Sirius Black awoke with an unpleasant feeling. A feeling that something is off, a feeling that everyone experiences before inevitably discovering that something is, in fact, quite wrong. He opens his eyes, taking in the room around him: water is leaking from the ceiling onto the ground at the foot of his yellowing, damp bed, and the stone walls shimmer with the cold reflection of a meager oil lamp. In his opinion, the only place more uncomfortable would have to be Azkaban, or maybe a troll's stomach.
No magic, he thinks resentfully. This is the shithole given to the Potter secret-keeper?
As much as Sirius complains to himself, however, he had to admit its effectiveness. He hadn't seen, heard, or even detected a single person with his occasional, boredom-induced 'Homenum Revelio', in the entire month that he had been there. The Order may have told him not to do magic (it would help avoid detection) but Sirius didn't fancy the thought of freezing to death in a cold, wet cellar.
He cast a warming charm on himself as he sat up in bed. He glances over at the battered calendar of bikini-clad muggle women that he had found in one of the cabinets when he arrived several weeks earlier.
Saturday, October 31st. No wonder he has such an irksome feeling. Memories of his childhood float up to the surface of his mind; memories of past Halloweens spent with his horrid family. His brother, Regulus, would always scare the muggle kids with a revolting Grim mask; it was a family tradition of the Noble and Ancient House of Blacks. Sirius didn't fancy it much, he never shared his family's hatred of muggles, and did not understand it. Sirius, being the youngest, had his fair share of mask-induced terror, and found it incredibly strange that his animagus would be a Grim in his later years of Hogwarts. For what reason the two would be intertwined, he could not think.
He grimaced at the barrage of unwelcome memories as he prepared for breakfast. A good deal of his childhood would be better off forgotten, but he also knew that the memories could prove useful in the right situations. Perhaps some food would rid him of these repugnant whispers of the past, he thought, for echoes of his family only deafened him.
~~~~H~P~~~~
As the sunless day progressed, the emotional parasite burrowed deeper into Sirius, draining his energy and filling him with a horrible sense of foreboding and confusion. Something was seriously wrong, or so he thought, but he had not heard anything from the Order, so he ignored the anxiety, convincing himself he had eaten a little too much moldy bread the night before. There wasn't much else to eat, after all. The minutes crept by until lunchtime, and Sirius found himself using food as a distraction yet again.
Hooray, more stale bread and some stale water to match, he thought sarcastically. Sure, the food helped with the hunger he was experiencing, but that wasn't the only gut feeling he was having. This, he thought, was the worst part about having a Grim as an animagus, after the damn fleas of course. Even when he was not transfigured, his mind was filled with omens of suffering and unpleasant thoughts. He could never tell if it was just a placebo or not; he was the only Grim animagus in recent history, registered or not. It's not like he could ask anyone.
Sirius frowned as he looked at the Order safe house around him. Sure, he was safe here, but the security came at the price of extreme boredom. He had spent the last two hours sitting in the same position at the table, for fuck's sake, dwelling on his past sufferings. It was like the dingy safehouse was a dementor itself.
I'd rather be in danger than be this bored, he thought. He silently pondered whether he had ever cared about his safety. The answer was an immediate no: becoming an animagus, Sirius reflected, was almost entirely to help his friend, Lupin, avoid self-harm while in werewolf form. Of course, secretly being an animagus had other benefits for the Marauders; Sirius, smirking to himself, recalled how easy it was to steal from the kitchens. He found, deep in his mind, a minuscule amount of pity for the teachers who had to deal with them. I'm getting soft, he thought, chuckling to himself.
It had been many a day since Sirius had laughed, and it surprised him. Being alone in a perpetually damp safehouse for weeks took its toll on his mental health, and the conditions didn't do anything to alleviate it. He was at the focal point of a wizarding war, acting as bait to protect his best friend from the most powerfully evil wizard of all time. While he had no idea why the Dark Lord was after the Potters, it was Sirius's duty to protect them. They were, in all ways save blood, family. James had filled the fraternal void that Regulus had left behind when he openly declared his dedication to the Dark Arts in Sirius's 5th year. Sirius had run away from home, fearing that his family would force him to study the dark arts as well, and the Potters took him in.
There were a few times, including at that moment when Sirius ought to have been jealous of James. He imagined that he would have been if he did not know James so well. Sirius had never had a family that he fits into, never had anyone to love besides the Marauders. His blood family had rejected him as soon as he was placed in Gryffindor, and even his House-Elf, Kreacher, had been revolted when the news of Sirius's disposition reached him.
He could not, however, no matter how hard he tried, ever be jealous of James Potter. In Sirius's opinion, James deserved every blessing that he received. James had taken in Sirius as a brother when he ran away from his home, and had also, Sirius recalled regretfully, saved 'Snivellus' from what would have been a highly amusing prank.
Besides, he thought, Peter Pettigrew had gone through the same experiences, usually placing himself into even more dangerous situations than the other Marauders: Sirius recollects Peter dodging between the colossal branches of the Whomping Willow. Now Peter had also consented to put himself into what was arguably the most dangerous position involved with the Potters' protection.
This was quite strange because Sirius remembers Peter exclusively as a coward hiding in the shadows of James, Sirius, and Lupin. Sirius frowned. Peter had always taken a lot of convincing and the occasional bribe to even go near the Whomping Willow.
His unease grew at this realization. He had checked on Peter the day before; all was well with him. So what was this goddamned anxiety about?
He reached over to the small shelf, grasping one of the only possessions he was allowed to bring, and a few hours crawled past as he lay in bed reading Quidditch Through the Ages, one of his and James' favorite books. It was 5 pm when a wave of anxious discomfort washed over him like a tsunami; it was unbearable. He simply could not focus, could not think of anything else. The anxiety, the dread, was emanating from his very core; his very soul. The foreboding enveloped him like a cloak.
Perhaps some food- No. He thought determinedly, I need to actually fucking do something, anything, to stop this bullshit. Contorted images of his friends filled his mind; he was seeing terrible, terrible things happening to them. Things that filled him with horror at the very prospect.
Surely James and Lily are safe. It was just the Grim in Sirius poisoning his mind. They were well protected, expertly concealed; nobody can get to them, he thought despairingly. He tried to remind himself that the Order had not contacted him, so there must be nothing wrong, but the feeling did not cease.
He looked around for his Phoenix Coin, a galleon lookalike with an insignificant branding of the fiery bird that had been charmed to grow hot if the Order needed help. Sirius thought it quite clever, but he didn't have any time to admire its simple genius as he scurried around his room, overturning furniture, trying to find the damn thing.
Sirius was starting to panic; something bad could very well be happening and he would have no idea. How could he have lost the coin? Last he remembered, it was still wholly secure in his jacket's breast pocket, courtesy of a strong sticking charm.
It must be at Peter's safehouse, he thought, there was nowhere else it could be. He had been nowhere else, and he remembered having it while he visited the day before. He forced himself into a calmer state and started to adorn himself in traveling clothes. He grabbed his charmed dragonhide jacket and felt one last time for the coin. Nope, not there, he assured himself. The jacket had been a gift from James, it was one of Sirius's favorite possessions. Its main feature, among many (minor spell repulsion, fire shielding, temperature regulation, etc), was that it completely erased the discomfort of Apparition, which Sirius had struggled with for years. It was only on rare occasions that he managed to hold in his bile after apparating. He put on the coat, strapped on his dragonhide boots and gloves (it was cold), and without a moment wasted, apparated to Peter Pettigrew's safehouse in Bollington.
~~~~H~P~~~~
Sirius appeared with a pop! in the enclosed yard of Peter's safehouse. Sirius allowed himself to be jealous of the house because while Sirius was stuck in a damp shithole, Peter got to stay in a cozy little cottage with a fireplace and enough oil lamps to light the Great Hall of Hogwarts.
The safehouse today, however, was much less inviting than it had been yesterday. There was no smoke coming from the brick chimney, no lamps were lit, and the darkness behind the windows was deeper than the shadows of the late evening. This seemed a red flag to Sirius, so he drew his wand and made his way up the stone path towards the front door. He cautiously extended a gloved hand and grasped the doorknob. The metal was cold, even through his gloves. His unease grew further.
He twisted the knob, found it locked, and entered after a muttered Alohomora. The aroma of woodsmoke filled his nostrils, but no fire was burning. The magical door locked behind him. It was quite a contrast to the day before when a roaring fire filled the mantel and it was warm enough to remove his coat and set it down on a chair at the kitchen table. As he scanned the dark room, looking for any signs of movement, he slowly moved towards a nearby lamp and lit it with a tap of his wand. The lamp flickered with the same pathetic yellow light that he had become familiar with in his own safehouse.
Sirius now realized why so many were needed, it barely lit up any of the room, he thought, as he looked around. We are magical, why are we using these pathetic lamps? His eyes caught on the cobblestone mantelpiece, where a curious orange-red light was shining from behind an empty picture frame. He made his way over to the mantel, not bothering to be cautious as curiosity filled him. The room was filled with musky furniture, and in the low light, Sirius found himself tripping over a damp woolen armchair as he walked, eyes glued to the strange light.
He quickly moved the cold metal picture frame out of the way, but strangely enough - it wasn't cold. It was rather warm, and as Sirius looked down at the light, realization dawned on him.
His own Phoenix Coin shone up at him, glowing red hot, burning into the wooden shelf of the mantelpiece. The smoky smell faintly registered in his mind, and he reached towards the coin, sharply recoiling as he touched its scorching surface.
"Damnit," he muttered, examining his burnt fingertips. At his touch, the coin began to cool down, as Phoenix Coins were charmed to do. Sirius stuck it back in his breast pocket with a permanent sticking charm (he was taking no chances this time) and stood thinking for a moment.
He recalled that Peter had moved his coat from the dining chair to the coatrack the night before while he was using the men's room. He had thought nothing of it at the time, he assumed that Peter was simply tidying up the table for the mediocre dinner that followed not long afterward. A new theory now rose to the surface of Sirius's mind, a theory that disgusted him. Peter was always a coward; always working for his own benefit. Had the other side offered him more than the Order? Was it possible that Peter had stolen and hidden Sirius's coin so that he wouldn't know when the order needed him? It didn't make any sense - and yet it did. He needs to go to Godric's Hollow now, he thought, because his coin has been lighting up for Merlin knows how long and the Order needs his help. Even if he can't see the Potter estate, it would still bring him solace because it meant that the Potters are still alive and that the Fidelius charm is still active.
Sirius, hanging on one last hope, yelled, "WORMTAIL! Are you here? It's Padfoot!", but it provoked no response; the house was empty, and Sirius's mind filled with trepidation as horrible images of his friends flashed across it once again. "Alohomora." He burst through the unlocked door and twisted into apparition.
~~~~H~P~~~~
The air in Godric's Hollow was warm, despite the time of year. The streets were full of kids adorned in costumes and wide smiles full of candy. Halloween in Godric's Hollow was always a happy time, Sirius thought, remembering the holidays he had spent at the Potter estate after his graduation. He never got involved in the festivities, because he was "too old", but he enjoyed seeing happy children experiencing the holiday without a Grim mask present.
Sirius couldn't help the nostalgia as he quickly made his way up the street towards where he knew the Potter residence used to reside. If all were well, he would simply see the familiar street without the Potter estate; it would be mysteriously wiped away, and nearby properties would stretch and warp to fill the gap, as was the nature of the Fidelius charm. The charm made sure that you could not tell that anything was there at all unless you were told so by a secret-keeper. Sirius, who was not a secret-keeper, would not see it, even if he knew where it would normally be. This of course was the case on all of his previous visits and checkups.
Sirius rounded the corner and stopped abruptly as if he had run into a wall of brick. The Potter estate stood before him, exactly where he remembered it to be. He knew how the Fidelius charm worked, and he quickly realized the implications.
Trying to stem the flow of presumptions that filled his thoughts, he ran toward to house. The house wasn't large, it had two stories, two bedrooms, etc., the perfect amount for an average family and the occasional visitor. A wonderful house to raise a child in.
He stopped short of the front door, looking up at the second story where he knew Harry's room to be. Sirius stood flabbergasted, where are the fucking walls? He thought. It was blown apart, bricks lay in the grass surrounding it. He could hear crying coming from the ruined room above him.
Sirius later realized that nothing, even prior knowledge, would have prepared him for the horrors within the house. He walked towards the door, which was hanging ajar. He pushed it open and in the low light saw the shape of his best friend, his brother, his only family, lying on the wooden floor at the foot of the stairs.
Terror enveloped Sirius's mind as he walked towards his friend's body. The room was dark and cold; his mind blank. As he knelt next to his friend, his brother, his only family, he could not think. He knew that James was dead, and yet - he looked so peaceful. His frozen expression was one of acceptance and determination. He knew he was going to die, and Avada Kedavra did its job; nothing else can kill without leaving any mark. James' body may be untouched, but the friend that Sirius knew was gone forever. How could someone completely void of life look more peaceful than anyone full of life? Sirius thought darkly.
The sobs above him abruptly ceased with the familiar pop! of apparition. Sirius rose, averting his eyes from James' body, and ascended the stairs, remembering Harry and Lily. Sirius dragged his feet to Harry's room, bracing himself for whatever lay on the other side He opened the door and was not surprised to see Lily on the floor, arms were thrown wide as if to shield the crib behind her. The room felt dark and cold; like great curtains were blotting out any light or warmth, and a freezing draft was coming through the now-open doorway. This feeling was all too familiar to Sirius; it was the feeling of dark magic, of dementors, of death; the feeling of Voldemort. Terror was gripping Sirius's body like a huge invisible fist; squeezing him, threatening to crush him, and yet he was not afraid. Voldemort was nowhere to be seen. His mind was still blank, he did not react to Lily's peacefully still body. He knew he was in shock, and did not want to stay long enough for it to wear off. The house was silent and unmoving, as were the bodies. It was a stillness so deep that it could be mistaken as absolute peace, but it was the opposite. Nothing was peaceful about it.
The silence was broken by a muffled "mama?" coming from the crib. Sirius turned his attention to Harry Potter, the son of Lily and James; his godson. He did not have time to ponder why Harry was alive, or why the room was blown apart. He walked over to Harry, his gaze resting on the boy's forehead. He noticed that Harry had an angry scar on his forehead, red against his pale skin. It was zig-zagged, piercing his dark hairline like a lightning bolt striking the earth. Sirius picked up the small boy, cradling him in his arms as James had taught him. Harry was cold, colder than he should be; and yet the scar radiated an evil heat. Sirius had a sudden and overwhelming urge to leave, as soon as possible. He could not stay there any longer, he had to get himself and Harry away from the cursed place.
Sirius stumbled down the stairs, trying to divert his gaze from James' empty body, and made his way out of the house. He dare not look back at the evil place. How could Voldemort have found them here? How did he get past the Fidelius charm?
Of course, Sirius knew. He had known since the moment that he knew of Peter's absence from his safehouse. Wormtail had betrayed the Order and had betrayed his friends. There was no mistaking that James and Lily Potter were both dead because of Peter.
I shouldn't give him so much credit; the filthy rodent, Sirius thought morbidly. This is my fault. Sirius knew he could never forgive himself; he was the one who convinced them to change the secret-keeper, but he could never forgive Peter for this either. He could not fathom why Peter had done this. His mind darted around blindly, but one word stuck out: cowardice.
This is why when Hagrid suddenly appeared, demanding that Sirius gave Harry to him on Dumbledore's orders, Sirius hesitated for a couple of seconds, his godson had lost his family. Should he be leaving him so soon? No, but he refused to let his godson live in a world where that thing is alive. He at least owed that to James… He knew that there would be consequences for killing Peter, but he didn't care. Sirius remembered his motorcycle, resting in the Potter's garage where they had been safekeeping it.
"Take the bike, Hagrid, I won't need it anymore," Sirius says to Hagrid with a look of morbid determination.
"Why won' you be needin' it?" Hagrid asks between raspy gulps, tears streaming into his beard. The poor half-giant was also good friends with the Potters. Sirius turned away and didn't answer. The stages of grief were supposed to be a straight line, but to Sirius, it felt more like a big clusterfuck: every stage was hitting him in succession before receding into shadow to wait for its next turn. It was happening so quickly that Sirius was left dazed, he could not register the emotions before they were crippling him and disappearing again. One was clear, however: anger. Tears were streaming down his face, his jaw was clenched, and his eyes were full of determination. Every breath he took was one that James would never have the chance to, and Sirius was going to make sure that Peter wouldn't either.
~~~~H~P~~~~
Mrs. Arabella Doreen Figg of Wisteria Walk, Little Whinging, lives alone. She is just like any other old widow: she has a lot of cats, her house smells of cabbage, and she will talk your ear off if given the opportunity. Unfortunately for her, those opportunities are scarce, and she is usually left rather lonely. If anyone stuck around long enough to listen, however, they would learn that she has some interesting stories of her late husband and son, being raised in a magical family, and her magical professions later in life. Some tales she keeps to herself, chiefly her experiences with the horrible grief that came along with being a squib in the '40s and '50s. How she tried to ignore her parents' obvious disappointment and avoid feeling resentful towards her siblings as they disappeared for months at a time, coming back with magical objects and stories of fantastical spells, potions, and creatures unseen by her alone.
She loved her family while growing up, they always tried to make her feel included, even when she was estranged by almost everybody else. Before her two brothers and her sister got their Hogwarts letters, they all shared the magic. They all oohed and ahhed at their parents' display of colorful sparks and wondrous spells. When the time came, and her siblings received their Hogwarts letters, Arabella didn't get hers. They had heavily suspected that she was a squib for more than six years prior, but she was clinging onto the hope that she was a late bloomer. Arabella eventually accepted it, and her parents tried their hardest to make her happy while her siblings were at school. Over the years, Arabella began to realize that a lot of the alienation she received from the wizarding community was caused more by fear than anything. Magical folk are terrified of life without magic, and that is exactly what squibs are. They are non-magical offspring of magical parents, and their very existence proves that losing magic is possible.
Her parents did as good a job as they could, but there was no way to avoid the sorrow and dismay that Arabella felt. By pure chance, and a very small chance at that (which didn't make her feel any better), she couldn't use a wand and therefore couldn't use magic. She sometimes wished that she was a muggle instead; at least she wouldn't be tortured by the knowledge of what she was missing. Squibs are not completely non-magical; they can still see magical creatures, and detect magic - but they still cannot channel or use it.
She grew fond of reading as she grew up, she loved that it provided her a way to immerse herself in the magical world as if she was experiencing it. She eventually became a Librarian and worked at a muggle school for years. She found it quite boring, however, and decided to find a position where she could learn about the magical world. Even if she did not possess the ability to use magic, she was still in the magical world and wanted to know about it. She quit her job at the muggle school (the pay was terrible anyways) and found a job at Flourish and Blotts, in Diagon Alley. The glass may be half empty, but it's still half full: she learned to appreciate being in the magical world instead of being resentful about her lack of magic.
Those 20 years were the most wonderful of her life, she got to spend her time learning about magic, meeting fascinating people, and seeing fantastic beasts (there are all kinds in Diagon Alley). She had long forgotten her resentment against magic users and instead became rather fond of everything magical. She found her husband: a rather handsome wizard from Spain who worked at the Spanish Ministry of Magic. They would talk of magic, plants, creatures; anything that Arabella wanted, and they fell in love. It wasn't long before they were happily married, and eventually had a son on the way.
Her husband, who was a brave man, left to fight against the forces of Lord Voldemort early in the war and did not return. She was so distraught and depressed that she had stopped living apart from the fact that her heart was still pumping. She wasn't eating or moving, she was unhealthy, and it led to her miscarriage. The horrible guilt that she had felt as a child and teenager returned, for she felt that she would have been able to save her husband and child if she had possessed the magic that she had been robbed of. The only thing that brought her solace was the Order of the Phoenix reaching out for her help. It gave her something meaningful to do: being a squib meant that it was quite easy to pose as a muggle, and it proved useful for the Order. She spied for them for several years during the war and collected lots of useful information.
Arabella shook herself out of the daze, she had been dwelling on the past so much lately. It was late at night on Halloween, and she had been handing out candy to the muggle children as they strolled the stone walkway to her door. She was sitting on her couch when she heard a dull knock on her door, and anticipating more children, grabbed the candy bowl. When she answered, however, she was extremely surprised to see Albus Dumbledore, richly dressed in a plum purple wizarding cloak and hat. Next to him was Minerva McGonagall, who was dressed in elegant green silk robes and a black witch hat. Her fists clenched around her robes seemed to be the only thing keeping her from collapsing in grief. "Hello, Bella, I don't think we've met?" said Dumbledore. She of course knew that they were in the Order, but had never met them in person. She knew that they were some of the most powerful witches in the Order, and maybe all of Britain, so she quickly put down the bowl of candy and invited them inside.
Dumbledore entered, quickly grabbed a piece of candy from the bowl and, popping it into his mouth, started talking immediately:
"Now, Arabella, I see no reason to delay the news, so here it is: Voldemort has been defeated." Her response was to stand, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, staring at him. She must be mistaken, surely this wasn't true.
"You-Know-Who been d-defeated?" She stammered.
"It certainly appears to be so," Dumbledore said, exchanging a stern glance with McGonagall. "But I'm afraid it came at a price: Lily and James Potter are dead." Arabella certainly had not expected that. While not necessarily being friends with the Potters, she knew them through the Order, and she knew them to be a very kind, brave, and good wizard and witch. She had done surveillance for them several times and quite enjoyed their company. She hadn't seen them in months, however, because they had gone into hiding…
"Wait a tic. They recently had a son, did they not? Sometime in August, wasn't it?" She asked apprehensively, remembering the boy's arrival. It had been a light in the dark for the order, the wonder of new life had brought new vigor and determination to the Order.
"Well Arabella, that is actually what we came to talk about," said Minerva with a grimace. "Harry survived You-Know-Who's attack; nobody knows how, and it appears that the Dark Lord vanished when he tried to kill Harry. At least, the evidence certainly… certainly… " She broke off, her eyes glossing as she looked away.
"What 'evidence'?" Mrs. Figg asked cautiously. Minerva nervously shuffled her feet, exchanging another glance with Dumbledore, as if silently asking for permission. Dumbledore nodded softly and she continued in a hollow, monotone voice:
"Well, according to Hagrid, James was lying dead at the foot of the stairs, and Lily was lying dead in front of Harry's crib. Hagrid said that the walls behind Harry's crib were blown apart, as if by an explosion, but Harry was unharmed, save a scar on his forehead." she paused, taking a rattling breath before continuing. "Hagrid also described the feeling of dark magic's presence quite vividly. He had gone into the house to see James and Lily after Sirius Black had left." Minerva fell silent, folding her arms and fixing her teary gaze on an obscure point in the distance.
Dumbledore politely cut in; it was obvious to everyone that Minerva could say no more on the topic: "The way that James and Lily were found, as well as the rubble, led me to believe that Voldemort went to the Potter estate with the sole goal of killing young Harry. Lily and James tried to stop him but were overwhelmed by his power. I have my suspicions on why Voldemort was unable to finish off Harry, but every possibility is so unlikely that I hardly have a clue which possibility is correct, if any."
It seemed to Mrs. Figg that patience would not answer her biggest question, so she asked, "Why was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named trying to kill Harry in the first place? He's just a baby."
"Well," Dumbledore said, "It is neither a light topic nor a quickly explained one, so we'd better sit down, I think." Dumbledore motioned to the floral-patterned couch in Arabella's living room with one hand as he summoned a tea tray with the other. The tray landed on the coffee table, and a kettle paired with three teacups appeared on it.
Within seconds the water was boiling and pouring itself into the teacups, and Dumbledore escorted the shaky-legged McGonagall to the couch. Dumbledore scrunched his nose, and turning to Mrs. Figg, asked, "Are you boiling Brussels, by chance?"
She glared at him. "No, why?"
"Well, your house smells rather like cabbage. I apologize if you prefer it that way, but I don't fancy it much." He said, extracting his wand. "Rosa Flos Odoratus." The room filled with the pleasant scent of roses as he flourished his wand. He placed his wand on his lap, folding his hands politely, and turned to Mrs. Figg.
"I am rather fond of that spell, I find myself using it quite often at the school-" he paused as if thinking to himself before continuing. "Bella, I wholeheartedly trust you, I have seen your commitment and loyalty to the Order of the Phoenix. However, I still must warn you and ask that you do not share anything that I tell you today. This information is quite sensitive and equally valuable, so it's better if you don't pull go making an Antioch of yourself by telling everyone. Now, I'm sure you've heard of prophecies before, perhaps when you were working in Diagon Alley?"
Dumbledore seemed to be watching her for reaction, Mrs. Figg was just blatantly confused: why was he asking her this? In her experience, prophecies were just lies told by fortune tellers to get money.
"There are real prophecies in the wizarding world, and I was lucky enough to be present while a Seer was telling one." Dumbledore took a deep breath before plunging into an explanation.
"Late last year our divination professor retired and I, being headmaster, was burdened with the task of finding a new one. I interviewed countless self-proclaimed Seers, but it became obvious that finding a real one would be more difficult than I had anticipated. Not a single candidate showed actual Seeing capabilities, and after twenty or so I began to grow bored of it. I was considering eradicating the subject by Minerva's suggestion; she doesn't like the subject very much, and I quite agree with her views of the branch being 'imprecise' to say the least.
"I was nearing the end of my patience when my schedule brought me to the Hog's Head. It was rather relieving, come to think of it, as I had previously been forced to travel out of the country to interview the Seers. Sybil's family has had real Seers in the past; such as the infamous Cassandra Trelawney, who was Sybil's great-great-grandmother.
"It was now early February. I had been searching for a Divination professor for months, and after a few minutes spent with Sybil, I feared she would prove another disappointment. I had stood up from my chair, and made my way over to the door, about to politely take my leave, when a real, true prophecy burst out from her. Her body was rigid, her voice low and throaty. I remember quite well because it was the only prophecy I had ever been told, and more than likely the last one I will ever hear. She didn't remember it afterward, and was quite surprised when I gave her the job."
Dumbledore reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small glass vial of silver and wispy substance. Noticing her confusion, Dumbledore chuckled. "When you reach my age and wisdom, you will often find your mind quite full." He uncorked the vial, sticking his wand through the opening and scooping out the memory. Dumbledore then placed his wand to his forehead; the memory disappearing into his mind. "The prophecy is as follows: 'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…' I am now quite sure that the prophecy refers to Harry."
Dumbledore stopped speaking, watching Mrs. Figg silently as he withdrew the hair-like memory from his head once more and deposited it into the small bottle.
"But the D-Dark Lord is gone n-now, isn't he? And if you were the one who heard the prophecy, how d-did You-Know-Who even find out?" she stuttered incredulously.
"I suspect that if he has not completely disappeared, he is at least very weak. It seems that Harry has not defeated Lord Voldemort - only delayed him. As for the Dark Lord's knowledge of the prophecy," He paused, eyes narrowing, "It is fractured." He met Arabella's gaze. "An agent of the Dark Lord was lurking outside the door when the prophecy was made, but he only heard part of it - the part I have just shared with you. It should be enough, I think…" Dumbledore hesitated. "...yes, it would be too much of a risk to tell you more." Dumbledore again paused to regain his thoughts.
"Anyways, the agent conveyed this information to his master. Voldemort quickly matched Harry to the prophecy and scrambled to eliminate the new threat. Luckily for The Order, however, the very same agent became a spy for us not long after and warned that the Dark Lord would be going after the Potters, and we were able to hide them." Arabella shuddered as silence once again fell. This was all very well, Arabella thought but it sounded like Harry, who was just a baby, had somehow banished the Dark Lord. She might not be a witch, but she knew enough about magic (and humans in general, she thought) for the prospect of a baby defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to be the most nonsensical thing she had ever heard. McGonagall had already addressed that they didn't know what had happened, but it did, so she dismissed steered her thoughts away from it. There was the unexplained agent of the Dark Lord switching sides out of nowhere to ask about, but she figured that this information would be wasted on her, much like what remained unsaid of the prophecy. Her mind was bursting; her plans for the night had involved watching TV and petting her cats, so this was certainly a change of pace for her. Seemingly impossible circumstances aside, she thought, why would they tell her all of this? She was a squib whose only redeeming qualities were reading, blending in with muggles, and Occlumency from the Order. She eyed the wizard and witch sitting across from her speculatively.
"Why are you telling me this? Of all people, why me? I'm just an old squib," she said, voicing her thoughts. She said this not with shame, but with genuine confusion. She had accepted her condition long ago as well as the treatment that came along with it. This was one of the reasons why she loved the Order so much, they were some of the only wizards and witches who treated her with respect.
"Because we require your skills," said Minerva, making Arabella flinch. She had nearly forgotten the presence of the witch; Minerva had been silent for the entire explanation of the prophecy, gazing out of the window at something unseen by the rest of them. The death of the Potters seemed to have a large impact on the poor woman. She must have taught them at school, Arabella thought. She stayed silent, expecting the witch to continue, but was disappointed. It seemed that she had only possessed the willpower to say one sentence; Dumbledore had to again begin talking for her.
"You normally do surveillance for the Order, do you not?"
"Yes, that's right," she responded.
"And, being a squib, you are quite good at blending in with Muggles?"
"Yes sir, it's what I do for the Order."
"So this should be no different. You will be watching over Harry Potter as he grows up here in Little Whinging, right down the street."
Since the moment she opened the door, she had been expecting something like this. Essentially putting Harry under her observation while he is raised was not what she anticipated, but nothing could surprise her after the last 20 minutes.
Little Whinging, of all places. It was almost entirely a Muggle town; full of the strongest Muggle culture that Arabella had ever seen. Every house was the same, from the brick chimney to the dim cupboard under the stairs. The only things that changed from house to house were the weight of the occupants, the brand of car, and the extravagance of the garden; which all seemed to correspond to the husband's paycheck. Furthermore, the population of Little Whinging seemed to be in constant competition over who was the most stereotypical and boring. If someone was even slightly unusual, she recalled resentfully, they would be greeted with strange, unwelcoming looks and clammy handshakes as she had been.
Now Harry Potter, probably the most extraordinary wizard of the century, was to be raised among the least extraordinary people possible. She voiced this point to Dumbledore, who said that it was where Harry's last family resided.
"Who will he live with?" she asked Dumbledore. His response, the Dursleys, provoked a wince from Mrs. Figg. This was the worst family to raise Harry in her opinion, they were racist, unkind, and prejudiced people.
"I think it is best the Harry be kept away from the magic world as long as possible. By tomorrow he will be the most famous wizard of the century, and I think it safer to raise him away from all of that. This is why I must ask that you keep the magical world and your involvement in it secret from him." Dumbledore said, eyeing Arabella sternly.
Once again, Arabella thought, he is speaking nonsense. She could accept everything else that he had told her that night, but keeping Harry away from the world he belonged in was the most nonsensical bullshit that she had heard in a long time. The boy was to be dropped into Hogwarts with no knowledge of his past? Harry would be completely unprepared for whatever lies in his future.
On the surface, Arabella agreed, but on the inside, she had different plans. Immediately the old squib was contemplating how she could help Harry, she absolutely could not leave him blind. This was her chance to make up for her past mistakes, mistakes that left her a childless widow.
Arabella politely escorted the unexpected family to the door, and with a reassurance of her understanding, she bid them goodnight. Dumbledore and McGonagall made their way down the stone pathway, and out onto the sidewalk. Dumbledore turned his twinkling eyes onto Arabella, and as he waved goodbye, Arabella felt a tug of Legilimency on her mind. It was a light tug, a gentle prod. Dumbledore twisted into apparition, and Arabella closed the door with a frown.
~~~~H~P~~~~
Sirius raced through the crowded street, dodging between Muggles as he sped past.
Damnit, he thought angrily, He's as evasive as a fucking rat. With a burst of speed, he managed to gain enough distance on Peter to grab hold of his jacket. The unwelcome grip provoked a burst of panicked speed from Peter, and he tore away down a side alley.
Sirius pursued relentlessly. This asshole killed my friends, he reminded himself with clenched fists. Peter was a traitor, a coward… Sirius would not let down James again; he would get vengeance. He would get justice for his lost friends and their son.
The side alley opened into a larger street, and Peter immediately bolted left. Sirius ran after him, his knuckles white around his wand. His legs were tired, his lungs were burning, and his heart was aching, but he ignored it.
The alley reached a dead-end consisting of an apothecary, a food cart, and a swarm of muggles, who were turning their attention to the now-cornered rat and his pursuer.
Where are the goddamn Aurors? Sirius tipped them off once he had located Peter, and had been chasing him since, trying vainly to corner him. Sirius could only resist the temptation for so long. The killing curse was calling to him.
Peter, realizing his predicament, turned to Sirius, hands behind his back, and yelled, "How could you Sirius?! How could you kill them?"
Sirius was overwhelmed by rage. How dare he? The words entered his mind: Avada Kedavra. He raised his wand, pointing it at Peter. This is for James, you dick.
"Avada-"
"Confringo."
The silver glint of a blade was all that Sirius saw before a deafening explosion blew apart the alley behind Peter. Sirius staggered from the blast, gasping as he rubbed his soot-filed eyes. Sirius couldn't tell if the alley was silent or if his ears were still ringing. He pointed his wand at his eyes, cleaning them with a muttered "Lavum".
Sirius looked down at the crater, which was so deep that it had cracked the sewer below. A single finger and a scorched dagger were laying on Peter's bloodied robes in the center of the crater. There were scattered bodies and burned limbs laying on the ground everywhere that Sirius looked. The alley reeked of death, and the air was thick with smoke and the stench of blood. As the muggles in the alley started recovering from the shock, screams started to pierce the air.
His breath caught in his chest. Peter had escaped. He had failed James and Lily again. An entire lifetime of guilt and anguish crashed down upon Sirius like a tidal wave as he stood amongst the charred corpses of innocent muggles. It was the worst he had ever felt in his life; he felt utterly worthless. James and Lily had sacrificed so much for him, and he couldn't even return the favor. In times like these, Sirius found it almost funny how useless he was.
I killed them, he chuckled as the Aurors arrived, wands pointed at Sirius. It was my fault! He gazed around at them with glassy eyes, searching for any mercy or understanding, but he found none. He laughed out loud. "I killed them!" he yelled.
He dropped his wand. The Aurors snapped it and cast a Petrificus Totalus on him. Sirius was hysterically laughing between pained gulps, tears streaming down his face as an Auror grabbed him by the hair and apparated to Azkaban.
Sirius looked around at his new home. Hungry dementors surrounded him, eager to start their feast, but Sirius felt indifferent.
I'm so sorry James.