Slytherin Pride
Chapter 4: Second Chances
"This is getting ridiculous, Draco!" Harry grumbled as he sat opposite Draco in the Slytherin common room. He rubbed his aching arms ruefully. "You're making us practice every night until our limbs are hanging loose, and now you want to charm the brooms, too?"
"Look, I need to win this match, all right?" Draco argued. "This is the first match I'm captaining, and I'll be damned if we don't flatten Gryffindor!"
"Oh, so it's the Malfoy pride that we're all sacrificing the use of our limbs in later life for, is that it?"
"Oh don't be so melodramatic, Potter," Draco snapped, looking irritated. "And yes, my integrity is at stake here, if we don't win this match I think I'll kill myself."
"And we can't have that, can we?" Harry remarked dryly. "Why would we ever want another captain who doesn't think that crippling his teammates is the way to go?" He caught Draco's murderous look, and grinned. "Relax, Draco, Gryffindor has never been that much of a threat. If there's anything you should look out for, it's Ravenclaw."
Draco shook his head. "You don't understand, do you? Beating Gryffindor means a whole lot more than beating Ravenclaw. It's this age-old rivalry between the two Houses, and I think I'll die of embarrassment if we don't win the match."
"And who's being melodramatic now, hmm?"
"Oh shut up." Draco ran a hand through his pale blond hair. He sighed and leaned back, staring off into space, plotting their Quidditch strategy over again in his head.
Harry gave him a sidelong appraising look — he'd never seen Draco half as worried about anything else before. "Look, it's not that big a deal, all right? Stop fretting."
Draco glared at Harry. "I'm not fretting," he snapped peevishly, as if that was an extremely girlish thing to do. "I'm just thinking, that's all."
"Oh, believe me, if that's 'thinking', your head would have combusted years ago."
"All right! I admit it!" Draco raked his hand through his hair again, another indication of his stressed state of mind. "I'm extremely worried about this match, all right? It's only two days away, and look at what happened at practice today — that silly jerk Rayfield hit the Bludger right at our own Keeper! Our team is not ready for this!"
"The only reason he mis-hit the Bludger was because you kept yelling instructions at him and he couldn't concentrate," Harry pointed out reasonably. Draco had become increasingly obsessive during practice sessions of late — probably the only one who escaped unscathed from his criticism was Harry, because he was just a simply exceptional Seeker. "Our team is good — everyone knows that. We don't need to charm the brooms to win."
"Yes, we do." Draco's voice was muffled; he'd buried his face in his hands and was massaging his temples. "I need every sort of assurance I can get that we'll definitely win this match."
Harry wondered if Draco was bordering a nervous breakdown. He allowed himself a secret smile — a lot of people would be surprised to see Draco like this. To the rest of the school, Draco Malfoy was a composed, poised student, a natural leader, calm in all situations. Well, it looked like a Quidditch match against Gryffindor wasn't one of them.
"Tomorrow night," Draco said abruptly, without looking up.
"What?" Harry cast a worried glance at Draco — he could detect the steely note in his voice, and that usually meant trouble because there would be virtually no way of talking Draco out of it, whatever it was.
"The brooms. I know a charm that'll make our brooms move faster, with more precision and quicker reaction time." Draco looked up, and there was a fixed look of determination in his grey eyes.
"Faster?" Harry gave a long-suffering sigh. "You've already got a Firebolt 2000, Draco, the best there is in the market. I've got a Firebolt, too, the second-latest model at least. Any faster and we'll shoot straight to Mars on kick-off."
Draco looked agitated. "That's not the point. The point is that we'll have a considerable edge over Gryffindor if our brooms move faster and respond quicker. We can zip around and they'll spend most of their time chasing us."
"We already zip around and they already spend most of their time chasing us," Harry pointed out, remembering their last match against Gryffindor in the previous season; Slytherin had won 250-20. Of course, Harry had caught the Snitch. "We already win on talent, Draco, and that's more important than fast brooms, which we incidentally also have."
It was almost amusing, Harry realised, that he was sitting here trying to coax Draco Malfoy into being rational. Harry'd never quite thought himself fitting the role of the clear-minded, sensible one. On any other occasion, if Draco was being so stubborn and mulish about anything else, Harry would've just told him to shut up and go boil his head. But now Harry could empathise with Draco, in a way — Quidditch meant a lot to both of them, and the responsibility of defending the Quidditch Cup for Slytherin was quite a weighty burden on Draco, as the captain.
Draco shook his head obstinately. "I'm going to do it anyway," he said adamantly, and from the steadfast look in his eyes, Harry knew there was no talking him out of it.
"It's a stupid thing to do," Harry warned anyway. "If we get caught..."
"We won't get caught," Draco said confidently, his tone complacent. "They already expect Firebolts to go fast, they won't notice that it's a bit faster than it should be." He raised his eyes to meet Harry's, issuing a silent challenge. "So are you with me, or do I have to go alone?"
Harry sighed. Draco was being very fanatical about this. But he really didn't want Draco to have to do the spell all by himself, and he'd feel quite bad if Draco got caught because he didn't have anyone to look out for him. They couldn't afford their best Chaser to be disqualified just before the game, or worse, have Slytherin docked points for attempting to cheat. And Harry did want Slytherin to win the match... just to be sure...
"All right," he said reluctantly. He fixed Draco with a stern look. "But no sabotaging of the Gryffindor brooms, you hear?"
Draco looked slightly crestfallen. "That was next on the agenda, actually."
"No." Harry said firmly, shaking his head. He wasn't going to back down on this. "There's no way I'm going to let you do that, all right? That's just downright unethical, unprofessional... that's cheating."
"Slytherins always cheat," Draco said airily, as if that was as natural as playing Quidditch. He wanted to point out that charming their own brooms was tantamount to cheating as well, but thought better of it; Harry was sceptical enough as it was.
"Well, I'm not going to do that." Harry was unyielding, and he stared hard at Draco. "Come on, Malfoy, don't you want to win in your own right? Don't you want to have the feeling of satisfaction that you're better than them, even without making their brooms explode?"
Draco waved his hand dismissively. "I don't need all that crap, I just need to win. I need to win, and really flatten them by a huge margin."
"If you want me to come with you, we are not touching the Gryffindor brooms," Harry said flatly. There was no room for negotiation in his tone, and Draco knew it.
"Fine," Draco finally conceded, although very unwillingly. He wondered if he could put a quick hex on the Gryffindor brooms while Harry wasn't looking. "We'll just fix the spell on our own brooms, all right?"
Harry gave Draco a dubious look; Draco's reply was almost too glib to be trusted. "I mean it, you know—"
"All right already!" Draco cut him off impatiently. "Stop nagging, Potter, you're becoming like an old man."
Harry looked sharply at Draco, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Say you won't sabotage Gryffindor's brooms." Draco returned a mutinous look, but Harry persisted. "Go on, say it, or I'm not coming with you tomorrow night."
Draco sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, he really wanted Harry to come with him and help him out with the charm — Harry was good with spells, and he could serve as a useful lookout. Draco just wished Harry wasn't being such a stiff about hexing the other brooms.
"All right, all right," Draco raised both his palms in mock surrender, and offered a conciliatory smile. "I promise. There, you happy now?"
"You're just being extremely paranoid about this whole thing, you know that Draco?"
"Yeah, whatever." Draco replied broodingly, looking distracted again.
Harry shook his head as he got up, dusted off his robes and headed to their dungeon dormitory. He cast a backward glance at Draco, who had lapsed back into deep thought, probably about what they were going to sneak out and do tomorrow night.
Harry smiled wryly, and wondered why he even made Draco swear not to hex the brooms — he probably had his toes crossed.
Since when did a promise from Draco Malfoy count for very much, anyway?
It was still fairly dark outside, and the merest shades of the dawning day were beginning to diffuse across the inky night sky. There was a tranquil stillness all around, save for the quiet chirping of crickets or the soft hooting of hunting owls, and instead of being eerie, the silence felt strangely comforting.
Lupin stepped softly out of his office, walking down the darkened corridors out onto the open grounds of Hogwarts. Sleep had evaded him for the entire night, and his body was starting to feel sore from his constant tossing and turning. Frankly, he'd been deprived of a decent night's sleep ever since he saw Peter Pettigrew lurking around in the Gryffindor dormitory.
Lupin strolled along the edge of the Quidditch pitch, the grass rustling softly under his otherwise noiseless footsteps. It was a gift borne of his other nature, Lupin thought, his ability to prowl the field without disturbing anything, not even a butterfly resting atop a curving blade of long grass.
He continued walking silently until he reached the boundary of the Forbidden Forest. There he picked a tree just outside of the Forest and sat down at the foot of it, leaning against the rough, knobbly bark of the trunk. It pricked his back, but he didn't mind. Lupin stretched out his legs, and sat there resting, thinking.
He liked the darkness. It wasn't a very enlightening quality, to have such an affinity for the darkness, but Lupin knew that was the truth. He wondered if it due to his being a werewolf — living in the darkness was his second nature, his primal calling. He came alive in the darkness, and ironically, often it was in the blackness of night that he could best think things through clearly. The silence welcomed his pondering thoughts, and afforded him some clarity of mind.
He looked out at the Forbidden Forest, which looked so much more enticing and alluring hooded in the blackened night. He still remembered it vividly, every beaten path and running creek, as if he had traversed through it only the month before. But it had been years since he last roved the Forest as a wolf, in the company of Padfoot, Wormtail and Prongs, of course.
But now, Remus reflected thoughtfully, even if he was given another chance to run wild in the Forest, he wasn't sure he wanted to anymore, no matter how exciting it still was, no matter how he loved the freedom to explore where he wished, to meet the interesting and exotic denizens inhabiting the Forest. It would be too painful to remember the adventures he shared with his friends, his friends who were no longer by his side.
Remus closed his eyes and sighed. Dumbledore had already gone to speak with Crouch, and he knew that the matter would be expedited under Dumbledore's insistence. That would mean that Sirius would be released shortly, and very soon, he'd have the chance to speak with his old friend again.
And deep down inside, Remus looked forward to it.
Lucius Malfoy paced back and forth in his study, sleepless even at the break of dawn. He'd gotten out of bed about an hour earlier, unable to stand Narcissa's soft, contented snores when even the briefest sleep eluded him. If he didn't get out of the bedroom, he might be strongly tempted to shake her awake and yell, "Dammit! Why are you sleeping so soundly? What are we going to do about Draco, and that wretched Harry Potter?"
His entire reputation hinged on this one single assignment, and Lucius Malfoy wasn't going to let his master down.
"What to do, what to do," he muttered, resuming his mindless pacing, absently counting the number of steps it took to walk the length of his office; twenty-nine. It was infuriatingly odd; just one short of an even thirty. "How the hell am I supposed to get Harry Potter alive? It'd be altogether a lot easier if I could just deliver his bloody carcass."
Lucius thought of the common phrase, 'Wanted: Alive Or Dead'. He wished it was so easy — but he knew that the Dark Lord wouldn't reward him at all if he served up Harry Potter's corpse; he might even get killed or punished for not following specific instructions, and punishment from the Dark Lord was sometimes even worse than death.
He sighed, frustrated. His meeting with Voldemort hadn't yielded quite as much as Lucius had hoped. He'd been expecting some more information about what Voldemort wanted with Draco — Lucius had nothing but a few cryptic words from his master before, and even those scarce words excited him immensely.
The Dark Lord had mentioned something about an heir, in connection with Draco. Lucius swiftly put the pieces together — could Draco possibly be the heir that his master was searching for? The Heir of Slytherin? If his son was the one, Lucius was almost giddy with the thought of the amount of praise and recognition he would receive. Father of the Heir — what more could he ask? And for giving Draco over to serve the Dark Lord, he would be rewarded magnificently.
But unfortunately, Voldemort seemed unwilling to divulge any more information regarding his plans for Draco until he, Lucius, came up with an idea of how to trap Harry Potter.
"Damn you, blasted Potter!" Lucius spat, kicking furiously at the base of his huge mahogany table; a small splinter of wood chipped off, and a sharp pain flamed up his toe. Lucius cursed heatedly again, hobbling over to his leather armchair and slumping down in it.
He had never been good at waiting. He needed to know that Draco was indeed the one, as Lucius was almost positively sure he was. Draco had everything it took to be great, to be a leader — an ambition for excellence with a cunning mind to match, as well as undeniably good looks — just like his father, of course. Grand and illustrious plans for his son were already beginning to formulate in Lucius' mind.
Lucius couldn't suppress a triumphant, satisfied smile.
Yes, his Draco was indeed destined for greatness.
When dawn finally broke in brilliant streaks of golden daylight suffusing across the withering darkness, Remus slowly got to his feet. It was quite a wonder how he wasn't stiff from staying in a fixed position for so long. Yet another gift derived from his alternate existence as a wolf, Lupin mused, as he strolled along the fence, away from the Forbidden Forest, which lost some of its mystical appeal as sunlight shone forth.
Movement stirred as the day arrived; birds woke to the freshness of morning and twittered cheerfully, excited by the beckoning call of whirring crickets in the bushes. As he made his way back to his office, Lupin met a group of Gryffindor Quidditch players, sleepy-eyed as they trudged toward the pitch for early morning practice. There was an important match against Slytherin the following day, and Lupin greeted them cordially and wished them a good practice session before parting ways.
Lupin sensed the presence even as he neared his office; foreign, yet strangely familiar. His honed instincts came alive, and he stiffened. Very cautiously, he stretched out his hand and turned the doorknob quietly. He pushed open the door and looked inside, his body tense with anticipation, his eyes darting around.
He let out a soft gasp of surprise as his eyes fell on the sofa adjacent to his desk, and almost tripped over the fringe of the rug draped across the floor.
Curled up on the cushions was a large, black dog, its muzzle resting between its front paws, one of which was shackled with a thin silver band. It raised its head when Remus entered, but didn't react otherwise. It seemed to have sensed Remus coming as well, and didn't look at all surprised; it stared back at Remus, whose face was pale with shock, its mournful black eyes unblinking.
Remus stood rooted to the spot for quite a long time, his foot still partially snagged by the rug, one hand gripping the back of a chair for support. It only occurred to him several moments later to shut the door, and he gave it a feeble kick with his heel.
Lupin had expected his arrival, but even then, he still couldn't hide his astonishment. It was so strange seeing him again, the familiar dark, hulking presence that Remus had been so used to seeing running alongside him.
"Sirius?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. The name sounded awkward and alien; it was so often spoken of contemptuously, that Sirius Black, who betrayed his friends, who caused James and Lily's death.
Remus swallowed hard, and tried again. "Padfoot?"
The dog let out a soft, weary growl. Remus blinked, and the next moment a grown man sat before him, hunched on the sofa where the dog once sat. Another involuntary exclamation escaped Remus' lips as he stared at Sirius in undisguised horror.
Sirius was very thin, almost to the point of being emaciated. His skin was an unhealthy, sallow tone; it reminded Lupin of Snape's complexion, which wasn't very complimentary to the Potions master at all. Sirius' hair was messy and unkempt, even more ruffled since he'd changed back from being a dog. The limp black locks framed his fragile face, making him look thinner than ever. And what jarred Remus the most was Sirius' eyes: they were deadened and hollow, completely devoid of the vibrance and emotion of the Sirius he once knew.
The glint of metal that braceleted Sirius' bony wrist caught the virgin sunlight, drawing Remus' attention. Remus looked at it curiously, wondering what it was.
Sirius noticed his inquisitive glance. "It's a Restraining Band," he explained quietly. His voice was scratchy, as if he'd just recovered from losing his voice, which wasn't far from the truth — Azkaban took a person's voice in a very different way.
Sirius looked calmly at Remus, then continued in a casual, detached tone, "It makes sure that if I escape, I don't get very far — not in one piece, at least. The furthest-flung body part has been known to reach distances of up to a mile."
Remus looked shocked; it was starting to be a common expression for him this morning. "Dumbledore made you wear that?"
"He holds the Activator," Sirius answered, and his expression softened slightly at the mention of Dumbledore. "The only reason I allowed them to put it on me without scratching them bloody." He cast a casual, almost offhand look at the band encircling his wrist. "It's not the most flattering accessory, I must say."
Sirius' calmness was getting unnerving. Lupin took a tentative step forward, still eyeing him watchfully. It was hard to explain; Sirius looked so different, yet felt the same. The fact that Sirius Black, notorious and feared prisoner of Azkaban, was sitting right there in his office hadn't quite sunk in yet.
Sirius gave him a tired look, then sighed. "You can take a step or two closer, Remus, I don't have a wand to blast you into oblivion with." He raised his palms by way of gesture, and the metal band glinted sharply in the sunlight again. "And I won't bite, because that's just downright clichéd."
Lupin's eyes narrowed. Sirius' trademark dry wit was strangely incongruous to the situation. "Don't make jokes like that, Sirius." He frowned, although he took a subconscious step forward. "And that's not the point, anyway."
"What is the point, really?" Sirius asked, looking pointedly at Lupin. "Why did you bring me here to talk about? Care to enlighten me? Is this about James and Lily again? Because I don't think I can take any more of that, at least not from you, of all persons."
Lupin blinked. "Dumbledore didn't tell you?"
Sirius shook his head. "He said that it'd be better if you told me personally." He shot Lupin a questioning look, but said nothing more.
Lupin groaned. How did Dumbledore expect him to explain everything, everything to Sirius, all by himself? There was still such a divergent rift between them — even the simplest, most mundane conversation was proving quite excruciating, for Lupin at least.
Lupin drew a deep breath, sneaking a glance at Sirius, who was sitting on the sofa, patiently waiting. He wore a serene, mildly expectant expression, but if Remus looked hard enough, he could see the shadows of hollow pain etched into Sirius' worn face, the ghostly scars of his existence in Azkaban.
And for the countless hours he'd spent thinking about this meeting with Sirius, Lupin had never gone so far as to actually think about what he wanted to say. Whether to tell, or to ask, to answer or to listen. There were just too many things that were too intricately entwined — it was like a precarious equilibrium, you couldn't just take one item down for discussion without everything else coming crashing down along with it.
Sirius sat rigidly on the sofa, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. He didn't know if the discomfort was physical or otherwise; his body was unaccustomed to such a soft, cushioned seat, far too used to the hard cold floor back in his cell in Azkaban.
Even miles away from there, I still can't stop thinking about it, Sirius reflected grimly. This is how it kills you — it never lets you forget.
His release had come as an abrupt surprise; late last night, while he was lying sleepless on the damp, cold floor, with nothing but the chilling darkness for company, a Ministry officer had approached his cell with two Dementors in tow. For a fleeting, panicked moment, Sirius had deliriously wondered if they'd changed his sentence to that of receiving the fatal Kiss. His mind had leapt up and recoiled; his body had remained stiff and sluggish on the floor, unresisting. He knew that there was nowhere to run, and no way to hide.
His fears evaporated momentarily when the Ministry wizard informed him about his temporary release, 'pending further investigations into your case.' Bullshit, Sirius had thought disgustedly. Reconsidering my case fifteen years after I was sentenced? Efficient judicial system they're running out there.
He'd slowly risen to his feet, his limbs numbed and recalcitrant, deadened like the rest of his body. In Azkaban, feeling physical pain had become as common as breathing air — which was probably why a lot of the prisoners stopped doing both within their first year of incarceration. Sirius had learned to handle it, however; it was the subtle, insidious corrosion that he feared the most, that he summoned every ounce of willpower to constantly battle.
Sirius had shuffled along the dank, darkened corridors flanked by the two Dementors, feeling the waves of icy hopelessness emanating from them; he'd shivered, the unbearable cold gnawing at his bones. The Ministry wizard had looked worse for wear, too — he talked in a high-pitched, unnatural voice, and seemed scared to death by either Sirius or the Dementors. There had been a wild look of terror in the young wizard's eyes as he scuttled out of the fortress as fast as he could. He then handed Sirius a Portkey, and hastily Disapparated himself.
The Portkey had taken Sirius straight to a vaguely familiar office — and judging from the one of the two figures seated in the room, it surmised that it was Bartemius Crouch's office. Sirius had felt a jolt of genuine surprise run through him as he focused his eyes on the other person — Albus Dumbledore.
Crouch had looked mutinous throughout their brief meeting; he ordered for two Restraining Bands to be placed on Sirius, but Dumbledore had staunchly refused ("Detonating one Band is enough to reduce the person wearing it and a ten-foot radius around him to ashes — I think you've sufficiently proved your point, Crouch."). They'd initially attached the Retraining Band around Sirius' neck, like a cruel, grotesque necklace, but Dumbledore had insisted it be taken off and placed around his wrist instead ("Your purpose is to restrain him, Crouch, not to humiliate him.").
He'd been brought to Hogwarts at the crack of dawn — Dumbledore went to fetch Lupin, but had found his office vacated. Sirius had secretly been amused to learn that Remus was a teacher at Hogwarts — thinking of all the pranks they'd pulled together back at school, it was a marvel that Remus could take on a position of responsibility now.
Dumbledore had suggested he wait for Remus to return to his office, and Sirius had obliged. He melted into the form of a dog and sat on the sofa, patiently awaiting Lupin's return.
Now, he rested his even gaze on Lupin, who seemed to have great difficulty finding words to convey his thoughts.
Finally, Lupin blurted out, "Peter's alive, Sirius."
Sirius nodded calmly. "I know."
"Then why didn't you say something?" Lupin exploded, giving Sirius a wild look of disbelief. "Why didn't you tell us that you never killed him? Why did you just let them—" Lupin broke off, finding it too painful to speak the words. He imagined how much worse it was for Sirius to have lived the lie.
Sirius gave a wry, resigned smile. "You wouldn't have believed me, anyway. Pettigrew's sliced finger, his bloodstained robes, the streetful of dead Muggles, pandemonium everywhere... there was no way you would've believed me, Remus, not even you."
"You never gave me a chance to, did you?" Lupin's eyes shimmered with bitter emotion.
"Put it this way — I could do with one less friend calling me a liar or a traitor." Sirius gave a smile, but Remus saw it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Helped me remember you better, too — not as one who yelled insults at me, or looked at me like I was the scum of the earth."
"James and Lily, then? Who's responsible?" Lupin asked tightly, almost fearing the response.
A pained expression flickered across Sirius' impassive features, warming the empty void in his eyes. Sirius sighed, and his quiet voice reverberated around the silent room.
"I would never have sold them out, Remus," he said sadly, with a slight shake of his head. "I was the one who persuaded James to change to Peter as their Secret-Keeper at the last moment — I thought it would be the perfect decoy, the best—" Sirius' voice trembled, and he paused to draw a breath.
"I was wrong. Peter was the spy all along. He betrayed James and Lily to Voldemort." Sirius' voice was toneless, and their was a look of unmistakable anguish in his darkening eyes. "I managed to find him afterward, and confronted him. He cut off his own finger, blew the street apart with his wand behind his back, then disappeared into the sewers as a rat. He's been alive, all this while, in hiding."
"And this is the whole truth about what really happened that night?" Remus' tone wasn't challenging; it was merely questioning.
"This is the truth." Sirius' voice held firm, and so did his gaze. "I told this account to a few of the Ministry wizards who apprehended me — they thought I was insane and just locked me up. No one listened, so in the end I gave up."
The pain in Lupin's eyes softened to a pale shade of sadness. "You should never give up on the truth, Sirius," he said softly.
Sirius sighed. "I gave that up along with a lot of other things, Remus." He shrugged. "It takes too much effort to hold on to things you know you will never have again. Your life — existence in Azkaban couldn't appropriately be term as living. Your friends. Your freedom."
"And that's not true, either." Remus waved his hand in a brief gesture, indicating at the both of them. "You're here now."
"I may have given up on the truth, Remus, but I never gave up hope, and that's why I'm even alive to be here now." Sirius said simply. He shook his head helplessly — he still couldn't stop thinking about it. "Azkaban wears you down in an entirely different way. It eats at your soul, corroding it, bit by bit, until you don't even know yourself any longer. It's like living in a den of ravenous lions, and all you can do is scream so you can't hear the roaring at the back of your mind, so you can keep your own demons at bay."
"And that way the lions don't get to you?" Lupin asked softly, drawing closer and sitting down on the armrest of the sofa.
Sirius gave a humourless smile. "Of course they do. It's just a matter of delaying the inevitable, that's all."
"And were we too late?" Lupin couldn't withhold the sombre question. He wanted to reach out and touch Sirius' shoulder, to offer him some tangible comfort, but for some reason he held back.
Sirius shrugged. "I don't know. It's hard to tell. People who are dying often don't know they are. Bleeding from an invisible wound is hard to gauge."
"I wish you could've—" Lupin started, then swallowed his own words. It was too painful to say them, for him and even more so for Sirius. Agonising over the past could only waste away the future.
And he believed Sirius. He didn't know why, but he just did. It wasn't rational at all — it was the heart speaking louder than the mind, something that Remus rarely allowed. It was a certain gut feeling that couldn't be quantified, which told him to trust Sirius, that sometimes unfortunate coincidences happened, that only the real truth could survive fifteen years in a living hell and still hold true.
Suddenly seemed like the most natural thing in the world, the same way he'd unequivocally trusted Sirius when they were younger, when Sirius had said, "Hop off the tower; you won't crash." And he trusted Sirius then, and he had jumped, and he hadn't crashed. (Sirius had been trying out an Invisible Netting Spell; they both got detention for 'recklessly endangering their lives', but Remus knew that if Sirius had asked him to, there really wasn't any danger at all.)
Nothing changed since then. And Remus believed him.
"How's Harry?" Sirius suddenly asked, raising his sunken eyes to look at Remus. His voice was hoarser than before, as if his throat was slightly constricted. "He's in Hogwarts now, I think? I believe he's sixteen this year, unless that coma of mine lasted longer than I thought."
"You were in a coma?" Remus' eyebrow shot up, and his eyes clouded with concern.
"Bumped my head and knocked myself unconscious for a bit," Sirius said, with a nonchalant shrug. The truth be told, Sirius thought bitterly, the entire time in Azkaban was like being in a coma — a waking sleep filled with nothing but troubled dreams and living nightmares.
He waved his hand almost dismissively, although Remus still saw the pain that lived in Sirius' darting eyes. "You haven't answered my question — how's Harry? Is he here in Hogwarts?"
"Yes, he's in Hogwarts — he's started his sixth year." Remus hesitated — he really didn't want to tell Sirius that Harry had been put in Slytherin. The deadened look in Sirius' eyes was still too stark, and Remus had a feeling knowing his godson was a Slytherin wasn't going to breathe much more life into him.
So all he did was force a smile and say reassuringly, "Harry's fine, Sirius. I think Dumbledore will let you talk to him if you want to."
"And if he wants to," Sirius added, almost morosely. "Don't think he'll be falling over himself to meet the godfather who supposedly caused his parents' death."
Remus exhaled in relief when Sirius didn't ask which House Harry was put in — he must have assumed, as Remus did, that Harry was Sorted into Gryffindor. Looking at Sirius' glum expression, Remus thought of cheering him up by telling him how good Harry was at Quidditch; then he remembered that Harry was the Slytherin Seeker and decided against it.
Sirius leaned back, his frail frame resting against the broad sofa. He looked exhausted, although from a weariness that couldn't be attributed to physical fatigue. He looked tiredly at Remus for a moment, then said, " thought about Harry a lot, while I was Azkaban — I know Voldemort didn't kill him, that he went to live with Lily's Muggle folks after James and Lily died." Off Remus' raised eyebrow, he explained, "I met Hagrid outside the house, he was taking little Harry away."
"Not so 'little' now," Remus pointed out, with a small smile.
Sirius didn't return the smile; he continued talking slowly, as if speaking right from his soul. "There weren't many things for me to hold on to in Azkaban, and I often thought about Harry — how he was growing up, whether he was looking more and more like James, although I'd say he definitely has Lily's eyes."
Sirius paused, the dull look still hooding his black eyes. "I'd really like to meet him, Remus."
It pained Remus each time Sirius talked about Azkaban — he didn't dare think how much more it hurt for Sirius himself. It was agonising to see the wooden expression in Sirius' eyes, which used to glint mischievously ever so often. That carefree innocence was gone, and a matured weariness stood in its place; different, yet heartbreaking similar.
Sirius was right. He hadn't escaped unscathed from Azkaban; there was a little part of his soul that was given to the lions, lost forever.
Remus saw an involuntary shudder chill through his friend's gaunt body, and he reflexively shrugged off his outer set of robes and gave it to Sirius. "Take this, put it on. It's quite cold in here."
Sirius gave him a thoughtful look, then reached out and accepted the robes.
"No, Remus," he said, almost bitterly, and touched his hand to his own chest, over his heart. "It's cold in here."
Remus stared hopelessly at Sirius as he draped the robes over his thin shoulders, covering the ragged garments that clothed his skinny body, shielding away a coldness that was borne from within. And he felt so helpless, so useless, sitting so near his friend yet being unable to soothe his pain, a pain that Remus knew he could never even begin to understand.
"I'm sorry, Sirius," Remus fought to keep his voice from choking with emotion, but he couldn't help it. He felt so bad, so horribly, horribly bad. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to control himself; his words faltered just when he needed so desperately to say something, to say the right thing.
Sirius returned a pensive look. "Sorry about what, Remus?" His tone bore no reproach, and his eyes watched Lupin sincerely.
Sirius regarded his friend thoughtfully; Remus still looked the same, after all this years, save for a few wisps of greying hair and dark rings of prolonged weariness encircling his blue-grey eyes. There was so much time lost between them, and this was just the beginning of a road of painful mending for them both. There were still so many things left unsaid, and Sirius knew that this wasn't the time for them to be spoken.
It was not his place to offer Remus forgiveness. They had all lost, to different degrees, some ways more painful than others. He didn't hold any grudge against his friend, as long as Remus no longer held him responsible for James and Lily's death. This wasn't a time for guilt, or blame; it was a time for healing, and moving on.
Lupin felt Sirius' expectant gaze still upon him and tried to find the words to express his sentiments; but he eventually gave up, and just shook his head with a helpless shrug.
"Everything." He smiled ruefully. "I'm sorry, Padfoot."
Sirius gave Remus a genuine smile, touched with a hint of sadness and regret. "So am I."
Night had fallen; Ron wearily made his way back to Gryffindor Tower, his robes caked with mud from the Quidditch pitch. Every muscle in his body was seared with an aching fatigue from practicing morning and night — quite a harebrained strategy on the part of their captain, really, since now Ron wasn't sure his limbs would be able to move at all for the match tomorrow.
Gryffindor vs. Slytherin always raised such a furore each year whenever it rolled by. It was the most potentially explosive match in the season, and House pride ran unusually high as the age-old rivalry was taken onto the pitch and battled out with feverish ardour. Ron was ashamed to admit that it hadn't been quite as climactic as it used to be — in recent years, Gryffindor had been, mercifully put, steamrollered.
If only Harry Potter had been in Gryffindor, Ron thought grudgingly, a note of wistfulness in his voice as he remembered how he'd expected himself and Harry to be in the same House. We'd probably swipe the Quidditch and House Cup from Slytherin.
It was common knowledge to everyone that Harry Potter was an extremely gifted Seeker — Slytherin had never suffered a defeat with him on the team. The last time Ron remembered Slytherin ever losing was when Draco Malfoy had taken over from an injured Harry — he'd ended up crashing very unceremoniously into a tree and knocking Filch, who'd been decorating it for Christmas, to the ground. Ron had laughed about it for a whole week after, much to Malfoy's chagrin.
The Gryffindor team had practiced very hard for the upcoming match, but Ron knew the chances for victory were slim. Not with Harry in top form as the Slytherin Seeker. Malfoy had been relegated to the role of Chaser, but unfortunately for Ron, he was much better a Chaser than he had been a Seeker. As Beater, Ron had his work cut out for him tomorrow, and it was going to be no less than a mammoth task to mark Malfoy.
He's even got a Firebolt 2000, Ron thought enviously. And my broom was probably what the Stone Age people used to sweep out their caves.
He'd taken over the position of Beater from Fred and George, and Ron was finding it very hard to emulate them. They were the last of a generation of Gryffindor players who could at least hold their own against Slytherin — the rest of them had already graduated in previous years. The new blood was finding it hard even to keep up with the standard set by their predecessors, let alone match Slytherin's quality. And with Harry Potter as Seeker, it was game, set, match for Slytherin.
When he crawled through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room after a nice hot shower, Ron saw Hermione sitting at a table by the fireplace, working industriously on her homework. The table was stacked with Potion textbooks — Ron remembered with a groan that the next Potions assignment was falling due.
When she saw him, she looked up and gave him a bright smile. "How was practice?"
"Great, really," Ron answered, so tired that his words emerged as a slur. "Especially if your idea of fun is having your limbs exerted until they're about to come unhinged, then yes, it was a very enjoyable practice session." He flung himself onto a beanbag lying next to Hermione's chair. "Ugh, I'm sore."
Hermione smiled. "There's actually such a thing in real life, you know — it's a form of Chinese torture. They strap you down and stretch your limbs in opposite directions, until either your resolve or your joints give way."
"I think I'll stick with Quidditch, thanks, this way I at least get a shot at slamming a Bludger into Malfoy's face."
"Harry's playing Seeker for Slytherin again, I suppose?" Hermione asked innocently, although Ron noticed a slight twinkle in her eye as she spoke.
He scowled. "He's the spine of the whole team, what d'you think?" He gave Hermione a sharp look — Harry was one of the most popular Quidditch players among the female students at Hogwarts. "And don't you go ogling at Harry throughout the whole match and forgetting who you're supposed to be supporting."
Hermione grinned. "Not me you should be worrying about, more likely Ginny."
"Yes, I'll have to talk to her about that soon." He nodded firmly, making a mental note.
"What, about her fancying Harry?"
"Fancying? More like undying, unrequited love for him. A 'fancy' doesn't last for six years, mind." Ron sighed. "So don't you go hankering after Harry too, or I think I'll just ask for a transfer to Hufflepuff, since all the Gryffindor girls seem to be hopelessly devoted to Harry Potter."
"Well, I don't even think Harry's the best looking player on the Slytherin team," Hermione stated with an affirmative air. "He's the nicest of them all, granted, not as obnoxious as the rest... I mean, he's cute, yes. Swoonsome, no."
Ron quirked an eyebrow. "Harry Potter, not up to your lofty standards? Not the cutest Slytherin since Salazar himself?"
"Pfft," Hermione scoffed. "Have you seen Salazar Slytherin? If he was the definition of cute, the dictionary would spontaneously burst into flames."
"All right, who exactly do you think is the most — swoonsome of the Slytherins, then?"
"Well," Hermione tilted her head in mock thoughtfulness, as if she was a connoisseur at an art gallery. "Let's see... I'll have to say... well now, he has the build, but he has the eyes, and the hair too—"
An awful thought occurred to Ron. "It better not be Malfoy..." he began warningly, then caught the almost guilty smile on Hermione's face.
"Hermione!" He stared at her in horror. "Not Malfoy?"
Hermione grinned, then decided against giving Ron an apoplectic fit just when he was so dead tired he probably couldn't even make it to the hospital wing, although the idea was extremely inviting. "No, no, it's not Malfoy," she said smilingly, although her teasing tone of voice left much room for doubt.
Ron looked as if he'd swallowed a few Cockroach Clusters whole. "You think Malfoy's cute?!"
"I said no!" Hermione protested, although her tone was still laughing. "But c'mon, Ron, don't you know that half the girls in Hogwarts have or used to have a crush on Malfoy?"
Ron looked as if he'd been presented with another full jar of Cockroach Clusters to eat. "And you're not one of them, are you? Are you? Ugh, that is just revolting. You girls are either blind or masochists." He made a disgusted noise. "What on earth, or the rest of the known universe, do you see in Draco Malfoy?"
Hermione looked slightly annoyed. "I don't see anything in him, all right? His personality is fit to line a trash can, in my opinion, and inside he's rotten to the bone, but that doesn't change the fact that—" Hermione glanced at Ron, who seemed on the verge of a seizure, and fished for a less provocative term than he sometimes looks pretty hot, "—that he's quite easy on the eye, all right? Speaking absolutely nothing of him as a person."
Ron still looked quite traumatised as he shook his head. "Girls. I'll never understand the lot of you."
"Yep," said Hermione cheerfully, "that's what makes dating all the more fun. The culture shock."
Ron was still shaking his head as he got to his feet. "Yes, well, you should start liking someone normal for a change." He arched an eyebrow suggestively at Hermione, a grin playing on the edges of his lips.
"Normal? Don't flatter yourself, Ron," Hermione shot back with a sporting grin. "But I'll settle for a little insanity on the side, that's far better than obnoxiousness."
Ron seemed to be comforted by Hermione's pointed allusion to Draco Malfoy. "That's good to hear — I thought you'd gone off the deep end for good this time. Malfoy, honestly." He made another scornful sound. "I'll have nightmares for a week thinking about that."
"Well, I'd better wish you sweet dreams, then." Hermione said, rolling her eyes; Ron was being so exaggerated about Malfoy.
"Night, Hermione." Ron gave her a lopsided grin.
She smiled back at him. "See you tomorrow. Rest up well for the match."
Ron headed off toward the staircase leading to the boys' dormitory and wearily ascended it, still absently thinking about what Hermione had said about Malfoy. A mental image of Malfoy materialised in his mind — what did girls see in him? He was just a pale, pointed-faced, arrogant little git. What so attractive about that?
Well, at least Hermione had the sagacity to see past Malfoy's pretty-boy exterior for what he really was. That's what he liked about Hermione — she was not only smart but sensible, unlike other girls as Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, both of whom were made substantially of giggles and nothing more.
Ron slipped into the dorm — Neville was sound asleep, snoring loudly, while Dean and Seamus glared at Neville, looking disgruntled. When Ron came in, they gesticulated wildly at Neville, looking very annoyed, and mimed using a clothes peg to clamp his nostrils shut. Ron chuckled, shook his head and went to his own bed, collapsing down on it in an exhausted heap.
It was only then did Ron realise he'd only had a quick sandwich before going for Quidditch practice in the evening, and that his stomach was growling. He groaned; there was really nothing more miserable than being dead tired on an empty stomach.
Sighing, Ron dragged himself into a sitting position, reaching out a hand and rummaging through his bedside drawer, where he kept his secret stash of snacks. He dug under the scrolls of parchments and felt around — where was all his food? He'd just replenished it a couple of weeks back — he must've been peckish on more occasions than he thought...
Finally his hand latched onto a Chocolate Frog, and he retrieved it. Slim pickings, but it was better than nothing, and he was too beat to bother digging through his cluttered drawer to look for the rest of the food. He quickly unwrapped the Frog, tossed the collector's card (Agrippa) aside, and hungrily gobbled it down. It tasted a tad funny, but he didn't care — expired chocolate was better than no chocolate at all.
Dusting his hands off, Ron stretched, feeling his bones creaking, and wearily crawled under the covers. He closed his eyes, and despite Neville's trumpeting snores, he almost immediately drifted off into a deep sleep.
The small jar of colourless potion carefully placed on the ledge suddenly glowed an intense, electric blue, and began bubbling and frothing with a low, steady hiss. Wormtail bolted upright and stared it at for a moment, his heart leaping. If Wormtail was living in the Greek era, he'd have jumped up and yelled, "Eureka!" (but thankfully he wasn't, because the streaking would just have been downright distasteful.)
"Finally!" he exclaimed, clamouring to his feet and hurrying over as fast as his pudgy feet could carry him. With utmost care he picked up the vial of potion, now shimmering like liquid sapphire. He lifted it to eye level and inspected it — the charm was definitely in action. The potion had turned from completely clear to opaque, just like the spellbook had said.
Wormtail smiled triumphantly. His plan was proceeding smoothly — and in the dead of the night, there'd be no obstructions to worry about. This spell required for potion to be imbibed, and that greatly reduced the efficacy of it, as compared to a wand-assisted charm. Wormtail had to make sure there was as little distraction as possible. This was his best chance, and he wasn't going to blow it.
He raised a wordless toast to an unspoken cause, then brought the vial of fizzy blue potion to his lips. In a noisy gulp he tossed back the entire portion; it tasted mildly salty, and had a lingering bitter aftertaste.
Wormtail drew a deep, satisfied breath, then padded over to sit on his own bed as he waited for the potion to take effect on him, as he collected his thoughts for his secret task ahead.
The time had come, and he was going to prove to his master his true worth.
~~~