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Chapter Three: A Dog, A Visit, and A Seed of Doubt
'Not right.'
That was the only thought running through Sirius Black's head as he circled nervously in a tall patch of lavender; his tail tucked between his scrawny hind legs, a low whine emitting from between his teeth. It was not right. Something was not right with Harry.
He didn't know how he knew this, he simply did.
When had first seen the boy, hunched over in the garden in Privet Drive, hands dirty as they tugged up weeds and tossed them into a small bin beside him, he had been overjoyed, an energy overcoming him that he had not felt in over a decade. He had fought the impulse to bark, trotting down the road until his canine tongue lopped out from between his teeth, his breath coming out in pants.
He slowed when he approached the home, a ball of anxiousness, desperation. But he refrained from causing a scene- muggles weren't always kind to stray dogs, especially when they looked as feral as he knew he did. He had spent the better part of the day prior outrunning a muggle who wielded a long metal stick, the end looped off into a circle. He rode around in a veehickle he thought they were called, seemingly at every corner Sirius ran to.
He had no idea of where the man would take him should he catch him, but the thought of being caught alone was enough for instinct to take over, hackles raising in protest as he snapped out with sharp teeth, catching a gloved hand in his mouth.
Caught meant cold. Isolation. Iron bars interlocking before you, trapping you within a too small space. It meant meager meals and somber bellows of nearby inmates. It meant being forgotten- by friends and society and the world. It meant unable to sleep, awaking in cold sweats in the middle of the night when dreams soured and turned dark and anguished as dementors roamed through in patrol, unable to breathe without feeling as if the prison of your rib cage was crushing, cutting into you.
No, caught was never good, and mangy mutts such as himself were surely not be treated well by muggles. And so he hid, lurking around the manicured bushes that separated Harry's home from the others on the block. He watched Harry for some time, the day hot and searing the flesh beneath his black fur. He could see nothing but a mop of untidy black hair, clinging to Harry's head in sweat. The collar of his shirt was damp as well, and occasionally he would pause to wipe his forearm across his face, careful to keep his dirty hand limp and turned away.
When he finally stood, it was to empty the bin of weeds and dead leaves he clipped from the blossoming flowers, kicking a spade out of his way as he hoisted the bin up and trudged closer to where Sirius sat, the garbage cans tucked by the side of the home. It was the first time he could get a good look at the boy, and Sirius rose to a standing position, all four paws excitedly pounding at the ground below him in turn.
The familiarity made his heart ache, a tightness constricting his chest uncomfortably. He looked so similar to James- it was as if Sirius had been plucked up and deposited into a pensieve, and was instead looking at a remembrance- the memory- of his long ago friend. His hair was unruly, curling around the ends of his ears, the frames of his wire glasses. The glasses- much too round and large for his thin face- sat on the bridge of his narrow nose, magnifying the eyes behind them. Green. Brilliantly and defiantly green. They were Lily's eyes, and they sat below the thin white lines of a scar, fissures burrowed into his skin.
Upon closer inspection, he really didn't look like James at all. Perhaps enough to fool a casual observer, a former classmate of theirs or a teacher, or at first, quick glance. But to Sirius, the boy was a haphazard copy of the man he once knew, more different than similar the more he looked.
He was far too thin, lanky. Too thin for the broad shoulders he was developing. His gait was cautious, bowed as if he was trying to make himself smaller to the world- so unlike the confident and near arrogant stride that James traipsed about Hogwarts with even as an eleven year old. His shoulders slouched, and when he lifted his head to gaze at the world about him, it was with a hesitation to his eyes, a calculating quality to them that looked far too old and world-worn on one so young. James's own gaze was hungry, covetous. The world was his to explore and his hazel eyes never shied away from the prospect of it, never a shadow of doubt to them that he belonged.
He was nothing like James, or Lily.
He was Harry. Just Harry.
And he was wonderful.
He forgot himself in his excitement, feeling young and free for the first time in so many years. His tail thumped against the ground, a whine turned into a clipped yapping sound.
Harry startled, the lid of the garbage falling shut as he dropped the now empty weed bin. His eyes were wide, his lips twisting as he looked expectantly to the bushes Sirius had hidden himself in. The fingers of his right hand curled around something- his wand? - as he said, "Who's there?" Then, after a second, he swallowed thickly and whispered, "Tom?"
He took a step forward, his wand now slipping out from his sleeve and settling in the palm of his hand, when a veehickle (smaller than the one the man who was chasing him had driven in) pulled up. Harry twisted his hand behind his back to hide his wand, moving back until he was flat against the side of the house, the drivers of the contraption seemingly ambivalent about whether or not they hit him. The doors- four of them- all opened in quick succession, a large, red faced man and thin woman stepping out of one side; a plump, older woman with gray hair and a boy about Harry's age stepping out of the other.
The older woman, propping herself up on a wooden cane, turned to Harry with a suspicious look to her eyes. "What are you up to, boy? You're filthy!" she admonished cruelly, the venom in her words causing something to stir within Sirius. Something protective.
"Aunt Petunia asked me to tend to her garden," he said, a slight exasperation as he spoke. It was the same way Sirius and James had spoken when they felt as if they were being punished for something unjust.
The woman shook her head, swinging the cane as if to balance herself to take a step only to smack it across Harry's ankle, making him wince. "Clean yourself up! You should have started dinner ages ago and now we've got to wait for you to shower," she barked.
With a resigned sigh, Harry nodded, mumbling that he would be quick. The mysterious noise in the bushes forgotten, he disappeared into the house, followed closely by his muggle family, muttering unkindly about him.
Sirius refused to leave, not until night had fallen and Harry had bolted from the house with impressive speed, not bothering to close the door as it swung on its hinges. There was screaming and shouting coming from inside the house, the large man following Harry for only a moment before turning back to the chaos inside the home in a panic. And Sirius, worried and fearful for his godson, chased after him.
He followed him to the Knight Bus. To the Leaky Cauldron. And then all the way to Beauxbatons, turning into his human form long enough to apparate before turning back to Padfoot. Several days had been spent observing him when he could, when he wasn't hidden behind a wall or classroom.
And something was not right. Not as if he knew him well enough to truly know what was or wasn't out of character. Not that he was applying his knowledge of James and how he had reacted when something wasn't right.
There are just some things that do not have to be said. Slumped shoulders, purple bags beneath his eyes, weighing them down. He curled up beneath the canopy of leaves, looking too small for his school robes, practically hidden by the foliage and the heavy shadows they cast. And he fell sound asleep, in the middle of the day. He no doubt should have been in class, or at least skipping with a group of friends- not by himself, huddled at the wide base of the willow.
'Not right.'
-xXx-
A week had passed since returning to school and Harry allowed himself to slip into the banality of school life; the routine a comfort, the mundane a relief. They had been re-sorted- a special ceremony held for the transfer students in private before the official ceremony began for first years. Like Hogwarts, Beauxbatons had four Houses as well: Incendie, Terre, Eau and Tune. Hermione leaned forward, whispering in his ear that they were the four elements, the four facets of magic when they were broken down to their very core, raw and stripped. She went on to say that she had read about it, that the founder of the school- a witch whose name he had already forgotten- believed that all magic and its uses could be categorized into the four elements, and that each witch and wizard held a magical core, a signature, that was simply more inclined to one than the others.
This was, of course, before he had tried to avoid her, fearing that he might lose her too.
He had been sorted into Incendie, the Fire House Hermione had said, her mutterings a bit louder than she realized. She into Terre. Earth.
Avoiding her became considerably easier when they did not share a common room, it turned out. Though he felt terrible, knowing she had no other friends- Ron and his brothers had not accepted the invitation to Beauxbatons, choosing instead to remain at home and to receive tutors.
Harry's common room was hardly a solace however, with or without her presence. He grew anxious in his dormitory, irritated by the furtive glances, whispers behind cupped hands. Hogwarts had long since tired of the novelty of him- the Famous Harry Potter- but Beauxbatons did not, and his new housemates had no interest in hiding their intrigue. And so, with an annoyed grunt and sigh one afternoon when he could hear nothing but giggles and his name being spoken in a hush, he packed his bags and headed to the gardens, knowing that Hermione would surely be in the library.
It was overcast, the clouds gray and melancholy and it reminded him vaguely of the world within the diary; the colors unsaturated and diluted. He half expected to see Tom sitting beneath the willow tree, as he was quite keen on sitting under the one oak tree by the lake at Hogwarts.
It was strange, knowing such intimate details about the Dark Lord. He had long since decided everything that Riddle said to him was a lie, saying whatever needed to be said to achieve his ends. But there were things Harry had noticed, quirks that were so habitual that he doubted they would be worth the time or energy for Riddle to fake.
That he furrowed his brow, bit his lip when he was in thought.
That he never smiled unless it was predatory, all teeth and as if he had gotten away with something either very clever or very cruel.
And he was vain. Not in the sense that Harry thought he placed attractiveness above any other asset, but in the sense that he was constantly smoothing out his robes, reaching a hand to his head and ensuring that all his hair lay flat and in place. There were moments where his gaze would flicker, his lip twitch, and Harry thought that if he could, Tom might have reached out and fixed Harry's own hair.
It was still jarring, how handsome and proper and normal he looked.
It was perverse. Monsters were supposed to be frightening, with red eyes and sharpened teeth and an otherworldly tint to their skin. Hooked noses and warts and jagged claws.
He knew he was being childish, but it had been easier when he thought of Voldemort as some sort of inhuman demon.
He bent low, sweeping a hand out to brush aside the tendrils of the willow, only to stop short, frowning. "Oh...sorry," he mumbled. He had not realized that someone was already there, a girl whom he thought he recognized from Hogwarts.
"No reason to be sorry," she hummed, her voice light as if in sing song. There was a distinct air about her, a lightness to her. Her blonde hair fell just below her shoulders, limp curls that looked as if she had been distracted halfway through her morning ablutions and left it partially undone. Her eyes were light gray, almost silvery in the light that hit them, streaming through where Harry had pulled aside the leaves.
But most peculiar was that a loose crown sat atop her head, made entirely of flowers. Some were quite pretty and vibrant, others were hideous- the color of straw, dry and crunchy. He thought that he even saw a mushroom in the mix.
He pursed his lips, feeling as if he should say something but not sure of what, only for his jaw to slack open a second later when he caught sight of the dog beside her. She had one hand rested on his shoulder blades, idly petting him as he looked curiously at Harry, his head tilted to the side, some unidentifiable slab of meat between its massive paws, half-eaten.
It looked like a stray- not unlike the one he had seen on Privet Drive before the Knight Bus appeared. Odd, though a coincidence. Surely they were not the same.
"I didn't know you could have dogs," Harry said, stepping forward and releasing the wisps of leaves so that they fell behind him, swaying as they curtained off the rest of the world.
The girl- he couldn't remember her name, try as he might- shrugged. "You can't. I saw him in the gardens and he looked so hungry, I couldn't leave him." She turned to look at the dog, a small smile gracing her lips. "He's very sweet, not afraid of people at all. I wonder if he's been abandoned."
Harry frowned, feeling sorry for the creature. It was large and it's visible teeth were menacing, but he could see the indentations of ribs, bare patches of skin where fur was bitten off in either a fight or in a desperate attempt to rid an itch of fleas. He moved closer, tentatively, lowering his hand towards its snout- he thought he might have heard that it was the correct way to approach a dog once.
But the dog- just as friendly as the girl had said- did not hesitate in leaning forward, licking Harry's proffered hand with a wet and scratchy tongue.
"He likes you," she said, appraising, leaning back on her ankles.
Harry smiled as he settled down onto the grass, running a hand through the dog's fur as he continued to paw eagerly at him, nudging his wet nose against Harry's cheek. "I've always wanted a dog. Asked my aunt and uncle once for one but they said as far as they were concerned, they already had one," he said, not sure of why he was saying such things to someone he hardly even knew. He couldn't even remember what House she had belonged to when Hogwarts had closed.
The dog growled, briefly, before whining as he nudged his nose once more into Harry's face.
"I don't think you're a dog, for what it's worth, Harry," she said, and he blushed in embarrassment. How terrible to not know someone's name when they knew yours!
As if sensing his predicament, she added, "I'm Luna. I was in Ravenclaw, but now I'm in Eau." If she thought he was rude, she didn't seem it, her small smile not leaving her face, a serene look about her.
He decided he liked her. She was subdued, her very presence calming, and she spoke in a way that was reminiscent of poetry and fairy tales. It was as if someone had managed to capture all the awe and intrigue, the curiosity and wonder he felt when he was an eleven year old learning of a new and magical world, and placed it within her.
She named the dog Argos, and Harry agreed that it was very fitting indeed, though he wasn't quite sure of why. And he spent the better part of an afternoon sitting beside her, Argos between them as he eventually returned to his meat, saliva dripping from his maw, his homework forgotten.
-xXx-
Tom continued to send Harry letters, and Harry continued to ignore them. He thought of burning them, watching the parchment burn and furl with the heat, turning to ash. But- for reasons he couldn't discern- he settled for just tossing them in his trunk, a growing stash of them coating the bottom, hidden beneath his clothes. He wondered if there would be any repercussions for ignoring the wizard, but pushed the thought from his mind.
Some time had passed, and his life had a reached a semblance of normal. There was no need to avoid Hermione, as she took it upon herself to ignore him as well. He was surprised by how badly it stung when she lowered her head as they crossed paths, but reminded himself it was necessary.
He saw Luna from time to time, though they often sat in relative silence. She was a bit...unusual. She spoke of creatures that he doubted even existed, but he never dared to say anything. It might have been naive, but he quite liked that she preferred to blame the nargles for her stolen things than to blame the more likely culprits of her housemates. She made him flower crowns, similar to the one she had been wearing when they first met, with the promise that each flower, each herb, had been selected to ward off some unsightly creature.
She had shown him where the kitchens were, and the elves that had worked there- thin, knobby creatures with leathery skin and bulbous eyes- had gotten so used to them that there was often some scraps left out for them to take. Argos would meet them in the garden- he was intelligent, and Harry wondered why an owner might abandon such a loyal companion- and they fed him the scraps.
It had been a pleasant routine, until four days had gone by where Argos did not meet them among the lavender.
"Perhaps he was just lost and his family found him?" Luna had suggested, and Harry hoped she was correct. He had grown quite fond of him, and he hated to think something might have happened.
-xXx-
The morning of October second was a chaotic one, the dining hall a flurry of twirling robes, robin's egg blue, as students flitted about the tables, chatting with friends at different tables. Harry had wondered what had stirred them all into such a fit, sitting down at his own table and pulling a forgotten copy of the newspaper towards him. He reached a hand out, grabbing the ladle to spoon some eggs onto his plate only to drop it, scrambled eggs spilling across the table.
Sirius Black had made headlines once more, after he attempted to break into the Burrow.
No one was hurt.
The Weasleys were relocated for the time being.
Aurors were guarding the premises.
Sirius Black was injured but escaped.
And he was once again nowhere to be found.
-xXx-
Harry had left breakfast early, leaving to scrawl a hasty letter to Ron, asking if he was alright and wishing him and his family well. He hadn't spoken to him in some weeks, the letters growing further and further apart until they ceased coming entirely. But he was worried, and he knew he would crumple under the weight of guilt if he didn't reach out to his friend. Tying the letter to Hedwig's leg and freeing her from the owlry, he went about his day, his head full; his thoughts erratic.
Why had Sirius Black gone after the Weasleys?
What did they have that a servant of Voldemort's might want?
Perhaps it had something to do with Ginny? Tom had said that Voldemort was still out there- the one who had murdered his parents, the parasite that fed off of Quirrell's soul and body in his first year.
Did he know that his younger self was out there somewhere, and did he figure out that Ginny's death had been the catalyst?
Had he sent Black out to investigate?
It was confusing, and he still did not quite know how two copies of the same being could exist at once. They had separate bodies, but did they share the same mind? A conscious that transcended distance? Tom had said that he was reading up on Voldemort's legacy- was his knowledge and memories limited to when he had been trapped in the diary, leaving years- decades- of time unaccounted for?
Would the allegiance that Voldemort's followers pledged to him, offer the same loyalty to Tom?
He wrinkled his nose at that. He didn't think Voldemort would like that very much. He didn't seem like the charitable sort to share power with another, even if it was a version of himself.
He spent his classes dazed and distracted, earning himself a detention after he forgot to stir his potion at the appropriate intervals; nearly resulting in an explosion the professor had just managed to contain. When his free period came around, he was thankful for the respite, bounding from the castle and into the garden.
He inhaled the air greedily, crisp and fresh. The air within the castle seemed stale and pungent, like there wasn't enough oxygen in it to fill his lungs. The peace that he had found was slipping from his grasp, the dams he had carefully built and structured crumpling.
For a few weeks, he was able to forget about Tom, Voldemort and Sirius Black. It hadn't been normal necessarily- he still wasn't home, and Ron and Hermione's absence continued to ache in his chest- but it was calm. There had been certainty in knowing that Luna would meet him in the kitchen for lunch, that Argos would be in the garden, hidden by the lavender.
But Argos had disappeared and Sirius Black was not only in the news again but had attacked his best friend's house in the middle of the night. Why?
He slowed his pace as he wandered through the rose bushes. They were bare, clipped by students for use in their Potions assignment. He thought he overheard some of his housemates talking about love potions, and how roses were necessary for them. How terribly cliché.
A hand reached out, twirling a clipped stem. He pulled it back, a bead of blood on his finger from where a thorn pierced it. He almost rubbed it over his cloak but stopped himself when he remembered they were no longer a forgiving black but a light blue; the blood would make an unsightly stain. Instead, he wrapped his lips around it, sucking gently. It tasted like pennies.
Something rustled, whined.
He twisted in the direction, a breath leaving him. It was Argos, and though Harry knew it was incredibly selfish to be thankful that Argos had not been found by his family, he didn't care, running up to the dog as a wide grin stretched over his face.
"Hey, Argos! Luna and I thought we weren't going to see you again," he said, feeling a bit strange for talking to an animal. But the dog seemed to enjoy the attention, and Harry ran a his hands over the matted coat. He petted him enthusiastically, frowning when he saw the front paw that he kept lifted, bent to keep it towards his chest. The fur was shiny, hard and clumped together.
"Is that...blood?" Harry asked, gently running his fingers over the injured leg. Argos only whined, pulling it out of his grasp. "What happened?" The blood was dry, older, and he could see a thin cut that ran down a good length of his leg, clotted with blood.
Harry pulled his bag off his shoulders, digging through it until he found his charms book. He didn't have any experience with healing spells, but perhaps there were some simple ones- at least some charms that might ease the pain. Argos was patient as ever, laying on the ground and resting his head on Harry's knee as he flipped through his book, pages crinkling in his perusal.
He wasn't sure how long he sat huddled like that, but he heard someone approach, and he shook his head, raising it from the book.
"Luna, what do you know about healing spells? Argos was attacked and-" he paused mid sentence, words dying on his tongue when he turned to see Tom Riddle standing behind him, a somewhat amused expression on his face.
"While I'm flattered you think I carry the same presence as a twelve year old girl, I'm sorry to disappoint," Tom said, inclining his chin as he looked over Harry and at the dog splayed over his lap. "What are you doing with that mutt?"
Harry scowled. "That mutt refuses to leave me alone. But as for the dog, he's injured," he snapped, repressing a smile when Tom's lip twitched in fleeting irritation.
"You won't find anything to help it in there. Healing spells come at a much higher grade level than your own. You'd have better luck with Murtlap Essence. The infirmary should have some; just tell the mediwitch a professor has sent you to replenish their personal stocks for emergencies and you shouldn't have a problem getting any. Avoid Dittany, however, as it has several herbs that are toxic to animals," he said, taking a long step around Harry so he was standing in front of him instead of behind. Argos lifted his head, following his movement carefully. Tom narrowed his eyes at it.
"Er...thanks..." Harry said after a moment, feeling uncomfortable and flustered. "What are you doing here?" he asked suddenly, looking around at the grounds. There were several students he could see off in the distance, but no teachers or anyone who might question what the strange man was doing on the premises.
Tom smirked. "Grief counselor. Sent by the Ministry. Here to ensure that all of our transfers are acclimating well. Madame Maxime and I spoke before I came out here," he answered. Harry merely rose a brow, not wanting to admit that he was impressed by his manipulations. It couldn't have been an easy task to forge Ministry documents.
Turning his attention to Argos, he asked, his voice bitter, "What do you want? Is it because of the letters?"
"No, though it is terribly rude to not maintain your end of correspondence. My visit here has many reasons. First of which, I should ask how you're doing? I read of Black's attack on the Weasley residence. It must be hard on you, given how close you were," he said.
He sounded quite sincere, a kindness and concern in his eyes that reminded Harry of the time they shared together in the diary, when he had thought Tom was his friend. But he wasn't his friend, and he had used him. And he was the reason that Ginny was dead and Hogwarts was closed and why Harry was afraid to become friends with anyone other than a forgotten stray-
He sneered, lips pulling back in disgust as he felt his voice darken, deeper with every day that passed. "You have no right to talk about them. Not after what you did."
Tom opened his mouth, only to close it as if thinking better of what he was going to say. No doubt a correction on who exactly had done what. After a second, he said, "I wasn't asking about them. I was asking about you."
"I'm fantastic," Harry said, his voice bitter and laced with sarcasm. He turned his attention back to Argos, scratching behind his ears. The dog however was hardly paying attention to Harry, dark eyes fixing on Tom, unwavering. His lips were pulled back, revealing his yellowing teeth, and his muscles felt tense beneath Harry's touch. It was as if he were just waiting for the command, the go ahead, to lurch off from where he was lying and attack.
Tom's own gaze had settled on the dog, brows knitted, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. He was in deep thought, and Harry flicked his gaze back and forth between Argos and Tom, not certain of what was so peculiar about the canine that Tom couldn't take his eyes from it.
As if sensing that he was under great scrutiny, Argos whined suddenly, raising a hind leg and bending as he began licking at the exposed flesh there. Tom averted his gaze, lips curled in repulsion.
Clearing his throat, Tom turned his attention back to Harry. "The other reason for my stopping by- seeing as how you seem intent on not even reading my letters- is to inform you that you will have another visitor. Tomorrow I believe, but it could be later. Depends on how the investigation with the Weasleys goes. Rumor has it that Dumbledore is planning to stop by."
Harry perked at that, pulling himself up so he was standing. He was still at least a foot shorter than Tom, forcing him to raise his chin to make eye contact, but it was better than having to have to crane his neck, looking up to down-turned eyes. "Really? Why are you telling me?" he asked, immediately suspicious of the older wizard. Surely Tom would only tell him if he thought there was something to gain.
Tom rose a brow. "Because I care about you, Harry. And I thought you should know when someone is coming to visit with the intent on lying to you."
He laughed. Actually laughed.
"If that isn't the pot calling the kettle black," he said, reaching down to grab his bag, slipping it onto his shoulder before giving Argos a pat on the head. "Dumbledore doesn't lie to me. If anyone's been lying, it's me. Thanks to you, I can't seem to do anything but. What has he even got to lie to me about?"
"Sirius Black," he answered. "He'll warn you about him, but he won't tell you who he really is."
"What do you mean?" Harry asked, brows knitted, abandoning his earlier decision that Tom spoke only in lies and empty promises. "He was a servant for him. That's all."
The dog whined, but Harry paid him no attention, his focus solely on Tom.
The older wizard arched a brow, picked at a piece of lint on his cloak. "Of course. But there's more to him than that. Dumbledore won't consider it worth sharing. There's quite a bit he doesn't consider worth sharing isn't there?"
Harry scowled. "How would I know? Why don't you tell me then?"
He feigned innocence, widening his blue eyes. "Why should I have to tell you when you're so certain that Dumbledore will?"
Harry felt his face redden, the tips of his ears turning scarlet as he became irritated, flustered with the conversation. "Forget it, I've got class anyway," he said dismissively, taking a step towards the castle only for Tom to reach out, clasp a hand onto his shoulder and pull him back, his grip remaining even as Harry turned to face him once more.
"Why do you trust him? He's the man who handed you off to the Dursleys when your parents died, the one who was content to send you back there after each school year. He knows the answer to every question before you even ask it, yet even when you do ask he withholds information. Why? What has he got to gain from that? What could possibly be so vital that not even you can know, even when it directly involves you?" His words were coaxing, soft, and Harry frowned.
Unbidden, his thoughts turned back to his first year of school, the cryptic manner in which the old man had spoken. The promise that Voldemort would be back, with no explanation as to why. Or to what he would want with Harry, why Harry was so special to begin with.
Why Harry had been targeted in the first place, his parents dead and he alive and orphaned and famous only to be shoved into a corner of the world below a set of creaky stairs. Bruised and starved.
Tom's hand moved from Harry's shoulder, slipping up the curve of his face until he was cupping it in his hand, a firm hold. "You cannot trust him, Harry. He is a man who is fighting a forgotten war and warlords are never kind. Honesty doesn't win war. And he is merely grooming you to be the perfect soldier."
As if startled from a trance, Harry shirked away from Tom's touch, took several steps back. There was a darkness to his eyes, shadows making the green deeper, muddier. He looked conflicted, confused. He did not like the words that Tom was saying, though he had no argument against them. The fact of the matter was that he didn't know Dumbledore- not very well. He knew he was respected, trusted to some wizarding families, despised by others. He knew he was a bit batty, though he had his suspicions that it was an act. Make believe.
And if so, what was it a cover for?
"I-I've got class, Tom," he stuttered out before making his leave. And this time, Tom let him, his attention turning to the stray which had taken off in the opposite direction.
-xXx-
Sirius didn't stop running until he was beyond the gates of the school, through the valley and over a bridge that stood atop a river. It was a little over a kilometer away from the school, but he found himself in the small French village in no time, wandering into an alley.
He was exhausted, and his leg throbbed in agony, quivering as he held it up to keep the weight off of it. But the pain was forgotten, his thoughts returning to Harry and that odd boy who had been talking to him.
Who was he? He had claimed to be a grief counselor for the Ministry but he looked far too young- older than Harry, sure, but only by a handful of years. And Harry had seemed familiar with him- not in the way he would be with some random grunt. In fact, he had known him before he had even made such introductions.
But how? He clearly wasn't a student or a teacher, and the way he spoke of Dumbledore-
Sirius growled before he even realized he was doing so, the reaction so carnal and visceral. There were many people who certainly disagreed with and distrusted the older wizard. And none of them were the sort that should be associating with Harry.
His worried pacing- a frantic circle in the small space of the alley- came to an abrupt stop. What if the boy had connections to You-Know-Who? He was too young to have been around for the First War, but Sirius wasn't so stupid as to believe that there wasn't still a great deal of sympathy for him and his ideology. He had spent twelve years of his life with nothing but iron bars and warped screaming to know that his death did little to hinder his followers. Each day was filled with the promises that he would return, each night with the desperate pleas for it to be soon.
He wouldn't be surprised if the followers that had managed to evade jail- either by having excellent ties or turning in others- had gone on to tell their children that it was only a matter of time, raising them with the same archaic prejudices. And Harry-
Harry would just about be a beacon, a prize for either side to claim.
Sirius whined, pawing at the ground and lowering his head. Peter was out there, masquerading as a common house pet (vermin was more appropriate) and yet, Sirius knew his duty was here, to Harry. If he was in danger- dark wizards breaking into the school to turn him against Dumbledore in preparation for something- than Sirius owed it to James and Lily to do what he could to protect him.
He'd have to tell someone.
It was not an ideal prospect. He would barely have time to even so much as hug the boy before he'd be hauled off, locked back within Azkaban. Or given the Dementor's Kiss. But it would protect him, and wasn't that all that mattered? Wasn't that what all of this was about? Harry?
No, this was the right thing to do. This was what James and Lily would want of him, revenge and Peter be damned. He would find Dumbledore and reveal himself to the man- if anyone would listen to his concern because having him arrested, it would be him. He might have been cryptic, dotty at the best of times, but he was no fool. Whether or not Dumbledore believed him capable of the crimes for which he was convicted, he would still come to Harry's aid.
He nodded in his resolution, knowing the action looked a bit silly as a dog. He would visit Harry once more, however. One more time, just to say good-bye. He had only known him for some weeks, only for some hours at a time, but he had grown attached to him, in a way that made the bitterness and anger at Peter only grow, fester within the wounds of his betrayal. Twelve years wasting away in prison when he could have been with his godson, spent birthdays with him, Christmases. Summers had ticked by in a windowless cell when he could have been playing Quidditch with the boy, teaching him all the tricks that James had been fond of-
Harry was kind and smart and broken and Peter was the reason for the brokenness, in the end of it all. And he hated that the only way he would ever get to know Harry was as Argos.
But it was something, and he turned on his hind legs, ready to return to the castle-
Someone stood at the end of the alley, their body acting as a shield to the light of the sun, a long shadow stretching outward towards Sirius. He growled, a small effort of intimidation, but the person only chuckled darkly, moving forward.
"Frightening- shaking in my boots," the familiar voice said. It was the boy- the one who had cornered Harry, said such cruel and unkind things about Dumbledore. The growl deepened, hackles raised. He was not above biting at him- he would take full advantage of his sharp and plenty teeth.
The boy came to a stop, tilting his head to the side, his dark blue eyes narrowed in thought. "You're a curious dog, aren't you? I'd call you a mutt, but that wouldn't be appropriate seeing as how you're pureblood. Black, isn't it?"
Before Sirius could even think to act- run away, attack him, continue to act the part of a stray dog and hope to sway his belief- the boy had raised his wand, a flash of light filling the alley, bright blue.
It was painful, being pulled from his animagus form without his desire. It was as if hands had wrapped themselves around each of his limbs- fingers around ankles and wrist- and tugged with all their might in opposing directions. His skin stretched and pulled, trying to accommodate for the bones that had shivered and then sprouted in size, clicking into place. His rear legs ached as they were straightened, his spine tingled as his tail shrunk in its base. Fingers burst through skin where there had once been paws, flexing experimentally, and fire seared up the length of his injured arm as the wound was reopened by the shift of his body.
The world continued to hum around him, even when he had changed. His skin buzzed, electric and prickled with goose flesh, a lingering ache settled in his bones and muscles. He groaned, raising a hand to his head before suddenly remembering himself, snapping up to his feet despite the pain and protest, a swell of adrenaline overcoming him as he recalled that he wasn't alone.
"Petrificus Totalus."
Heavy arms fell to his side, bound by unseen ropes; knees forcibly straightened. He fell to the ground, wincing at the contact, as the boy came to stand over him, a wry smirk twisting his lips. He wasn't very handsome like that, Sirius decided.
"Now, I wonder what on earth one of Voldemort's servants is doing playing doggy and master with my Harry?"
Sirius struggled to speak against the spell, his lips clamped tightly shut, his tongue like stone in his mouth. He wanted to curse him, ask him who he thought he was that Harry belonged to him. The spell was powerful- surprisingly so, for someone so young- and all attempts to break free were futile. He was too weak, too injured.
"How rude of me, to not make proper introductions, of course. I know your name after all, it's only fair," he started, his voice light and airy and entirely unsettling. "The name is Tom Riddle. I know, terrible, isn't it? I had crafted a new name for myself- a better one- but someone's gone off and tarnished the reputation of it, forcing me to stick with this pathetic muggle one. For now, at least."
If he could move, Sirius might have flinched at the way he said the word muggle- like it was poison and he wished to spit it from his lips.
Riddle considered him for a moment, dark eyes flicking over his face, before he reached out, cupping his chin loosely with one hand as though he didn't really want to touch him. The once handsome wizard had seen better days- his face was grubby, unwashed for Merlin knew how long, haggard and gaunt with cheekbones that protruded high over hollowed cheeks. His jaw and upper lip were coated in scraggly hair that grew in uneven patches. The hair atop his head was hardly in any better condition, lank and limp and hanging below his shoulder like stringy curtains.
His gaze was unwavering, and it only emboldened Sirius, making him struggle harder against the petrification charm even as Riddle leveled the tip of a wand against the center of his forehead.
"Legilimens!" he hissed, and suddenly Sirius was reeling, sinking sinking sinking into the ground below him. Distantly, he was aware of shouting, knew somehow that it was his own and he was crying out in pain at the sensation of his mind being torn into.
Tom Riddle was not gentle in the slightest, tearing through his brain and memories with such reckless abandon that Sirius wondered if it was his intent to kill him through such action alone. His life flashed before him, dizzying scenes slipping by that he could hardly place before they were moving on to the next. Memories of his somber childhood within Number 12 Grimmauld Place, his defiant behavior as he fought against his mother and father. Hogwarts faded in a rush of crimson and gold, of late night explorations beneath a silken cloak. Riddle lingered only for a half a second longer on James Potter, on the boy who looked so similar to Harry yet so unlike him. Large paws thudded on dusty wooden floors, sharp claws carving into them. A howl filled the night.
There were flashes of light, air crackling with energy and magic and battle, reds and blues and golds jettisoning across the battlefield. There was a shrill cackle, a woman who might have been pretty if not for the depraved glint in her eyes, the horrid line of her cruel smile.
There was a wedding, a woman with crimson hair and green eyes wrapped within a pure white gown.
There was the same woman, a hand smoothing over a swollen belly, green eyes rimmed in red from tears.
A goodbye.
A secret change of plans.
A disappearance.
Poof.
Like magic they were gone, not to be found.
Until they were, a disappearing act gone sour. There was a collapsing little house- a home- with knitted blankets and crude, childish scribbling hung on walls. The front door had been blasted off its hinges, lay hanging to the side, the frame charred and splintered wood. A body was draped over the stairs, a forgotten and useless wand had slipped from cold fingers and rolled to the foyer. Up the stairs, brushing beside Aurors, was a nursery, the walls the collar of toffee. Another body- face unseen by red curls- was slumped against an empty crib.
There was a third body, and Sirius gave it a good, harsh kick, pausing only to spit disgustingly at it, before racing back down the stairs, trembling with-
Rage.
Hatred.
Grief.
Desire. A deep and penetrating desire to hurt and harm and kill. It was a sensation Riddle knew all too well, and he reveled within it, chasing down the rest of the memory, following after the shadow of Sirius has it apparated away from the little crooked house. He reappeared with a pop, and Riddle could see nothing but a blur of chaos, of action. The room Sirius had appeared in had almost immediately been dismantled, the walls and floor shuddering with the force of his magic as if the room was not enough to contain it, too small a space for the swelling emotions and frazzled energy.
He almost didn't see the man that Sirius had taken his ire upon- a man who Riddle had seen before in his earlier memories, easy to miss, forgettable. The word mousy came to mind as he looked at the short and stout man, brown hair falling into his plump face as his eyes widened, his lips trembling as he ran out the door, Sirius on his heels.
He was yelling all the while, a venomous and passionate rage filling him and tainting his words. It was wrath that seemed unfamiliar even to Riddle, who had thought himself so acquainted with such feelings. It was the wrath of betrayal, of loving so deeply and so thoroughly only for it all to be wretched away, leaving nothing but a gaping wound in its absence.
"You! How could you betray them?! They were your friends! They loved you!"
It was piercing, desperate. A need to know answers yet a desire to know nothing at all, too terrified to learn of what it took for a man to betray his brother. The price that he had sold them at.
They were on the streets, and a crowd had formed- foolish muggles curious by the scene and unaware of the smell of curses in the air. There was more shouting, more bellows-
"What about Harry? Did you even care about him! You were prepared for him to die for what? So you could know what it was like to matter, you filthy rat!"
"IT WAS YOU! YOU WERE THE ONE WHO BETRAYED LILY AND JAMES POTTER!
The air erupted, a blinding light filled the street as the night boomed; as if a great storm was on the horizon, preceded by a roll of thunder. Sirius had been tossed by the propulsion, lay dazed and disoriented in a pile of rubble, a trickle of blood trailing down his ears. It was as if his head was swathed in cloth- he could hear nothing except a pitched ringing. He could not hear the screaming of the survivors, the frantic sound of car alarms that had gone off, the heavy streams of water from exposed and ruptured sewage pipes- the sirens that followed only a minute after. His vision swam in and out of focus, bleary and wet and he knew that there were bodies strewn about the street, disembodied limbs mingled with shattered glass. Yet he saw none of that, his vision becoming steady- impossibly so and only fueled by the adrenaline that surged within his veins- and he could see clear and sharp against the blurred background a rat scurrying away from the scene.
He was being dragged away, trying and failing to dig his hands and heels into the pavement in protest as he was hoisted up by invisible hands. He was fading, his energy gone and his body exhausted from the the abuse he had put it through. His words were barely understood garbles-
"Wormtail! The rat! We trusted- I wouldn't-I wanted to kill him! He deserved to die!"
The misunderstood rantings of lunatic. The crime of a century.
Perhaps it was the madness in his eyes, the desire to kill that lingered on him for weeks after the incident, or perhaps it was the want to be over with the whole business of You-Know-Who and his followers, but he was foregone a trial. Days bled into weeks into months into years of monotony, of limestone and iron encased rooms and horrific creatures that haunted the corridors.
And it was all revisited, every decision that had led to this moment playing through Sirius's mind like a muggle film reel. Every mistake, every misstep.
He wanted to give in- it might have been easier. But he couldn't- not when that rat was still out there, dwelling within sewers or within the plaster walls of homes. It became the diet he sustained himself on, the ember that continued to ignite the fire even as it waned and bowed to the winds.
A visitor stood opposite his cell, unnerved by the calm. The unbroken man who feasted on the thought of revenge and vengeance. A polite request.
"Can I have that? If you're done. I like to keep in the know how of Quidditch when I can."
A newspaper was passed through the bars.
He unrolled it, hands shaking at what he saw before him. The headline: In The Wake of Tragedy, Former Hogwarts Professors Offer Aide to Grieving Family. The photo: A candid shot of a family- Weasleys, as noted by the line underneath- sitting in a small and cramped living room. Minerva McGonagall was present, looking just as stern though a bit older than Sirius remembered. But what drew his eye was not the several solemn faced children or former head of Gryffindor but the rat that had sat itself on the youngest Weasley's shoulder.
How queer that it was missing exactly the same finger that was all that remained of Peter Pettigrew.
Sirius felt the pressure within his head lift as Riddle ceased his perusal of his mind, as if a knife had been pulled from his skull and he might have sighed in relief if he had not still been under the effects of the petrification charm. He opened his eyes, wincing at the light that spurred the dull throb left behind by Riddle's intrusion, and watched as the boy knelt beside him, a shiny shoe placed beside his head.
"How tragic," he hummed, his words mocking. "The entire world thinking you a monster when you've only been mourning the loss of your friends."
He gritted his teeth, grinding the crowns together. He hated him. He did not know who this boy was and he hated him. He needed to get out, he needed to find Dumbledore and use what precious time he had before the Aurors would arrive to tell him of the silver-tongued yet cruel wizard who had taken a shine to his godson.
"Don't worry. I'll reunite you with them soon enough," he said, raising his wand once more.
"Wait!" Sirius yelled, surprised to find that had partially broken through the bind, his teeth clattering as he fought against it. "How will you explain it to Harry? You can't lie to him if you want his trust."
Riddle was nonplussed, a brow raised. If he had been surprised by Sirius's small- though vital- victory against his petrification, he did not show it. "What will he care if one less servant of Voldemort's exists in the world? As far as he knows, that's all you are."
His lips shook with the strain as Sirius said, "He'll find out. He will. Pettigrew can't hide forever. Others will put two and two together. He's a smart boy himself. What will he do when he realizes you killed his godfather? An innocent man? He'll condemn you the way you're trying to make him condemn Dumbledore."
A falter in his expression; a crack in the armor.
A flash of red in his eyes before they dimmed back to blue.
Licking his lips, Sirius added, "Dumbledore lies to him, but not you. You can't lie to him. Not about this. And he will return the favor with loyalty."
Riddle lowered the wand some, his brow furrowed. Sirius swallowed harshly, wincing in pain as his throat constricted around the action. He could move nothing except his mouth, and he could only pray that it would be enough. That somehow he'd be able to keep the boy from killing him long enough for him to protect Harry.
He looked up at the sound of a sigh, followed by a chuckle.
"I suppose you're right. That rat will no doubt return to his side when the opportunity presents itself, and there will be no keeping it a secret then," Riddle said, standing up and brushing off his slacks. "Besides, Harry has grown quite attached to you, hasn't he, Argos?"
He flicked his wand, not waiting for Sirius's retort. "Semper anivinctum."
The invisible binds dissipated around him, hissing as they did so. But there was no chance to enjoy it as his skin began to itch, crawl uncomfortably over his bones. His entire body was thrumming with the unknown curse, his shoulder blades hitching sharply together, forcing his arms to bend at a painful and grotesque angle. His hips had followed, pinching along his tail bone as they widened in his front, spine extending into the long tail of his animagus form. Skin prickled into goosebumps, long black hairs extending from the raised skin, his face pulled and stretched until there was a long snout where there had once been an angular nose and square jaw.
The black dog rolled from his back to his legs, running away from the boy despite the searing pain in his front leg, the ache that settled onto him as if he had been thrown against a wall. Wind- cold and sharp as autumn began to wrap her icy fingers around the town- stung at his face, chilled his longs so that they could not expand. But he did not stop, not until he was in the gardens that he often sat with Harry and Luna, letting himself fall into the lavender, his breath ragged.
Dumbledore would be there tomorrow, Riddle had said. And it had been the truth- or the truth as far as he knew it- because he would not lie to Harry. For whatever reason, the idea of losing Harry's trust was so appalling that he had allowed Sirius to live. A terrible mistake, as he would be certain to warn Dumbledore of him when he came to the castle.
Or had he allowed him to live? He had cast a spell on him, an unrecognizable one which had forced him to assume his animagus form. Was that all it did, or were there lingering effects? Ones that would not show themselves until hours from now, until the moon was high in the sky and he was writhing in agony? He whined, low and pathetic, surprised by how second nature his instincts had become.
He didn't need much time however- just enough time for Dumbledore. After that? Surely any fate would be better than returning to Azkaban or the Dementor's Kiss.
But he did not get sick, much to his relief. Not as he ate the slab of roast that Luna and Harry had delivered for him that evening. Not as the sun fell or rose once more, heralding in a new day.
He even felt better, the Murtlap Essence Harry had give him doing a (begrudgingly admitted) spectacular job on his injured leg, easing the pain and cooling the heat of infection.
No, he didn't feel ill until he saw the Headmistress of the school (taller than Hagrid himself he swore!) walking towards the entrance to the school, Albus Dumbledore by her side.
It wasn't so much the sight of the wizard that had made his stomach coil uncomfortably within him, or even the knowledge that he was to expose himself- months of careful hiding and plotting only to toss it all away.
No, it wasn't until he attempted to revert back to his human form that sickness settled into him, made his stomach flip until he was vomiting frothy white liquid beside clipped rose bushes.
He couldn't change back.
Tom Riddle had trapped him in his animagus form.
-xXx-
Author's Note: Argos: The loyal dog to Odysseus from Homer's Odyssey.
(I firmly believe that if Sirius ever had to convince someone he was really a dog, his go to method was to lick his crotch and I will literally fight anyone who says otherwise.)
I originally planned on killing Sirius and then I...I just couldn't. I didn't have the heart to go through with it.
Also I wanted to do something other than Smart, Brave, Sneaky and Misc. for the houses and I thought the four elements would be nifty- plus, it added the interesting dynamic of placing people in houses based on inherent characteristics and magical style as opposed to beliefs or values they held.
NEXT UP: Harry and Dumbledore have their visit, a rat makes a daring escape, and Tom makes Harry an incredibly tempting offer.