quality specs at last," James was saying, completely oblivious as he steered Sirius away in the opposite direction. "I hope they don't keep you in St. Mungo's over this."

"Have you seen anything you like, dear?" Voldemort asked, batting his long lashes at him. Rasmus smiled all the wider.

"I haff. Ve, must talk. Nao."

Voldemort's own smile was genuine as they strolled out of the Ministry, arm in arm.

.

.

"James!" Remus was a bundle of nerves, so maybe that was the reason for his rather higher-pitched voice than usual.

On the Two-Way Mirror, James' face looked back at him. Remus couldn't tell where he was, all he could see was a blindingly white wall.

"Sorry I didn't call sooner," he said. "It's been—"

"Did they—"

"No, Remus, but it was a close call." James ran a shaking hand over his untamed hair, and only then did Remus notice he looked very much exhausted. Then he grinned, a lopsided affair reminiscent of the ones Sirius used to give them when he had to report he'd lost points again or gotten a detention.

Oh gods, they haven't been family for two months and they're already fusing into one another.

"You were right, Loopy Loo. They nearly packed us all off to Azkaban."

"What do you mean, all?" Remus felt the blood drain from his face. "Why?"

"Sirius, for being a Black, my parents, for taking him in, and me, for underage magic and us as a family, for hiding him and lying to the MLE."

"Shite."

"Oh, aye," said James. His tone was light, but his eyes were shadowed as he focused on something beyond the rim of the mirror, then turned back to Remus. "But we shouted the house down, so they let us go with an official apology for wasting our collective time."

"When will—"

"I don't know, Rem. I don't even know if we're leaving St. Mungo's tonight."

"St. Mungo's?" Remus echoed, instantly worried. "Whatever are you there for?"

"Crouch overdosed Sirius on Veritaserum. Well, we're all a bit loopy right now, to be honest. We all took that stuff."

"What?!"

"And those Dementors, man. They did a number on him. He's getting checked over for permanent damage, and… well the Ministry thinks he hasn't gotten to see a Healer since the Yule, so they're doing a full physical."

"Is he?" Remus asked. "Permanently damaged?"

"Yeah," said James without hesitation. Remus felt his stomach clench most unpleasantly. "But I believe it comes from when he was dropped on his head as a child and not this."

Remus closed his eyes a moment, taking the news in.

"He'll be fine, though," James assured him, in a gentler tone. "We won't let him be anything else."

"No, we won't," Remus agreed. "What do we do, James?"

"I'll let you know as soon as they let me see what's happening. I've been waiting for the Healers to come out of his cubicle for bloody hours," said James. "And we had to do a deposition and statements and things all that time too. I swear, it's worse than detention."

"Well, it is the Ministry you pissed off, not Googles."

"I'm thinking it's time to bust out the fireworks, Moony," said James abruptly.

"Wha…?"

"We need to distract him somehow— Oh, there's the Healers! Hold on."

Remus was treated to a very jolty image of what he now recognised as hospital corridors, and his ears registered the sound of voices.

"What's going on?" James was asking, and Remus could tell by his tone that he wouldn't be getting fireworks ready so soon.

"They want to keep him overnight, honey," a female Remus recognised as James' Mum said.

"Why? What's wrong now?" James asked the question burning in Remus' mind.

"They need to see if he'll react to the antidote, and… well, the rest."

"May I go see him?" It was amazing, really, how James used proper English everywhere except at school.

"Go right ahead," another female replied, and Remus had a brief glimpse of a blonde witch in sea-green robes talking to James' parents. They looked ashen-faced, and Remus' worry spiked.

Not that he got to dwell on it, the Mirror was moving again, past a crowd of the now familiar Aurors in red, a couple of Ministry officials in black, a bunch of people in blue Hit Wizard uniforms, through a door…

Where James stopped short.

"I'll call you back, Moony."

And suddenly there was fog.

Remus lowered the mirror, all the blood draining from his face. James had sounded frightened.

.

.

Little Hangleton was shrouded in silvery fog. The village had disappeared under the milky-white substance, and Manor Hill looked like an island in a roiling white sea. The lights issuing from the enormous house pierced the night invitingly, warm and welcoming, but the villagers knew better. What to a tourist might have seemed a beacon of hospitality was in reality a crouching beast, ready to pounce on you when you least expected it.

Not that the house's inhabitants cared a whit for such stories. If anything, they would have felt delighted if they knew how vast the fear they spread was, how tight their grip on every living soul for miles around.

Especially when the house's lights were on, flickering like fire and radiating that fake warmth; it meant the lord of the manor was in. It meant disappearances from the streets at night, and sometimes, it meant the faint echoes of screams that carried to the cluster of houses below.

Tonight, however, the old Riddle Manor was unusually quiet, less like a beast about to pounce and more like a large feline purring after an excellent meal. As it radiated fear, so too could it radiate this sensation of sleepy contentment. And the reason for this was in one of the upstairs parlours, at a table by a roaring fire.

"Knigget to F4," Rasmus purred in his heavy Russian accent. The Polyjuice potion was only just beginning to fade, Derek Riordan's brown mop gradually replaced by Rasmus' silver blond, his eyes fading in the face of piercing blue. Across the table, Martha Riordan was analysing the chessboard. Her features were as prim as ever, except for the faint trace of stubble that was beginning to appear on her chin.

They watched as the knight took one of Voldemort's bishops. Riordan smirked in a way that was reminiscent of the Russian duellist.

"Flea-mont Potter forst," he said placidly.

"Black first," countered Martha Riordan, her eyes glinting in annoyance. "Queen to E7. Check."

"Black must for to heal forst," the Russian shook his head with a frown, and the last of Riordan dissolved into nothing. "He not can duel a fly now," he added dismissively. "I vant boy for to heal. I vant for to put eyes on boy more. On Potter boy too. But forst, Flea-mont Potter. Ruck to E8. Check."

Martha's delicate features were not made for scowling, but since Voldemort was wearing her, she did anyway.

"If you fail," she threatened, eyes flashing momentarily red.

Rasmus laughed, amused.

"I haff never failt. I vill not be starting now. I vant fun to haff."

"King to F3. If you fail, what's in it for me? Black first."

"Check mate," Rasmus countered placidly. Martha Riordan cursed. "I vin."

"Fine," she muttered in a voice that was half Voldemort's pleasant baritone, half a woman's. "You've won this round, so I'm guessing you want…?"

"Flea-mont Potter," said Rasmus with satisfaction. "And no attack on Black boy until heals."

"To get that, you'll have to beat me again."

"Chess pieces, moof back to start position."

.

.

Hours later, Remus was yanked from his doze by the very voice he'd been waiting for all night.

"Psst. Moony!"

He jolted awake, fumbling to raise the mirror and squinting blearily at it.

"What the hell, James? Do you know how worried—"

"I also know how much like your mum you sound right now."

"Ha ha bloody ha," muttered Remus. He scrubbed his face to wake up a bit more. "What happened?"

"A bit of a crisis, it's under control now."

"Wha—"

"Apparently there is such a thing as too much chocolate."

"Stop taking the piss," Remus muttered tiredly.

"I'm not, honest. The antidote to the Veritaserum doesn't play well with the antidote to Dementors."

Remus needed a moment to process that last.

"Yeah, not pretty. Anyway," James resumed. "Don't break out the fireworks yet. We won't come back until Sunday evening."

"They're keeping him that long?"

"They'd love to, I bet. But he doesn't want to stay — he says the Healers here are worse than butchers — and we all need a break from all of this. So, we are taking our first holiday as a family."

"That means he's okay, then?"

"He will be. He's still as loopy as you after your monthly troubles, but other than his gammy leg, he'll be right as rain soon."

"What's wrong with his leg? He didn't break it again?"

"No, but apparently he broke it one time too many even before he walked all the way from London to bloody Wales on it."

"What do you mean?"

"The Healers don't think he'll walk again, not without that god-awful brace thing, certainly not without that bloody limp."

"Oh, shite."

"Yeah, he didn't take it with his customary grace."

"They told him?" Remus groaned out loud. His own experiences at the wizarding hospital made that a very distinct possibility.

"Mr. and Mrs. Lupin? It was a werewolf bite. Our condolences. Here's some pamphlets, and this is the Floo terminal for the Department of Disposal of Magical Creatures…"

Yep. Tact was not something the St. Mungo's bunch had ever had.

"They didn't tell him, but he was awake and heard it anyway when they told my parents."

"But… he breaks bones all the time," Remus countered, confused.

"Yeah, playing Quidditch," said James, shifting in his chair. Remus caught a glimpse of Sirius asleep on a bed right next to him. "This is a bit different. But we'll figure something out. He doesn't believe we can, those Healers were pretty bloody convincing— but we will. There's no way he's going full cripple on us."

Remus wasn't sure what to say to that. In his experience, bones could be mended with spells, ointments, SkeleFix, Skele-Gro in the worst cases… he'd never heard of something like a leg not being, well, fixable. If that were the case, he'd be in a wheelchair by now.

"Right, so it's a bad fracture. But how is that enough to be permanent?" He asked at length.

"They said his leg was magically broken. Apparently, some curses are not so easily reversed," James explained darkly. "It got hit with bone-breakers, shattering curses, that ugly one that pulls the bones out of your skin… and apparently it happened a bunch of times… even before he ran."

"What." Remus blinked, sat up in his bed. "How…how many…?"

"At least twelve times, they reckon."

"Twelve…?" Remus could only stare. James nodded, his expression one of deep loathing. "When did he get the time to break his leg a dozen times, James?"

"Before he ran, when he ran, in Penarth, when they nearly killed him the other night, and last week."

"Before he ran?" Remus blanched.

"For years."

"Years?" Remus was aghast. "You're not saying— his parents?"

"Remember what happened a week before Christmas in Third Year?"

"Yeah, his father had just died, right?"

"Remember how he came back?"

"Like he always did. James, you're not saying—"

"He made up all those excuses not to play Quidditch for ever, too. Kept going to see Pomfrey for a phony headache."

"Twelve times?"

"His hag of a mother. She had to keep him in the house somehow, didn't she? Sirius told me earlier. She'd break his leg, then fix it in time for those parties she forced him to attend."

"He told you that?" Just like Remus didn't talk about his worse moons, Sirius never discussed his home life. Much less the stuff that happened to him when he was required at his mother's.

Over the years, Remus had learnt to accept Sirius as he was, from the mood swings and brooding after any length of time spent at home, to that annoying hyperactive streak that only grew the closer the end of the year loomed. For someone who tried to get out of doing schoolwork whenever he could, Sirius had always hated when school was out for Summer.

Then again, Remus had never met anyone who enjoyed school as much as he did, either. He even liked getting detentions. Called them his service to the school or something.

"And then that night he ran, they did it all over. And he went and walked on it, splinched it, got it broken again…" James trailed off bitterly. Remus was at a loss for words.

"Oh, Merlin." He whispered, aghast. Then, "But didn't Pomfrey—"

"She mended most of everything else, but." James shook his head. "Apparently it was one time too many. She put the brace on, but she neglected to tell us she didn't mean to take it off again."

"What about regrowing it?"

"Apparently some dark curses are permanent. It would just grow back the same." James shook his head, scrubbed one hand down his face. "They said he's close to a growth spurt, he's got a month, tops. Then he's fucked."

"What do we do?"

"Hit the books. Find potions, spells, whatever you can. I don't know, Remus. Whatever helps."

Remus nodded, feeling sick to his stomach.

"Padfoot?" He asked tentatively.

"Pads is as bad off."

Somehow it made everything worse still.

"The party will have to wait, then," Remus said, trying to stay on point.

"Nonsense," James shot back. "We're having it regardless. We're coming back on Sunday."

"But—" Remus bit his lip. He understood the party was important for James, for Sirius maybe too… but he dreaded spending a moon alone. He hadn't since Sirius had become a massive dog late in Third Year. Not once.

"We'll be back before moonrise, don't be daft. He wants to be there," James told him, rightly reading his expression. "Says he misses kicking your arse over the sheep plushie."

Remus snorted, touched… and slightly ashamed.

"Do you think he'll be well enough to?" he asked, his priorities reshuffled in an instant.

"I don't even know if he can transform, but he says he'll at least try. We might just have to stay in the Shack, though."

"Yeah, no problem. The party?"

"Monday after class. Make sure everything's ready then. We can have it somewhere other people can come too. He needs this. He says he doesn't, but—"

"You told him? Wasn't it supposed to be a surprise?"

"Of course I haven't told him. He's oblivious. Not that it's exactly hard to slip anything past him right now, he was so upset earlier they filled him to the brim with a cocktail that looked a bit like the ones you get."

"Then how do you know?"

"He's baked," said James, without the slightest hint of a smile. "And still blurting out truths left, right, and centre. It's like his mouth has a life of its own."

"Oh."

"Yeah, now's the time to ask Sirius Black about where he hid your stash of chocolates in Fourth Year."

"I already know he hid them in his greedy stomach."

There was a silence, but James had never been able to endure such a thing for long.

"So," he said a moment later. "Where's Peter?"

"He's in the Hospital Wing," Remus informed.

"What? What happened?"

"Potions accident, he spent the evening in the dungeons. Working on a Potions assignment or something, I forgot to ask. Pomfrey said he'd be all right tomorrow, something about a nasty burn."

"Ugh. How he can have the brains for that sort of thing eludes me."

"Be glad we've got someone to help us keep our noses out of the water in that subject."

"Your nose, you mean. We melt our cauldrons for the sheer fun of it."

"Yeah, somehow I don't think that qualifies as being good at Potions."

"Hey, my Dad used the same method to make his fortune."

Remus didn't take the bait; he wasn't in the mood for banter. Instead, he shrugged, and James' face rearranged itself into the same worried, tired expression he'd been wearing for days.

"You'll tell Pete what we talked about?"

"Sure thing. And I'll get him to help me with the party. He's been spending so much time in the Dungeons he's starting to smell like Snivellus."

"That's just disgusting."

"Yeah, I tried to tell him but you know how he hides behind a cauldron whenever he's upset."

"Yeah, or in the Kitchens," James chuckled. "I'll bring him some French cheese, he loves that stuff. Might cheer him up."

"Smells better, too."

They both laughed, but it was quiet and short-lived and quite unlike the way it should be. So much was, lately.

"Find some place we won't be overheard by Filch," James suggested with a hearty yawn. "Maybe a tower so we can launch the fireworks together. You know how he likes blowing stuff up."

"Don't worry," Remus replied. "I know just the spot." The connection ended a moment later, leaving Remus to stare at the now familiar swirling fog.

Why he hadn't told James about Nina, he had no clue. Maybe it was because James so clearly had too much on his plate, maybe it was because Remus himself didn't know how to even breach the subject.

But maybe, he could tell him when he returned.

.

.

TBC.

A/N: The trial is finally overrrrrr. Gods, if it had dragged on one more chapter…

Next Up: A plan is made, on several sides. Sirius grapples with his cracked mind, but he's at the beach so at least the view is pretty. James grapples with Sirius' gammy leg, organises a party without even being there, and shops for cheese, Voldemort gets what he wants — no, not that, you pervs, the other thing — and Rasmus goes undercover. Oh and, McGonagall has no choice but to sit her favourite students down and tell them what's what in no uncertain terms, so she takes action, and! Sends them an invite for a very graphic, very hands-on lesson.