The Advantages of Unconsciousness

Harry Potter stared at the shriveled chip bags in the depressingly dark fireplace. He had to focus on something. He had to focus his attention on anything but his gloating uncle. He was incredibly proud of himself, Vernon Dursley. Yes, there was no possible way for the Royal Mail to reach them now. He had finally escaped the letters. Vernon's joy did nothing but infuriate Harry at the injustice. They were his letters. And yet Uncle Vernon had determined that Harry would never get to read the words from whatever stranger was attempting to reach him.

The promised storm blew up around the dingy hut as night fell. Somehow Dudley was able to snore through the noise of the sea, the howling wind, and the uncomfortable creak of the walls around them. Harry, however, stared at his cousin's watch, waiting. Waiting for something, anything to happen. Waiting for midnight when he would officially turn eleven. Waiting for the mysterious, determined writer of his many letters to make their next move. Waiting for Uncle Vernon to give up and return to Privet Drive. Waiting for the sea to erode the rock into its turbulent waters. Waiting for the hut to crumble under the wind's power. Waiting. Just waiting.

BOOM.

Rubeus Hagrid watched in horror as his destination, the hut on the rock, gave one last, rattling shake before caving in upon itself.

He stopped in midair, not knowing what to do. His heart thundered against his chest, the thumping ringing in his ears as his eyes blurred. He didn't have the magic for this, didn't have the self-control to shift the rubble without doing further harm to…

"HARRY!"

He needed Dumbledore. Dumbledore would know exactly what to do.

With a final look at the hut's remains, Hagrid fled back to the comfort of Hogwarts and Albus Dumbledore.

The Boy Who Lived, Absent?

The first of September has come and gone. Our dear children have departed on the Hogwarts Express for another year of learning in the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. Gryffindors are chatting animatedly about the upcoming Quidditch matches. Hufflepuffs are greeting the friends that they have missed over the summer holidays. Ravenclaws are preparing for lessons, O.W.L.s, and N.E.W.T.s. Slytherins are planning for their futures. And there is a small number of first-year students finding their way among new friends in their new Houses.

But there is one eleven-year-old that has mysteriously been absent from the hustle and bustle of the new school year: Harry James Potter.

You know Harry Potter as the Boy Who Lived, the boy who, at the age of one, defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named when he was at the height of his power. For ten years, Harry Potter has endured his orphancy outside of the spotlight. Wizarding Britain has waited with bated breath for the time when the Boy Who Lived reappeared in our society, entering platform nine and three-quarters, boarding the Hogwarts Express, and walking the halls of Hogwarts like so many before him.

But he is not.

Readers, Harry James Potter is nowhere to be found. We at The Daily Prophet are continuing the research necessary to find the Boy Who Lived and discover the truth. But for now, we can only speculate on the boy's character, his well-being, and his power.

Lucius Malfoy set aside his copy of The Daily Prophet and couldn't help but smirk at the article. If the reporters couldn't find the boy, then Lucius would take it upon himself to find him. To keep an eye on him. And perhaps prepare him to meet his master if ever the opportunity presented itself.

The cold December air blew through the door with each entrance and exit of visitors, employees, and patients. The hospital doorways were draped with garlands of greenery and adorned with bright red bows. There was an evergreen tree near the nurse's station decorated with gauze and medical gloves. Even in a hospital, the feeling of Christmas was in the air.

"But they're Muggles, Mum. Why do we have to visit Muggles?"

"Keep your voice down! And because, Ronald Weasley, it's a good thing to do. I ask you to visit a few patients once a year, and you act like I'm pulling out your teeth without magic and potions. One day you could be lying lonely in a hospital bed, wishing for a stranger's comfort.

"Now, look, there's a boy just your age. He'll probably wake soon. Just go in and sit with him for a while. And when he does wake up, do try to be polite."

"Fine, Mum."

Molly Weasley watched Ron walk slowly into the young boy's room and sit on the edge of the visitor's chair. She stayed for a moment in the doorway, making sure Ron wouldn't attempt to leave his post before making her way down the hospital corridor to another patient's room.

Molly returned sometime later to find her youngest son still at the boy's side. As far as she could tell, the young patient hadn't moved from his stiff position, let alone wake for her son to speak to him.

But Ron was speaking. Excitedly.

"…and Gudgeon managed to pull the Snitch right from under the Magpie's Seeker's nose. We still lost by thirty, but it might have been the best game the Cannons have seen in the last decade, as far as excitement goes. But next game? Whew!"

"Left with no family, poor kid." Molly started at the unannounced presence of Dr. Childers.

"What happened?" the Weasley matriarch whispered.

"Brought into the emergency department in late July – a building collapsed on him and his family during a storm. I was on call that night and didn't see any good coming from our best efforts. He survived the incident, though, while his relatives weren't so lucky. Although, lucky…well, we're watching him closely, Molly."

"And his diagnosis?"

"He came in with significant head trauma along with many other external and internal injuries. He did well in surgery but never woke after. He has been comatose for the last five months."

"He's so young…" Molly whispered, looking fondly as her son continued to talk to the unconscious boy.

"He is. But that's actually good for his hopeful recovery. If and when he does wake, his youth will only better his chances for regaining and rebuilding brain function and proper motor control."

Molly nodded her understanding. "How long will he be like this?" She couldn't imagine Ron – or any of her children, for that matter – missing such a critical time during childhood.

"We have no way of knowing. Of course, the sooner he wakes from his current state, the better his chances of full recovery."

"Will he stay here until he does?"

"He is nearing the end of his current treatment plan – there isn't much more the hospital can do for him. He will be moved to a long-term nursing facility in the near future, I expect."

Molly made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat before entering the room to join her son at the young boy's bedside.

Quirinius Quirrell stood before an elegant mirror, Albus Dumbledore's latest object of wit. He could sense his master's frustration, making his ability to focus on the task at hand an even greater trial.

"This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell murmured to himself, examining the mirror closely. Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this, he thought. But the old fool was in London, knocking at the door of an unknowing Ministry. What Quirrell wouldn't give to see the look on his face when he realized he had left the school in the hands of a newly revived Lord Voldemort. Once he could find out how to get the Sorcerer's Stone…

"I see the Stone…I'm presenting it to you, Master…but where is it?"

Quirrell couldn't afford to make any more mistakes. The last time had been bad enough, but to be in the final chamber of Dumbledore's obstacle course and lose the Stone…Quirrell managed to contain the shudder that threatened to rock through his body.

Cursing under his breath, he stepped ever closer to the mirror, nose-to-nose with his reflection. His breath fogged the glass. "I don't understand…is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?"

He had spent the first ten minutes in the room studying the words inscribed along the mirror's edge. But for all the languages Quirrell had studied, the words remained meaningless, unreadable. And all his reflection did was mock him by presenting the Sorcerer's Stone to his master, aiding his drinking of the Elixir of Life, and gazing amazed at the resurrected body of Lord Voldemort.

"What does this mirror do? How does it work?" Quirrell shook his head, wanting to find another way. But… "Help me, Master!"

"You insolent wretch! It is a mere mirror. Figure it out for yourself, you worthless swine."

Quirrell watched once more as his reflection succeeded in earning Lord Voldemort's praise. His desperation seemed only to grow as the smug representation of himself stood at the right hand of his master.

And something in him broke.

With a flash of his wand, the mirror's glass exploded into sharp shards, leaving behind an empty frame.

There was no sign of the Stone.

A moment later, Quirrell felt a searing pain in the back of his skull. It was the wrath of his master, and he knew it was the end.

"Mummy, there's a little boy back there." The girl pulled against her mother's hold on her hand, craning her neck to maintain eye contact with the room.

"He's probably here visiting his grandmother just like you, Hermione. Now, come on. You know how your gram likes our schedule."

"But he was a patient, Mummy. Not a visitor. He was all alone. Do you think he's scared? I would be scared if I were here alone. I've never liked the smell here. Can we go visit him? No one should be alone. That's why we visit Gram so much, isn't it?"

"Hermione Jean, please." Ellen Granger shook her head in exasperation. "We can visit the boy if he still has no visitors once we spend time with your grandmother."

"Okay."

But Ellen's resolve didn't last, and it was only forty minutes later that she allowed Hermione to enter the boy's room before returning to her mother.

Hermione walked slowly forward, inching toward the bed. The boy was pale with dark, unkempt hair, but there was a calmness about him that allowed Hermione to sit with ease in the chair at his bedside.

"Hi," she spoke tentatively. "I'm Hermione. I think we might be about the same age – I'm twelve. I wonder if we would be in the same year – I've just finished my first year at secondary school." Hermione turned to the hall to see if there was anyone outside. There wasn't, so she continued. "It's a wonderful place, my school. It's a place of magic." She whispered the last word, still wary of being overheard. "It's called Hogwarts, and I get to use a wand to perform spells and charms. I've transfigured matches into needles. I've made feathers fly. I even get to make potions with real-life magical ingredients."

Hermione smiled to herself. "It's amazing. Of course, it would be even better if I had a few more friends. This one boy, Neville, he's nice. But we can only ever talk about Herbology – the study of magical plants. And that's fine. But I like other things too. You see, not many people like to be around me. One boy – his name is Ronald – told me that I was too much and gave him a headache. But I think his headache was due to the fact that he had left studying for his History of Magic exam to the night before, not because I was trying to discuss the differences and similarities between different movement charms.

"So, then I thought I would help him – History of Magic may be boring, but really, the subject without Professor Binns is very interesting. So, I offered him my help, but he ran off to his dormitory. Can you believe it? No matter, I got to spend the evening with my notes all to myself.

"I bet you wouldn't leave your studying until the night before. I picture you as being very studious. It's really too bad you're in here. I don't like it here, and I'm just visiting. I always feel like I smell…sterile every time I leave. I can't imagine being here all the time. But I suppose it helps that you aren't aware of your surroundings. Although, I have read some articles about comatose patients being able to hear their loved ones. I suppose I just have to hope that you won't remember what I say even if you can hear me – Statute of Secrecy, and all."

Hermione took a deep breath, leaning back in the chair and considering the boy once again. "I think we would be friends. You look like you're nice. Not Neville-level nice. But nice. There's this boy at school. He's not very nice. Nor does he look like he is. He doesn't like me because I'm a Muggle-born – my parents aren't magical, you see – and he's a Pureblood wizard. He can trace his magical lineage back an infinite number of centuries, or some tosh. Not me. And that's fine because guess what? According to most of the professors, I was top of the class! I study a lot, of course, and hoped that I would get the best grades. But it's especially nice to know that I beat a Pureblood. Ha!"

Smiling wide, Hermione looked at the boy in the bed. "Would you like me to read to you? I'm never without a book, if you couldn't have guessed. I haven't yet gotten my books for the next school year, but I almost always have Hogwarts: A History with me. Let's see…"

Ellen Granger, after completing a jigsaw puzzle with her mother, returned to the young boy's room to witness her daughter animatedly reading from a dog-eared book she knew all too well was Hermione's favorite.

Lucius Malfoy could almost feel the power emanating from the thin black book that rested in his cloak pocket. Oh, the evil that would befall any who dared write in its pages. He would never forget the night the diary had been placed in his care. His master had entrusted him with the artifact, effectively expressing his thoughts that Lucius had the judgment to know when to use it.

"It holds a memory, Lucius. A powerful memory that has the ability to cripple Hogwarts and Dumbledore," the Dark Lord had said.

Power…and revenge.

According to Draco, the school was only continuing to fall into a false sense of security under the old fool Dumbledore. Lucius had known that the school continued to invite Mudbloods into the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. But to blatantly applaud one for besting a Pureblood in every exam… Of course, not everything was going well for the headmaster. According to several sources, the latest Defense professor had disappeared at the end of the year. There had been an inquiry, but the case remained cold for the Ministry.

Perhaps it was boredom that had told Lucius to place the book in his pocket for his outing to Diagon Alley. Or perhaps it was the whispers that Quirrell hadn't disappeared of his own accord that sent the book to the forefront of Lucius's mind. There were rumors that the Dark Lord had had a hand in the young professor's hasty departure. And if Lucius could aid in the collapse of Hogwarts and the demise of Albus Dumbledore on the eve of the Dark Lord's return, his reward would be great.

And in the meantime, he could work to dismiss the credibility of one Arthur Weasley.

The Muggle-lover was causing a lot of strife for Lucius and many of the old crowd. Placing the diary in the hands of his naïve young daughter was all too easy with the aid of the family's temper.

But even as Lucius reveled in his success, the Dark Lord's parting words reverberated in his memory. "I do not want to learn that you have used this artifact for any unnecessary means, Lucius. There will be consequences if so."

Watching the family of redheads depart Flourish and Blotts, Lucius believed his master would be pleased with his decision.

Yet another mess for the Squib to clean, Argus Filch thought as he stomped his way to his usual perch on the second floor. Frog brains. Bat spleens. Filth everywhere.

There was always something. And sure, it kept the job interesting. But he was mourning, damn it! If they could give him a moment of peace!

But that certainly wouldn't happen with water on the floor.

"I've had it!" he yelled to the empty corridor, the pond of water rippling from the vibrations of his voice. "Even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven't got enough to do! No, this is the final straw, I'm going to Dumbledore!"

Argus slipped on the wet floor in his abrupt turn to fetch the headmaster. No matter. He was going to get Dumbledore, and this time the man was going to listen.

Minutes later, his triumph paramount, Argus was leading Dumbledore along the second floor to the scene of crime after crime. With a simple wave of his wand, the headmaster vanished the water. Argus held back a retort – the work wasn't the problem. It was the cause of the work that was the problem.

The wails of Moaning Myrtle still echoed from the out of order bathroom that she inhabited. Dumbledore stepped forward, and Argus followed eagerly behind. It was actually going to happen. Dumbledore would put a stop to her constant mess-making.

"Miss Warren, what has you so upset?" Argus didn't like Dumbledore's soft tone. It didn't bode well for the wrath that Argus had anticipated.

"Professor Dumbledore! I-I was attacked, sir!" The sobs of the girl-turned-ghost grated on Argus's ears.

"Attacked? By whom?"

"I-I don't know!" the ghost wailed. "One moment I was minding my own business in the U-bend. The next I'm having books thrown at me and being flushed ever downward!"

"Someone threw a book down your toilet?" Dumbledore asked.

The girl simply nodded her transparent head.

"I am so sorry this happened to you, Myrtle," Dumbledore said, his eyes roving the ground.

With another sob, Myrtle threw herself into her favorite toilet. Argus ground his teeth together at the sight of more water splashing to the floor. Dumbledore didn't seem to notice, nor did his interaction with the ghost warrant any change in her mess-making behavior.

"Headmaster, I thought –"

"I apologize to you, Argus, if you believe my handling of the situation wasn't appropriate. I, however, have found Miss Warren's story most intriguing. Ah…" The old man stooped to the ground and retrieved a book from the floor. Dumbledore looked up to face Argus. "I must leave you now, Argus. If you need me, I will be examining this in my office."

"…but suddenly the attacks stopped. No one knows why – well, all the students suspect that Dumbledore certainly knows. But for now, we can only speculate. I was just glad when Justin and Nick were revived, officially ending that horror."

Hermione Granger gave a slight shudder and gave the boy a small smile. A nurse had told her his name was Harry when she and her mother had first arrived. After spending some time with her grandmother, Hermione had entered Harry's room to chat for a while. The same nurse had mentioned that he didn't get many visitors. So, Hermione was determined to do as much visiting as possible.

"So now that second year is over, I can prepare for next year. I'm taking twelve subjects, five that are new, and I just hope I made the right decision to sign up for everything I could. But I really don't want to miss any opportunity. Ancient Runes seems like such a fascinating subject, and the Arithmancy pamphlet alone had me interested. Care of Magical Creatures is a more hands-on experience – and you know I enjoy book learning – but I've always liked animals. And being out on the castle grounds for lessons seems like a nice change of pace. Of course, then there's Muggle Studies, and, yes, I'm a Muggle, but I'm not turning down the opportunity to view my life at home through a magical lens. Divination may not be quite what I'm looking for, but I'm going to give it a try."

"Hermione, dear? Are you ready to go?"

"I guess, Mum," Hermione said, turning to see her mother standing in the doorway. "Can we come back soon?"

"Sure, honey. Gram will like that."

"And Harry. I don't like that he doesn't get visitors…"

"Well, I'm sure he enjoys your visits. Did you read to him today?"

"No. I'll bring A History of Magic with me next time. I think he'll like that."

"I'm sure he will, dear."

Sirius Black stared at the Minister of Magic's copy of The Daily Prophet with widening eyes. "You sick son of a bitch," he mumbled under his breath, still staring at one of the headlines. "Ministry of Magic Employee Scoops Grand Prize," the paper announced. What the reporter hadn't mentioned was that poor Arthur Weasley and his family had been harboring a fugitive for an unknown number of years.

And suddenly Sirius knew that he needed to get to Hogwarts. Get to Harry. Get to Peter.

"Cornelius, there is no reason for dementors to be stationed at Hogwarts. There's no proof that Sirius Black will attempt to enter the school."

"But there is, if you would listen, Dumbledore. The dementors heard Black muttering in his sleep before his escape. 'He's at Hogwarts,' he would say. That is reason enough to guard the school."

Albus Dumbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Do what you think is right. But I refuse to allow them inside the grounds. I don't want the normal everyday interrupted by those creatures."

"I believe we have a compromise, Dumbledore. Expect the first of the dementors the afternoon of the first."

"I'll be awaiting their arrival," Albus replied with dismay.

Albus Dumbledore couldn't wrap his head around the enigma of Sirius Black. What was he after? Harry was, thankfully, not in the castle. But Black, after his second – and successful – attempt to enter Gryffindor Tower, had attacked the Weasley boy.

Or had he?

Of course, he did, Albus, he scolded himself.

The question was: why?

"IT WILL HAPPEN TONIGHT. THE DARK LORD LIES ALONE AND FRIENDLESS, ABANDONED BY HIS FOLLOWERS. HIS SERVANT HAS BEEN CHAINED THESE TWELVE YEARS. TONIGHT, BEFORE MIDNIGHT…THE SERVANT WILL BREAK FREE AND SET OUT TO REJOIN HIS MASTER. THE DARK LORD WILL RISE AGAIN WITH HIS SERVANT'S AID, GREATER AND MORE TERRIBLE THAN EVER HE WAS. TONIGHT…BEFORE MIDNIGHT…THE SERVANT…WILL SET OUT…TO REJOIN…HIS MASTER…"

"Right…you old bat," Ronald Weasley muttered, backing away from his Divination professor. Turning to descend from the tower classroom, Ron hastened down the ladder, wishing he could rid his mind of the vacant expression that had been fixed on Trelawney's face.

In the dwindling sunlight, Remus Lupin proceeded through what had become routine, mumbling, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," and watching the Whomping Willow. He had yet to see Sirius Black enter the grounds, but if the man was, this would be his only entry to avoid the dementors and detection. Of course, after he had already entered the castle twice, Remus wasn't sure if he would enter again.

But there he was, emerging from the bowels of the Whomping Willow.

And a surge of anger threatened to overwhelm Remus as he watched in horror as the man he had called "friend" ran toward Ronald Weasley and…

Peter Pettigrew.

At the sight of the name, Remus leapt into action, careening out of his office with his wand in hand. He took notice of nothing until he reached the whirling branches of the willow, freezing the limbs with a careful wave of his wand. A minute later he was racing through the tunnel that led to the Shrieking Shack and the mystery that lay there.

Ronald Weasley was speechless as he stared into the hollowed eyes of Sirius Black. He had recognized him as soon as he had shifted from the black dog. The convict. The madman. The murderer.

"L-leave me alone." He hated himself for stuttering.

"I want nothing with you, boy. Lie down. I'm sorry about your leg. For now, just focus on keeping your weight off of it."

"What?" Ron could only stare. The man's voice was…kind. What the bloody hell?

"You got in my way. I was after the rat." A skeletal finger pointed to the squirming ball of fur in Ron's hands.

"What do you want Scabbers for?"

"Scabbers, huh? Nah…more like traitor, or coward, or –"

"Peter."

Both Ron and Black turned at the sound of Remus Lupin who had suddenly appeared in the doorway.

"Remus…" Black started forward, but stopped, a question in his eye that Ron didn't understand.

"It was him, wasn't it, Sirius? You switched Secret Keepers and didn't tell me?"

"Forgive me?"

In apparent answer, Lupin stepped forward and hugged the ragged man before him.

"What the bloody hell?" Ron yelled. "You're his friend?!" His favorite teacher was friends with an escaped convicted murderer. He could have been helping him into the castle all along. "He attacked me in my sleep!"

"Once again, I was going for the rat," Black said cheekily.

"What is your bloody fascination with Scabbers, anyway?"

"Ron," Lupin said with a calming voice. "We have a lot to explain to you. And we need you to listen."

"Yeah, whatever." Ron moved to turn into his usual pouting position but winced at the sudden pain in his leg.

"Let me fix that first, how's that?"

"Whatever." But Lupin had already withdrawn his wand, fixing Ron's leg to a splint. The initial pain of the procedure was worth the relief. "Thanks."

"Now…where to begin? Ron, you know who Harry Potter is, correct?"

"Of course, I do. I'm not stupid."

"No…I wasn't implying such a thing. I was simply beginning the story that ends with my friend and I killing the traitor that you've called a pet." Before Ron could question the statement, Lupin continued. "When Voldemort decided to go after the Potters, they decided to place themselves under the protection of the Fidelius Charm."

"What's that?" Ron asked, not wanting to miss any part of what was sure to be a decent story.

"It is a particularly difficult charm that secures the secret of a location or individual in a single person. That person is called the Secret Keeper. The Secret Keeper is the only person who can disclose the secured information to any other. Willingly disclose, I might add. When the Potters went into hiding, they asked Sirius to be the Secret Keeper."

"But I decided to attempt at being clever – the Sorting Hat was never wiser to break the tradition of all Blacks going into Slytherin. My plan failed horribly, of course."

"What was your plan?" Ron asked, eyes on the man.

"To get thrown back into Azkaban with his best friend for a second life term for kidnapping and injuring a minor." Ron jerked at the newest arrival. Snape. Of bloody course.

"Snivellus!" Black greeted, seemingly ignoring the wand that was pointed threateningly at his chest.

"How I hoped I would be responsible for your recapture," Snape sneered. "Justice is sweet."

"Severus, I believe that if you still for a moment, your perspective may change," Lupin suggested.

"Quiet," Snape snapped. "And perhaps I won't deliver you to the dementors as well."

Snape's completely lost it, Ron realized, watching the manic gleam in the Potions master's eyes. So, Ron decided to act.

"Petrificus Totalus!" he shouted, sending the greasy-haired professor to the dirty floor.

Both Lupin and Black spun around to stare at Ron.

"Ron!" Lupin gasped.

"I want to hear the rest of your story. And Snape doesn't shut up easily. Continue, please?"

With a bark of a laugh, Black resumed his story. "Where was I? Ah, yes. Well, I thought it would be clever to make Peter Pettigrew the Secret Keeper but leak the idea that I was the Secret Keeper. I could lead the Death Eaters on a wild goose chase, waste their time while they tortured me, and Peter would be safe, and so would James, Lily, and Harry."

Black took a shaking breath. "But it turns out that our innocent little friend was a backstabbing prick that answered to Voldemort. Gave the Potters up like that," he said, snapping his fingers.

"You killed Pettigrew – that's why you were sent to prison," Ron pointed out.

"I'm sure he's glad to hear you say that…but, no. I didn't kill him. You see, Ron, like you witnessed tonight, I'm an Animagus. I turn into a dog. James Potter and Peter Pettigrew learned to transform the same time as me." Black eyed Ron pointedly. "James became a stag, and Peter became a rat."

Putting two and two together, Ron realized what Black was getting at. "Whoa…you're trying to tell me that Scabbers is Pettigrew?"

"Precisely," Lupin answered. "But, Sirius, how did he do it?"

"Ron, you know the story of my arrest?" Ron nodded, remembering his father's retelling of the tale before the fall term started. "I cornered Peter after I had heard what he had done. Tracked him to a Muggle street where I did indeed fully intend to kill him. But he turned the tide on me. He blamed me for our friends' deaths. Loudly. To a street filled with Muggles. And then he blew apart the street and transformed into a rat, disappearing into the sewers and leaving me for the Aurors."

Ron scoffed. The story was completely too farfetched to believe.

"You don't believe me?"

"Of course, I don't believe you!"

"Then I'll show you."

Black secured a furiously wriggling Scabbers in his hand, and Lupin approached with his wand, pointing the tip at the rat's head. A moment later, a flash of blue-white light erupted from the wand, freezing Scabbers in midair before he fell and hit the floor.

And then, where the rat had stood shivering, stood a short, frazzled man.

"Shit…" Ron cursed. Everything was true. His rat was…eugh, he had slept in his bed!

"Hello, Peter," Black greeted darkly. "And goodbye." He had retrieved Snape's wand from his frozen person and was pointing it at the quivering man.

"Sirius!" Pettigrew squeaked. "You wouldn't."

"Why wouldn't I? Why shouldn't I? You deserve everything you get," Black spat.

"You shouldn't kill him," Ron moaned at his own words.

"You should want him dead too, Ron," Black snapped, Snape's wand still trained on the short, quaking man that had until recently been a pet rat.

"But more people should know why. Take him to the dementors, to the Ministry. Remain innocent. Get free."

"He's right, Sirius. He deserves the fate you were unjustly given, plus more," Lupin conceded.

Black nodded. Lupin shot cords from his wand, binding Pettigrew and leaving him on the dusty floor.

"I suppose we can't just leave old Snivellus behind…" Black muttered, eyeing the Potions master.

"Sirius…" Lupin warned.

"Fine. I'll levitate the bastard back to the castle."

"And we'll take care of this piece of shit," Ron said, pointing at Pettigrew. Lupin conjured manacles, attaching them to Pettigrew's wrist before chaining Ron to one side and himself to the other.

What seemed like an eternity later, Ron limped out of the Whomping Willow's depths with his Defense professor, an innocent escaped convict, an actual murderer, and his petrified Potions professor. Not exactly what he had had in mind when it came to celebrating the end of exams.

Sirius Black should have known better than to assume everything would go smoothly.

No sooner had they emerged from the tunnel than the clouds shifted, revealing the iridescent full moon hanging in the night sky. With a sharp intake of breath, he dropped Snape from his control and moved to the trio that was chained together.

Remus was fighting as he always had, trying to tame the wolf. Both Sirius and Remus knew the attempts were futile. Sirius rushed forward, unshackling Ron from the manacles with a wave of Snape's wand.

"Run! Now! Run!" But, of course, the boy had a broken leg. And was in shock at seeing the torment being endured by his professor. "Ron!"

He turned away from his friend to push the boy in the direction of the school and safety. A big mistake, in hindsight.

Remus had transformed, throwing himself from Pettigrew. No…no! Pettigrew was gone. In the moment he allowed himself, Sirius saw only the swish of a long tail escaping into the weeds. Mentally kicking himself for the mistake, Sirius stepped forward, transforming into Padfoot and stepping between the werewolf and the frightened boy. And, Sirius allowed, Snape as well.

A bark rose in his throat, capturing the attention of the werewolf before beginning his play. And slowly, Remus's attention was directed only at the large dog. And later after that, he bounded into the forest, his werewolf tendencies searching for prey.

Returning to his human form once again, Sirius walked to a pale Ronald Weasley. "Ron?" He snapped his fingers directly in front of the boy's face.

"A…a werewolf…" he muttered, his voice thick.

"Well, yeah. But he's housetrained, you'll be glad to know."

If Albus Dumbledore had been expecting anyone to enter his office that fateful Friday night, it would not have been a stammering Ronald Weasley, a petrified Severus Snape, and a semi-triumphant Sirius Black.

"I must admit, I haven't the foggiest idea where to begin my questioning," the headmaster said, eyes roving between the three people before him – he had reversed the spell placed on Severus moments prior.

"Headmaster! Why is this man still sitting here? Call for the dementors! Call Fudge!"

"You shouldn't do that, Professor," Ron whispered.

"And why shouldn't I, Mr. Weasley?"

"Black…he's…he's innocent."

"That is utter rubbish, Headmaster! Black and Lupin have obviously Confunded the poor boy. That explains why he cursed me in the first place!"

"Did you curse Professor Snape, Ronald?"

"Yes, but in my defense, he wouldn't stop talking," Ron answered in a mutter.

Albus allowed his laughter to mingle with Black's.

"I see. Well, Severus, I see only one way in which to get the complete story." He stood from his seat and moved to a decorative cabinet. Very carefully, Albus moved the Pensieve from the cabinet to his desk. "I will need your memories. Perhaps, we can start with you, Sirius?"

"Of course." Sirius leaned forward, eyes firmly shut. Albus trailed memory after memory from Sirius, the fresh images floating to the surface of the Pensieve.

"Oh, how curious. He cut off his own finger?" Albus remarked, glancing up at Sirius.

"Yes," he replied, grinding his teeth.

Finishing with his perusal of Sirius's memories pertaining to Pettigrew, Albus was offered the sequence of events from when Severus entered a vacated Remus's office to when Ron's wand sent him to the ground, stiff.

"Thank you, Severus," he offered with a small smile. "Now, Ron. I need you to think carefully about today's events. I'm going to extract copies of your memories from your mind. You may feel your senses heighten, but it will be over soon."

A moment later, and Sybill Trelawney's unusually harsh voice sounded throughout the office. "Curious…I believe we'll leave that particular piece away from the Minister, shall we? And speaking of, I do believe we should allow Cornelius admission to this party."

Sirius Black was, needless to say, furious. Irate. Livid. Apoplectic. He couldn't believe Dumbledore's audacity. The man had kept him from his godson for two weeks following the declaration of his innocence. The Hogwarts headmaster had cited that Sirius's haggard appearance wouldn't allow for the previously executed plan for inconspicuousness. So, he had been placed at the mercy of Poppy Pomfrey, her potions, and her strict diet plan. Naturally, Sirius looked much better – there was still a trace of Azkaban to his features, but he wasn't sure if that would ever leave him completely. Twelve years of his life had been spent within those chilling walls, and all he wanted to do was see his godson. And now to learn where the boy was…

"Why in Godric's name is Harry not in St. Mungo's?" Sirius screeched.

Dumbledore shook his head slightly. "I've told you, Sirius. He is safer in the Muggle world."

"But surely our medicine could work it's, well, magic and revive Harry from his state."

"My dear boy, there have been Healers in and out of the facility secretly waving wands since he arrived. There is no remedy, Muggle or magical, that can reverse a nonmedically-induced coma."

"You're sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure, Sirius. You can't imagine the research being done by the most advanced – and silenced – members of the medical community. No one wants to see Harry Potter lying unconscious for years on end. They want to see him defeating Voldemort for good."

"He already did that…" Sirius muttered, though he knew the headmaster's reply.

"Voldemort survives, Sirius. A dead Defense professor, a broken mirror, and a prophecy tell me as much. Not to mention my hunch."

"Did a hunch tell you to put Harry in the care of Muggles?"

"Sirius…"

"Fine. Just…can I please see him?"

Dumbledore nodded his head before offering his arm to Sirius, who took it and steeled himself for his first Apparition in twelve years. With a faint pop, the pair disappeared from just outside the Hogwarts gates to a copse of fir trees. Just ahead stood a single-story building. And within lay Harry.

With an energy he had long missed, Sirius hurried to the front door alongside Dumbledore and allowed the headmaster to steer him to Harry's room.

Once there, Sirius could only cry.

He had failed him. Failed him so miserably. If he hadn't convinced James to change Secret Keepers. If he hadn't trusted Peter. If he hadn't gone after Peter. If…if…if…then perhaps Harry would be well, laughing his way through Hogwarts guided by his parents and godfather.

Instead, he was lying still as death in a room that smelled of old people.

Sirius eventually gathered himself enough to look at the boy before him. Merlin, he looked like James. Though James had never been that still. It pained Sirius to not see the eyes that glowed like Lily's. He wanted to know the timbre of his voice. He wanted to see if he walked like James or talked with his hands like Lily. He wanted to know his favorite color, his favorite type of music, which foods he preferred. Sirius wanted to know everything. But he couldn't.

Because he had failed him.

"But I am not a man, Muggle. I am much, much more than a man."

A white, skeletal hand appeared with a long wand clutched delicately in the fingers. There was a flash of emerald light and the Muggle known as Frank Bryce fell to the dust-covered floor.

In that same moment, the boy called Harry Potter woke with a start.