Lost: Small Boy, Answers to Harry

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He felt broken.

It had happened when she had told him. Bellatrix. When she had laughed at him, and told him that the boy Hestia had saved was not his Harry, his precious Godson, but another boy. Longbottom. He remembered the Longbottoms: he remembered that they had been his friends, a long time ago, and that he had been outraged at their deaths, and mourned for them.

They were nothing now. No deaths could compare to the grief that swirled inside him, with the knowledge that Harry had not been saved. He had no more tricks left. No more allies. No more options. It was unbearable. Bellatrix had hurt him, as the other death eaters watched impassively, she had chuckled as he twisted in agony. But nothing she could do was worse than the knowledge that he had at last, ultimately, failed to the save the Potters.

He was broken. She knew it, and grew bored with him, and left him. Her husband – Rudoph? Radolph? What was his name? – played for a while, like a little brother sneaking out to the shed to play with his father's power tools. But he wasn't practised at it like Bellatrix was and before long he, too, left Sirius alone, lying bound and broken by the fire.

But they made a mistake. They thought he was asleep. And while he seemed to be slumbering uneasily they spoke of the Dark Lord's anger, what He would do to his servants when He discovered they had lost Him the boy, Longbottom. His anger would be far greater (they said) than his anger at losing the Potter boy off the train, and failing to find him again. It is always worse to lose something you thought you had than something you wanted to have.

The spark was lit once more in Sirius. He felt the cracks repairing themselves. Bellatrix had lied, had mislead him – Harry was not yet found! Perhaps Sirius had no means of helping him, but it gave the weakened auror a little strength. Rudoph – no, Radolphus, that was his name – sat in an armchair watching Sirius, but as night dragged on his head began to nod, and Sirius, listening with keen ears to his breathing, soon judged that he was sleeping.

With this, he summoned every ounce of strength he had gained and transformed. It was difficult, because he was so exhausted, so hungry, and aching inside and out. But he managed it. Sirius vanished and the great black dog was there instead. The ropes cut into the dog's paws but he had sharp teeth now, and chewed them off. The dog swayed, and lay for a moment on its side, wanting nothing better than to drift off and never wake up again, but the human part of its mind heaved itself back onto its feet.

The door, it knew, was locked and enchanted, and the window had likewise been blocked. So the fireplace was the only escape. It had seen the box of floo powder, tucked behind the empty wood-box, but the powder was no good without fire, and the there were only glowing embers in the grate. It had to find something to burn, but what?

The dog treaded as softly as it could and sniffed around the sleeping Radolphus. The room was sparsely furnished, not some place that could be lived in for any long period of time. There were no newspapers, no cardboard boxes, not even books to burn. The only thing the dog could find was the cloak that Radolphus had laid over his knees to keep him warm while he kept watch.

As gently as it could, the dog took the end of the cloak in its teeth and began to pull. It could hear even the slightest change in Radolphus' breathing, every shift in his position, and it froze each time, waiting for him to wake up. But he continued to slumber, and at last the cloak slipped to the floor and the dog could carry it back to the burning coals and, with a little difficulty, drop it onto the hearth and prod it with its paw until it began to smell the fabric burning.

Sirius tensed and returned to human form. His senses dulled, he felt heavy and clumsy compared to the dog he had been a moment before. He blessed Bellatrix for not casting any spell to keep him from transforming, but she had obviously thought he was too weak, or had not realised how he had become the dog in the first place. With hands shaking from weariness, Sirius pulled the box of floo powder out, opened it and sprinkled a pinch onto the smouldering cloak.

Blazing green flames roared up the chimney, and with a yell Radolphus Lestrange was on his feet, his wand pointing at Sirius, blinking in confusion. Sirius spun around and froze as he saw the wand, all his auror training forgotten in his exhaustion. He could think of nothing more imaginative than to hurl the box of powder at the death eater's face and step backwards into the fire. But now he had forgotten where he had meant to go…anywhere…anywhere but here…

His mind blank, he whispered the first address that came into his head, the only one that he still associated with safety and comfort, "Remus Lupin's Cottage…"

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He tumbled out of the fireplace and lay huddled on Lupin's hard wooden floor, shuddering. Behind him, the fireplace spouted green, flickered, and died down to tiny emerald tongues. Moonlight poured into the room, turning Sirius' hands to silver.

"Now you're just a fool," he laughed in relief at having escaped the death eaters, "I don't think Moony will be much of a host tonight," he looked over to the door of the secret room he, Moony and James had built, years ago, to keep Lupin at bay on the full moon.

It was wide open.

Sirius took in the mess around him, the overturned couch, the spilled books, and in the blink of an eye, he became a dog again. He got to his feet and sniffed.

He could smell the residue of fear – human fear! – and human blood. Horror rushed through him. Lupin's worst fear must have come true. Perhaps some curious muggle travellers had come to the apparently empty cottage and decided to bunk down for the night. Perhaps one of Lupin's rural neighbours had come looking for him out of concern, and found him. Poor Moony…the dog gave a little involuntary whine. Moony would never forgive himself for hurting another human being.

Worse than that, Moony might now be running wild through the countryside. The dog put its nose to the ground and headed around the couch, but was surprised to see that the door to the cottage was shut tight.

The dog raised its head in curiosity. This was a strange riddle. If the muggles had shut the door on their way in before they met their fate, where were they now? If they had fled the cottage, why was the door shut? If they had shut the door as they fled, and therefore escaped unharmed, why the smell of blood? There were no other exits, except…

The fireplace. Which would mean that Moony's victim, or victims, were wizards. And wizards knew how to deal with werewolves…

Sirius heard a soft whine and focussed on the far corner of the room, shadowed from the window by the kitchen shelves. Two blue eyes, one half-shut, looked out from the shadows, and the dog saw a hunched canine shape.

The werewolf heard the dog's claws clicking on the wood and looked at this new visitor. It had a faint smell of human…but not the overwhelming scent that drove the madness inside it. The werewolf recognised this new animal. It was the black dog which it remembered from childhood: the black dog that had run with it beneath the moonlight. The dog had accompanied it when it had run free in years gone past, in the woods and fields of the School, when the great Stag had cantered beside them with the tiny rat clinging to its back. It knew this dog to be a friend.

Moaning quietly, the werewolf staggered upright and padded over to the dog. It hurt from the burning fire, that the Arthur-human had brandished at it. It would have torn the Arthur-human to pieces, if only the fire had not blinded its eyes and driven it away. The humans had filled its home, the Arthur-human, the smaller, weaker human it knew to be called Charlie, and the other one. The smell of their fear and their flesh had exploded against the werewolf, and it had felt madness whirling through it. It had to taste them, rip them, bite them…but the horrible fire! And finally, when the fire was gone, so had the humans. The madness had left it and it had curled itself into the corner, nursing its burns.

It tried to communicate this to the black dog, but the black dog did not speak the animal tongues so well and did not understand. It lowered its head before the black dog, whining its complaints.

Sirius nuzzled the werewolf and smelled the burned fur. What had happened to his poor friend? He licked the burns and the werewolf yelped and rubbed against his legs, crying pitifully in that strange canine language Sirius did not quite understand. He recognised that the werewolf was talking about humans, and fire, but nothing else. He sniffed at the werewolf's burned snout.

The smell of blood assaulted him.

Human blood. He knew this smell. He knew this blood.

This blood was Harry's blood.

Sirius leapt backwards, snarling, and the werewolf tensed and whined sadly, confused and upset. It crouched submissively, wanting to placate the black dog which it had thought was its friend. Sirius snapped at it, and again the familiar smell filled his nose.

He felt fury rising in him. He rushed at the werewolf, knocking it to the ground and growling, demanding an explanation. The werewolf didn't understand, and it drew back, jaws agape, ready to defend itself. The black dog hurled itself at the wolf and suddenly the two of them were snapping and scratching, rearing onto their hind legs, their fur bristling, each trying to sink their teeth into the other's flank, or snout, or throat. The werewolf was larger, but it was injured and exhausted, and one of its eyes was half-blinded by the stinging fire. The black dog sunk its teeth into the werewolf's muscled neck, clamping down with enough force to tear ligaments and rip flesh from bone. Sirius was in a frenzy, fuelled by weariness, frustration, and the smell of blood. He wanted to hurt the werewolf, maybe even kill it…

The werewolf howled, and something in its voice was almost human. In the black dog's brain, seething with red anger, an image of a boy called Remus flickered briefly and was gone.

His own voice rung in his ears, "We don't care what you are in the moonlight. You're still our friend. You're still our brother!"

He slowly relaxed his jaws, and released his hold on the werewolf's shoulder. The werewolf pulled away and huddled in the corner, growling. Sirius, knowing better than to turn his back on the cornered wolf, backed away until his tail was inches from the fireplace. He twisted and sniffed at the coals. He had long ago learned that the use of floo powder left behind residue of its destination. He smelled clean air and faint chemicals, the smells of hygiene and magic blended. A hospital.

He tried to form words with his canine throat, but only growls came out. Keeping his eyes on the wolf in the corner, he returned to human form and stepped into the fire, crying "St Mungo's Hospital." Even as he was whisked away, he turned back into the great black dog.

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Hestia sat in one of the chairs in the hospital waiting room. She'd awoken to see Albus Dumbledore's blue eyes looking down at her, and leaped to attention. In her sleepy state she'd misjudged where her feet were and fallen flat onto the floor. Healer Madison rushed over crying, "Headmaster, don't hurt her! She's innocent!"

Dumbledore had helped to young witch to her feet, Hestia blushing gloriously red.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to alarm you," he said, his eyes smiling quietly, "I do hope I shan't be escorted from the hospital for disturbing the peace."

"No, no, I just fell over," Hestia brushed Healer Madison off.

She had been talked to Dumbledore for over an hour, until Madison had finally decided she was too tired to talk any more and told Dumbledore he had to leave the poor girl be. He vanished towards the ward where Neville was sleeping, murmuring questions to Healer Wenceslas as he went. Hestia had meant to find a spare bed in one of the wards, but the padded seats in the waiting room had been so much closer, and she had dropped into one and gone straight to sleep.

She had awoken to find one of the healers she didn't know holding out a tray of hospital dinner, which Hestia took gratefully. She was told that Dumbledore had not yet left the hospital, so she waited in the foyer for him, watching the strange maladies that people displayed as they wandered through.

Night had fallen when one of the fireplaces in the foyer burst into flames and two red haired men, one older and one just a boy, stumbled into the reception area. The boy was carrying someone in his arms, a child by the looks of it, and blood had fallen in tiny droplets onto the carpet in the their wake. Healers had rushed the three people away before Hestia could get a closer look.

The reception area was quiet now. The only other person in the foyer was the healer at the desk, who had her chin rested on one hand and was dozing quietly. Hestia was just nodding off again when one of the fireplaces suddenly blazed into life and something huge and black barrelled into the room, tumbling head-over-heels before it managed to contain its momentum and slid to a halt. Hestia shook her head to wake herself up and her jaw dropped. It was an enormous black dog, looking sooty and dishevelled. And it was strangely familiar.

Before she could place it, the dog stood and lowered its nose to the carpet. It was sniffing at the tiny drops of blood which had yet to be cleaned up. It raised its head, yelped once and then took off with surprising speed. The nurse at reception woke up and shrieked as the dog tore past her and up the nearest flight of stairs.

Hestia was already on her feet and sprinting after the dog, wand drawn. She took the stairs three at a time, passing a very surprised-looking Healer Madison as she went. She saw the door swinging shut at the first exit. She slammed through it and dashed into the corridor, then had to grab the wall to stop herself falling over as she skidded to a stop.

The dog had ended its mad flight. It had fallen to the ground and lay on its side, panting, at the feet of Albus Dumbledore, who stood with an air of bemusement and calm collection. He did not look in the least bit surprised to see an enormous, fierce animal fall to his feet in an empty hospital hallway.

"I'm sorry, I think you're looking for Spell Damage. It's on the fourth floor," said Dumbledore, without blinking an eyelid, "although I do recommend you have a healer escort you there. The elevator buttons are rather small and your paws are rather too big, I fear."

The dog lowered its head and seemed to shuck off its fur like a second skin. Hestia's mouth fell open as she remembered where she had seen the dog, only a few hours before. She watched in amazement as all canine elements melted away and Sirius Black appeared, curled on the ground in front of Dumbledore. He raised himself on his elbows and gave a sob.

"Where's my godson? Where is Harry?"

Dumbledore knelt and took Sirius' hands, lifting the tall, exhausted man to his feet. The older wizard was still by far the taller of the two, and he looked down at Sirius with a mixture of warmth and icy requisition, "first, tell me who betrayed the Potters."

Sirius's head drooped once more and Hestia had the distinct impression that Dumbledore's grip was all that was keeping him from collapsing, "it's all my fault. I convinced them to make Peter their secret keeper. Peter Pettigrew…I trusted him, and it killed them."

Dumbledore's icy gaze melted and he put one arm around Sirius' shoulders in a fatherly gesture, "hush, Sirius, I believe you. Come with me."

Healers were approaching, demanding to know what all the disorder was. They stopped when they took in Dumbledore, and swarmed around the headmaster, twittering. Dumbledore banished them with a few quick words and Hestia, realising she had intruded on a scene of utmost intimacy, stayed where she was and watched Sirius and Dumbledore continue down the corridor.

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Sirius looked up and found they had stopped outside a ward with a sign 'Dangerous' Dai Llewellyn Ward: Serious Bites. He looked at Dumbledore.

"He is alive? I thought…I thought, perhaps, I mean, werewolf bites sometimes…"

Dumbledore's face wore a grim expression, "listen to me before we enter, Sirius. Harry is alive. But you of all people must know about the effects of a werewolf mauling. This was Remus Lupin's first taste of human flesh, and…look at me, Sirius, you must hear this…he got carried away. Harry was lucky to receive medical attention so quickly, otherwise, no, he would not be alive right now. But before you see him…look at me, Sirius…before you see him, you must know he was savaged very severely, and it will be hard for you to see him as he is. Now, do you understand?"

Sirius nodded mutely. Dumbledore reached for the handle of the door and opened it, allowing Sirius to enter before him.

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The ward was empty apart from the bed nearest the door. Sirius approached it slowly, his hands hanging limply at his side. A figure, so small and fragile it might have been made of paper, lay in the middle of the bed, swamped by blankets and pillows. Tubes snaked from the bed to a large bottle of topaz-coloured substance on the table nearby. Magical indicators of heart-rate and blood pressure rested on the table, flickering silently. A green-robed healer was adjusting one of the indicators, but she looked up and saw Sirius, with Dumbledore standing in the doorway behind him, and floated out, whispering to the headmaster as she went.

Sirius barely even saw her. He stood beside the bed, looking down at his godson, his face as expressionless as a snowy landscape. Harry was sleeping, his breathing soft and even, but his chest laboured to rise with each beat.

The right side of his face was entirely swathed in bandages, so only one closed eye was visible. The blankets were pulled up to his waist, and his chest was wrapped in layers of white dressing. His right arm lay across his chest in a sling, enveloped by a white cast with golden runes flashing across it. Gauze dressings were taped to various hidden lacerations, on his left cheek and ear, his shoulder, hands, and neck. Three fingers on his right hand were splinted to thin rods. Bruises glowed like black shadows from beneath the bandages.

Sirius reached out to touch the sleeping boy's cheek, then pulled his hand back, as if afraid to injure him further.

He realised Dumbledore was standing beside him, having conjured up two chairs. Sirius sat down heavily and slumped into his hands, his elbows resting on the bespread.

"Tell me."

Dumbledore took a breath and began, "there are deep scratches on the right side of his face and lacerations to his chest and shoulders. His right arm was broken in the werewolf's jaws," Dumbledore did not say 'Lupin's jaws', which was good of him, "when he raised it to protect his face, and his fingers were also crushed, and his arm has cuts all the way up. There are more lacerations across his legs and back. He has not lost his eye, for which he was lucky, and the bruising to his internal organs from the ribs broken by the werewolf's weight has already been repaired by the healers. Aside from the broken bones, his injuries are now mostly superficial."

"He'll be infected," Sirius said quietly.

"There is no doubt," Dumbledore told him, "but it could have killed him, and it hasn't. Large doses of the werewolf residue are often fatal, but Harry got to the hospital quickly and so he has been lucky. The Wolfsbane potion that the healers are pumping into him is keeping it at bay. That potion is all that is keeping him alive, for the moment. But it cannot stop Harry becoming a Werewolf."

Sirius buried his face in his hands, "but everything else, they can heal?"

"The healers tell me they have already stabilised his wounds, all except for those on his face."

"What? Why not?" Sirius bristled, staring at Dumbledore.

The headmaster quickly put his hand on Sirius' shoulder, "that was at their discretion. The lacerations to Harry's face are severe, but the if the healers can slow down the process, heal the wounds as slowly as possible – over the period of a few months – they can minimise the scarring. Otherwise, Harry would never look the same again. As it is, they believe that he will make a full recovery with barely any visible marks to show. They tell me the scar he received four days ago cannot be healed, but it can always be hidden by magical means."

Sirius looked back at his godson. He had not even thought about the visible damage that would remain. Working as an auror, you got used to scars pretty quickly. But he felt glad that Harry would not have to grow up with that. Scars were all very well for a respected man like old Mad-Eye Moody, but for a child, it would have been tough.

Dumbledore paused before he continued, "Sirius, Hestia Jones has already told me where you have been, and she seemed assured that you were not in league with the Death Eaters. Arthur has told me everything else I need to know. And I have seen the scar on Harry's forehead. Do you understand what it means?"

Sirius nodded, "there is a prophecy. James told me as much as he dared. Harry is destined to defeat you-know-who. That's what the scar means? It's some kind of…brand?"

Dumbledore was silent for a moment, "I do not quite understand everything myself," he said, "but yes, in most respects, you have the right idea. However, there is much more you must know about, and then you must make a difficult decision as Harry's legal guardian. There is another boy in this hospital who also bears that scar, and tomorrow I must speak to his grandmother. Tomorrow, Sirius, I will tell you everything. But tonight, you are too tired, and your judgement would not be sound in your present position. You must have a clear head when I speak to you tomorrow. For tonight, I will have the healers find you a bed and see to it that all your needs are addressed."

The old man stood up and made for the door, "you may stay with Harry for now. A healer will come to get you once I have spoken to one. Please don't wake him, Sirius."

Sirius nodded and then, as Dumbledore's hand rested on the doorhandle, Sirius said, "Dumbledore, someone has to go to Remus Lupin's cottage as soon as he has returned to human form. He is injured."

"I will find someone to send as soon as I can," said Dumbledore, then he added coolly, "Arthur feared he might have burned him. Did you see how badly?"

"Not too badly," said Sirius quietly, "but he received…other injuries."

"I see," said Dumbledore, and his tone was no longer warm. He shut the door with a soft click and his footsteps disappeared down the corridor.

Sirius put his large hand over Harry's small one and bent his head in lament.

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TBC

Next chapter, Dumbledore tells Sirius the truth.

To all those who disapproved of Harry being a werewolf: I'm sorry, but that was how it was always going to be. I don't want that to turn you off this fic, and I hope I can make it up to you somehow. I promise the subject will be treated with concern, not with a throwaway "oh well, that's just an excuse for tasteless jokes and romantic angst" attitude. It's a serious issue and I want it to be an important part of the development of the fic, especially if there is a part two or even three. I'll treat it with as much realism as possible.