A/N : Another chapter, special thanks to Darkness Enthroned, ArmsofAtlas, Honorversefan and x102reddragon for their amazing beta work.
Chapter Three: Divine Intervention
A big, black dog ambled across the castle grounds, shrouded in shadows, dark eyes fixed on the towers above.
The castle was mostly empty, save Hagrid and some of the other teachers. The dog had spent a significant chunk of his time enduring the half-giant's enthusiastic pats.
Sirius wondered what Hagrid would think if he knew exactly who he was fondling.
He increased his pace as he ascended the stone staircase, claws retracted to keep silent. The last thing he needed was Snape's attention.
Grinding to a stop in front of an imposing gargoyle, he glanced around before shifting his body. Sounds of snapping bones filled the air. The entire transformation took just shy of three seconds.
He slipped his wand into his palm, eyes narrowed, the human detection spell on his lips. No blot of red light appeared in his peripheral vision.
"Acid Pops."
The gargoyle jumped to the side, revealing a set of circular stairs, at the top of which stood a sparse wooden door. The sound of knuckles hitting wood broke the silence of the night. The door remained shut.
Refusing to linger outside the headmaster's office, Sirius pushed open the door, inviting himself into Dumbledore's domain.
Numerous silver trinkets greeted his eyes, resting upon the polished wooden table, sparkling brightly in a way that attracted the attention of his grey eyes.
A flash of silver caught his eyes, and Sirius looked to find Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot sitting on the bare floor in a full lotus position, eyes closed and body perfectly still.
Dumbledore did not look up to acknowledge Sirius, nor did he give any indication that he was aware of Sirius's presence.
His body was poised in an eerie stiffness, unmoving, as though he was no longer breathing, yet the vibrant colour and warmth testified to the life still in them.
No sooner than a minute later, an unearthly sound left Dumbledore's mouth, the entire office shook with the force of a transcendental power.
Sirius looked to find Dumbledore's opened eyes filled with wisps of grey fog, head arched upwards to release one last inaudible yell that threatened to demolish Hogwarts.
The shaking subsided, just as soon as it began, grey fog receded in Dumbledore's eyes to reveal their brilliant blue hue once more, imprisoned behind his half-moon spectacles.
"Good evening Sirius," said Dumbledore, his voice calm as he picked himself up from the ground with commendable grace.
"You were in the underworld, weren't you?" Sirius asked, voice tinged with awe, he knew of no one else alive who could venture into the underworld at will, it was rumoured that Nicholas Flamel could but Sirius didn't really give too much thought into those rumours.
The knowledge of the art was so ancient that only a handful knew it once existed and only a few of those handful have the spiritual and magical affinity to undertake the journey.
Sirius had only met one other that could travel in spirit through the veil at will, his uncle Alphard.
"Yes my boy," Dumbledore replied. "It's rough waters in there at this period I'm afraid, for some reason, the host spirits and the furies are becoming agitated."
For not the first time, Sirius marveled at the wealth of knowledge and power that Dumbledore possessed.
"Was that the cause of the tremor?" asked Sirius.
Dumbledore sighed and age seemed to catch up to him in that instant, he lowered himself to a seat behind his desk, gesturing at Sirius to sit across him
"First of all Sirius, I want to apologize to you for not believing you innocent, until last month," Dumbledore began.
"I was blinded by my experience with death and sorrow humans have proved capable of causing that I didn't even think to question your guilt. I know it doesn't change what you suffered but I am sorry."
Bile rose in Sirius's throat, he would be lying if he said he wasn't a bit bitter that Dumbledore had believed him capable of betraying James, believed him capable of turning to Voldemort even after his ferocious fighting towards the cause of the order of Phoenix.
He had wondered for nights, alone in his cell, what he might have done to lose Dumbledore's faith in him and was more than a bit incensed when he learnt that Dumbledore had trusted Snape, despite the latter's shady past with the dark arts.
But twelve years spent with nothing but his thoughts of revenge and the insane ramblings of the deranged servants of Voldemort has taught him a bit about acceptance and seeing the bigger picture.
"You weren't the one who placed me in there Dumbledore, while I might not like that you did nothing to help me, I won't hold a grudge, anything for the betterment of my godsons," Sirius replied as steady as he could, meeting Dumbledore's brilliant blue eyes, his words seemed to be enough as Dumbledore gave him a hesitant smile.
"That's all I ask my boy," the old man whispered. "That's all I ask."
"Speaking of godchildren Dumbledore, I did not remember seeing Harry with John at the shrieking shack, Is that because he is in a different house?"
Dumbledore held Sirius' gaze for a moment before he spoke.
"Harry does not attend Hogwarts."
Sirius felt the impact of the words as though it was a physical blow. Every single Potter for generations had attended Hogwarts, why would Harry Potter be denied the chance? Ice threatened to flood Sirius's veins but he held the insidious glaze at bay, he was determined to get to the root of this and anger would only serve to exacerbate issues.
He spoke in as steady and calm a voice as he could manage.
"Why not?" he queried. "Why would you allow Harry to enroll into a school different from the one John is?"
"John knows nothing about his brother Sirius, and it might be in our best interests to keep it that way."
The bewilderment he felt from before was nothing compared to what he was feeling now. Why would anyone keep John from knowing he had a brother?
Before Sirius could even begin to organize his thoughts, Dumbledore spoke again.
"Harry Potter is not enrolled into Hogwarts or any other magical school because he is a squib."
Sirius almost fainted. The son of James and Lily Potter, a squib! His mind was whirling, questions fighting for dominance of speech, each consecutive one seeming more important that the former.
He was about to open his mouth when Dumbledore spoke, asking him a question that really threw him for a loop.
"Tell me Sirius, what do you know about prophecies?"
The four marauders had agreed to shuffle, between themselves all the five electives in order to benefit from all the individual knowledge of those subjects.
He had ended up with Divination, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes alongside James, Remus with magical creatures and Peter with muggle studies. That seemed a lifetime ago.
"Not much," he replied. "I know that it is made by seers and that it is a probable depiction of future in riddles."
"That is not entirely correct," said Dumbledore. "Prophecies are not made by seers, they are revealed by the oracle of Delphi, through seers and Prophets as conduits."
Dumbledore paused, brilliant blue eyes scrutinizing Sirius' face, as though gauging his comprehension.
"You were taught the basic types of prophecies, do you still remember them?" Dumbledore asked.
"Straight and Forked prophecy?" Although it came out more as a question than a response, Dumbledore smiled all the same.
"Very good Sirius, prophecies could either be straight or forked but the classification does not end there. Forked prophecy is subdivided into numerous divisions; one of them is the bind-forked Prophecy, do you know what that means?"
Sirius shook his head in the negative.
"A bind-forked prophecy is one that branches in two or more distinct forks or events, where one of them will be fulfilled at the absence of the other; once enacted it is unavoidable, either one if its prophesied outcomes must come to pass. Its very nature makes it one of the most dangerous kinds of magic known; a bind-forked prophecy at the hands of our enemy could spell disaster."
Sirius listened with rapt attention, breath hitched in anticipation to discover where the train of conversation would lead.
He didn't have to wonder for long.
"A few days before that fateful Halloween thirteen years ago," Dumbledore began. "I was visiting some old students of mine who had just got married. Pandora Lovegood had always been one of my favourites. It was during my visit that she gave a prophecy, a prophecy that only her husband and I witnessed.
"What did the prophecy say?" Sirius asked. He had always thought Pandora Urquhart strange, but had never even once entertained the notion that she could be a seer.
"The squib must go to the Philosopher's house or the chosen one will never vanquish the dark lord. Those were the words of the prophecy. I recognized the words vanquish the dark lord from another prophecy and realised that this one was a —"
"Conjugal prophecy of the same bifurcated root," Sirius interjected, eyes as wide as saucers, he knew enough about prophecies to recognize a connection between two.
"Very good my boy." Dumbledore beamed. "The prophecy was absolutely clear what would happen if the squib does not go to the philosopher's house, but that birthed the question as to who was the squib among the three."
"How did you find out it was Harry?" Sirius queried, not bothering to ask the identity of the Philosopher's, there has been only one person to be widely proclaimed in the magical world with that title.
"Lily died to protect her sons, and by doing so left a tendril of protection magic over them that I could pick up. I decided to use that tendril to cast a protection web on the house of her last living relative, Petunia Dursley. All wards need to be recharged and updated at some point, the one I placed was no different, but I was able to tweak the ward to recharge by acknowledging both boys as a source of magic. The wards acknowledged only John as a wizard and then I knew that Harry was the squib and that he would be well cared for by Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel when I got around to explaining some things to them."
"Why didn't you tell John about Harry?"
"What would you imagine his reaction to be when he learns that his brother got to grow up with the richest wizard in the world where he grew up in a cupboard?" asked Dumbledore. "I was wrong about Petunia, she treated John wrongly, she abused him, her and her idiot excuse for a husband." Sirius had never heard so much venom in Dumbledore's voice.
He watched with fascination as the blue eyes of the headmaster hardened. Dumbledore had always been the polite grandfatherly type, on rare occasions had Sirius witnessed him truly angry but never before had he seen Dumbledore resort to using defamatory words.
"What about Harry?" asked Sirius. "How much does he know of us."
"I do not know for sure," replied Dumbledore. "I suspect Nicholas told him about some things, but I cannot be sure, the condition stipulated by the Flamels when they took in Harry was that I keep my distance from him."
"Why would they ask that?" Sirius asked in utter bewilderment.
"Your guess is as good as mine, my boy," replied Dumbledore. "Were it not for the prophecy I might have decided against it, but alas my hands were tied."
"I just hope he's safe and happy," Sirius said, voice cracking with affection for his faraway godson.
"So do I, my boy, especially now that trouble seems to rear its ugly head."
There was something in Dumbledore's voice that disturbed Sirius.
"The revolting spirits in the underworld?" he asked. Dumbledore sighed, his blue eyes distant.
"Yes, but that's not all," the old man muttered. A crease of worry implanted itself on the wizened face. "There is something magically wrong with the world, I know it, I can feel it. Perhaps it could be the source of the spirits agitation."
"About magically wrong things," Sirius began, fishing into the pockets of his robes to retrieve John's letter. His right hand stretched to transport the letter into Dumbledore's old hands.
Sirius watched in curiosity as the headmaster read the letter, a blank expression etched in the latter's face. Dumbledore stood up, gait sharp and sudden, he walked to one of his wooden shelves, pulling out what looked to be a copy of the Daily Prophet, except the pictures weren't moving.
A finger indicated a tiny headline that read 'Frank Bryce mysteriously disappears'. Sirius discovered from reading the story below that Frank Bryce was an old gardener in a small town called Little Hangleton.
He looked up to meet Dumbledore's face, confusion and curiosity evident in his eyes.
As though hearing his unspoken question, the headmaster pointed to the newspaper, indicating the date and time Frank was suspected to have disappeared.
"August the fifth, 5 am," whispered Sirius, eyes wide at the implications. That was the exact date and time John had his dream, an idle part of his mind wondered how Dumbledore even knew that.
"So that dream really happened?"
Dumbledore nodded in the affirmative, the confirmation sending jabs of shock and fear down Sirius' spine.
"So Voldemort's back?" Sirius asked.
"Not quite, I believe he's getting stronger but not with a body yet."
Sirius' mind mulled over the information, dread and reason battling for dominance in his weary head.
"How did you know Voldemort was involved with this?" Sirius asked.
"I recognized the name of the street on the newspaper the moment I read it, Little Hangleton was where Lord Voldemort's father lived, not many know of his roots and the boy he was, but I do."
"I went to investigate the Riddle's house but found it conspicuously absent in Little Hangleton." Dumbledore's eyes met Sirius as though conveying some inner meaning. "It was almost like it was never there to begin with."
"The Fidelius charm," whispered Sirius, rays of shining clarity penetrating his thoughts. "He had the house placed under the Fidelius, he must have known you would be on his track somehow."
Dumbledore nodded at him, there was an odd emotion in his eyes that Sirius could not place.
"He has always been a very cautious sort, leaving nothing to luck or chance," the old man whispered.
The emotion in his voice was strange and unusual.
"He has an accomplice," Dumbledore muttered suddenly. His eyes tight with conviction.
"John mentioned Wormtail," Sirius began. "But I do not believe for a second that Wormtail has enough brain cells to conjure a hat, not alone cast the Fidelius. No, it has to be someone else."
"But who?" whispered Dumbledore. Sirius didn't really think Dumbledore intended the question for him.
"John said Voldemort killed someone," Sirius spoke, "You confirmed it to be Frank Bryce, and the way it was worded, it seems to me that the killing curse was used. His body was destroyed that night wasn't it?"
"Yes," was the reply.
"And you're sure he has not regained his body yet?"
"I am," Dumbledore replied confidently.
"How then was he able to hold a wand?" Sirius asked.
Dumbledore's blue eyes stared off, gaze traversing through the large windows in his office, into the creepy darkness of the night.
"How indeed," he replied, voice sounding a thousand miles away. "How indeed."
Louis Allard was a very tired man. Thrust into the position of leadership at the tender age of seventeen, he had since been the chief representing the welfare of his people for the past fifty-six years.
Poissonelle was a small, strictly magical village hidden in the town of Pontoise just northwest of Paris.
Specializing in agriculture, only few of the natives acquired a formal education in Beauxbatons, Louis himself was one the lucky few and he knew firsthand that not many of Poissonelle natives were in positions of power in the general magical society. The natives, however, were fine as long as they were left in peace.
Said peace was threatened when a few months ago a monster, believed to be a hybrid cross between a vampire and a werewolf, began to rampage around the village killing fishermen and traders alike or anybody who dared venture near the river Oise.
As could be expected, this had an adverse effect on the village's economy.
Proud of their reputation as the top distributors of stock fish in the nation, the village of Poissonelle has always been stable in terms of finance. The proceeds they got from their exports was enough to facilitate the wellbeing of its residents.
Those proceeds suffered the moment the hybrid began its fervent attacks. The entire village was at the mercy of the monster for the people in there were farmers, not fighters.
In a fit of desperation, he turned to his son-in-law, the French Minister for Magic, who responded with the presence of aurors, all five of whom met sticky ends at the hands of the monster.
Bounty hunters were called in to remedy the situation; where the aurors failed, their first-hand experience being dark wizards themselves was deemed invaluable, but it seemed that the ocean of luck for the village had gone very dry as all the bounty hunters who faced the hybrid paid the ultimate price with their lives.
Louis had almost lost all hope and was even prepared to go on the self-sacrificing mission of facing the monster himself when a young boy looking to be about fifteen arrived at the Chief's headquarters of Poissonelle requesting to see him.
The boy was dressed in plain black, the style of his attire muggle, the sleeves of his shirt were long enough to cover his arms but tight enough to reveal well-defined muscles.
There was an air of presence around him, a sense of assuredness in his pose, an aura of confidence that Louis had never felt before.
"My aide said you wished to see me," said Louis, speaking the moment the boy was settled in the office.
"That's right sir," the calm voice of the boy replied. Louis took a good look at his face, his eyes capturing long black hair that framed the tanned face of the boy, there was a tattoo of a thestral holding a sword, etched on his forehead akin to a scar, yet none of those sights piqued Louis attention than those mesmerizing green eyes.
"What is your name?" asked Louis politely.
"I go by Azrael," replied the boy, voice as calm as the sea. His French was impeccable yet Louis knew somehow that he was not a native.
"What can I do for you Azrael?" asked Louis courteously.
"The question isn't what you could do for me," was the reply. "But rather what I can do for you."
Perhaps a much younger Louis would have been incensed by the anfractuous answer, but with age and responsibility came an abundance of patience.
"What can you do for me?" Louis asked, tone careful and polite.
"A number of things," the boy replied, tilting his head with a faux pensive look, as though considering his options. "Taking care of your hybrid problems for one."
Louis' eyes snapped up and his mouth dropped open in disbelief.
"You can take care of the monster?" the words tumbled from his lips. "A mere boy, fight one of the most dangerous creatures to have walked the earth? Impossible!"
"Whoever mentioned anything about fighting, I was talking about killing it." Azrael intoned, voice dangerous and sinister, face inscrutable.
Louis fought the urge to shiver.
"You look to still be of Beauxbatons age," he said. "Aside from the infringement of underage sorcery rules, I have no desire to send a child to an early grave."
"The underage magic clause is useless," Azrael's flat voice filled the air. "I can't perform magic anyway as I am a squib. As for your other concern, I have not been a child in a very long time."
The air seemed to stand still at the boy's words.
"Prove yourself," Louis intoned, steel evident in his voice.
The boy, for the first time smiled. It was not a nice smile.
"Look out your window sir," Azrael said. "There are four robins on the oak tree, I want you to keep your eyes on the blue feathered one."
Louis squinted up to look at the top of the tree, eyes narrowing on the birds, wondering how in the world the boy had spotted them from his vantage point. He trained his gaze on the blue feathered bird, watching as it flew about the tree, confident in its dives.
A swift whoosh of air tickled his ears, a presence grazed by his left cheek, sliding through the narrow cracks of the spirelet windows. A distant thud signified the fall of the blue-feathered bird, its descent accompanied by the sound of fleeing birds.
Louis blinked twice, confusion taking control of his mind, he pushed his windows open to increase his scope, his eyes darting between Azrael and the dead robin, cautious understanding seeping into them.
"Wingardium Leviosa," intoned Louis, wand pointed at the carcass of the bird. The opened windows granting entrance to the dead robin. A dart protruding out of the puckered neck caught his eyes, the sharp point of which was tinged with a mushy green.
Louis handed over the dart back to Azrael, his mind reassessing the boy before him once again.
"Would you like another demonstration sir?" asked Azrael, innocent politeness dripping from his voice like oil.
"How much do you require to get rid of the monster?" Louis asked.
"One thousand five hundred galleons," Azrael replied in a tone that left no room for argument. Louis did not mind, that was less than half the price the previous bounty hunters requested.
"When would you like to get the money?" asked Louis
"Once I have succeeded in bringing down the monster," replied Azrael.
"You trust me to live up to the end of my bargain when you complete the task?" Louis prodded, careful in his goad of the boy before him.
"If I fail to put down the monster, then you would have wasted no investment on me, but if I succeed…" Azrael tilted his head to the side, Jade eyes fixed on him, as though trying to pass an unspeakable message. "...then I trust you would consider the fact that I have proved to be more dangerous than the monster that nearly destroyed your village."
Louis tensed, the subtle threat was not lost on him. It was the final confirmation that the boy wasn't just posturing around like an overgrown peacock. This was a young man who knew exactly what he was doing.
"When do you intend to battle the monster?" asked Louis.
"How about tonight? Midnight sharp," said Azrael. "I would lure the monster out to the river Oise."
Louis nodded, hope threatening to flood his heart. "I shall give the word to clear the surrounding area."
The light from the full moon was the only consolation to the dark night. Jade eyes scanned the river bank, body poised, waiting for his foe to arrive.
He had taken great pain to set the trail of human blood adulterated with a strengthening potion, amplifying its scent tenfold.
Hybrids were very curious monsters. A cross between a vampire and a werewolf, the first was a wolf turned by a pureblood vampire on the seventh night of the seventh month. Reproduction has since then been allowed to run its course.
They were creatures of the night, exceedingly powerful on nights of the full moon, exuding an euphoric feeling while hunting their prey.
It was that sense of invincibility that Harry used against the beast, sprinkling powdered poison on the adulterated human blood, knowing the hybrid would not resist licking it at least twice while following the trail leading to what it expected to be a weakened prey.
The poison would serve to weaken the bones, hindering the movement of the monster, granting Harry a combat advantage.
The sound of howling reached his ears far before he saw the monster. The daemon that stood before him was born of the nightmares of hapless kids, black fur shrouded in the dark, the yellow, sinister eyes were what Harry used to distinguish its position, before tracing his gaze around every outline in the monster's anatomy.
Another howl revealed venomous, tapered, sharp fangs and baleful yellow eyes promised pain and death.
The distance between them disappeared in a blink. Claws charged straight at him and his eyes tracked the projectile of the beast's lung.
Harry drew his sword.
Blade silent as it left its sheath, he twirled it between fingers, eyes fixed on the abomination before him.
The beast completed its lunge.
Harry sidestepped, and slapped the paw away with the flat of his blade. There was a reverberating clang indicating the sound of two metals clashed against each other.
That was all the confirmation Harry had been looking for, only the paw bones of a fully grown hybrid were made of steel. He knew only of a way to kill the beast now and he knew he wasn't mistaken, how many times had he mastered the features of the hybrid alongside that of so many dark creatures at Perenelle's behest?
He moved aside once more to dodge a swipe, swiftness and fluidity inherent in his gait, the claws of the monster passed over his face at hair's breadth.
The dance had begun.
Fishing into the pockets of his pants to extricate a small paper bag filled with toxic powder, he doused all its content at the face of the monster.
Piercing, heart shuddering screams punctuated the night. The acrid stench of poison hovered around the air, revealing the wailing beast at the center of the malevolent atmosphere.
The dance with death.
Harry was already advancing, movement methodical and silent. Attention focused on the trashing beast. He gripped his sword tightly, jaw set at the prospect of what must be done.
There would be no compromise, no negotiations, no quarter given.
He raised his sword, body angled sideways in a slight crouch, sinister stygian blade glinted ominously in the glory of the full moon. The conviction of his actions had been unleashed even before his hands found the hilt of the sword.
The storm in his blood thundered unrestrained, up through his fingers to power his muscles, fueling the last vestige of resolve to consummate the deadly thought.
A calm had settled in his middle, held firmly there by a terrible avalanche.
In that instant, there was nothing that could deny Harry the monster's blood, for nothing less would stop him. Conviction burned away all reluctance.
His sword traveled its arc.
Nothing else mattered but purpose, and his singular purpose was to bring death raining down on this beast.
His vision tunneled his target, life narrowed down to that singular lethal commitment.
With all his power and might, he swung.
Time froze in that distinctive moment that signified the edge of life. Blade whistled ominously as it descended its arc, landing at the nick of that final vestige in the infinitesimal moment.
The blade caught the monster at the centre of the neck, exactly where Harry intended, spattering the dark night with poisonous blood. Bone fragments and crimson droplets sprayed up, accompanied by the severed head of the blade's victim.
In that instant of shattering violence, the monster's life was gone. Harry's remorseless conviction shielded him from feeling the pain of any pity.
The severed head gathered speed in its descent, until it hit the ground with a heavy thud. It bounced and tumbled away through the night, leaving a trail of gore to trace its crooked route.
A/N: I admire constructive criticism.
A/N (2) : Not an update. After reading this chapter I decided that I didn't like how some things were, so I decided to change them. A big thank you to Steelbadger for his help with the editing of this chapter. Let me know what you think about the change in your reviews.