A/N: To my raving frustration, certain paragraphs refused to be italicised, triangle bracketed, separated or individualised in any unusual way. Therefore, for the convenience of the reader, Sirius's thoughts are put in regular brackets, eg: (I'm Sirius and This is my Inner Monologue. Angst, Angst). I know it looks tacky and very Stephen-King, but the damn thing won't do as I tell it.
Lost: Young Man, Answers to Harry
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Sirius dreamed. James was in the dream. He was lying at the bottom of the stairs, where Sirius had seen him last. He was dead. Sirius often dreamed this dream. As he had done all those years ago, Sirius knelt and closed his friend's eyes. But as he pulled his hand away, he saw there was blood on his fingers. And then he looked and realised that James had a cut on his forehead shaped like a lightening bolt, with a single trickle of blood rolling down the bridge of his nose, and he knew that it was not James lying there at the bottom of the stairs, it was Harry. Harry was the one who was dead. Flames were licking up the walls, and Sirius stood and stared at the blood on his hands. He could hear Lily screaming. She was upstairs and she needed help. Sirius turned and ran, and ran, but the stairs got longer and longer and the flames were burning his hands, he couldn't part them, they were like walls…
With a noise like a plug being pulled out of a sink, Sirius woke up.
He had fallen asleep at the table in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. The candle he had placed nearby had burned down to a stump, and the wax had flowed outwards in a puddle and burned Sirius' hand where it lay beside it. His face was stuck to the map that was spread on the table in front of him, and he sat up, peeling it off his cheek and putting it flat on the table once more.
How could he have fallen asleep? With a wave of his wand, Sirius conjured a new candle and lit it. At a time like this, how could he have fallen asleep? Because it was past midnight, he thought, and you were tired. Of course you fell asleep.
The faintest tinge of dawn was showing on the horizon, but there were no windows in the kitchen, so he couldn't see it. It might as well have been midnight for all Sirius knew. He got up and paced over to the bench, where there was still a pot of coffee sitting, stone cold by now. He swilled a cup and stared at the stove, where the embers of a fire were still glowing.
He remembered his mad panic of yesterday. Driving through the streets of London on his motorbike, barely able to resist the temptation to fly up into the sky to get a better view of the streets. Perhaps Harry did not make it to Kings Cross…perhaps he's still in London… those had been his thoughts. Abandoning the motorbike, he had turned into the great black dog and searched desperately for the scent of his godson, the familiar smell of him that might lead Sirius to his location. But after hours he was lead to only one place: platform nine and three-quarters, where the Hogwarts train had pulled away.
Trying not to weep, Sirius had driven home, pulled out a map of London, then one of the whole of Britain, and tried using magic to divine Harry's whereabouts. It was hopeless. Sirius could not concentrate on the spells, he had never been good at divination to begin with, he didn't have the patience it took for such slow and unreliable magic. At last he had fallen asleep over the map, and now those hours of slumber were hours he had wasted when he could have been out looking for Harry.
His godson must have reached Hogwarts by now. That was where he must be. Sirius felt a great wrenching inside him, as two possibilities too awful to imagine dragged at his mind. If Harry was at Hogwarts, as Sirius had guessed, then he was in terrible danger and he did not even know it, danger he was walking towards, unprepared and innocent. If, however, he was not at Hogwarts – there was only one explanation, and that was that he had been picked up by somebody else on the way.
There were only two options for who would have captured Harry. The first was the ministry, and in that case…the dementors…no, Sirius could not think about it. It was too terrible. If his godson had fallen into the hands of the ministry, then there was no hope. They would not wait. Moody would recognise Harry, and he would know what to do with him.
If, on the other hand, the other side had captured him…that, too, was an option Sirius ached to imagine. What would the death eaters do to a defiant child like Harry? They would hurt him…Sirius pressed his hand to his head, his brain thumping. But at least he would be alive. Death eaters would not kill Harry. They would take him to their master. And that did not even bear imagining.
If Harry was now at Hogwarts, there was still a sliver of hope. Dumbledore had been reluctant to hurt Harry eight years ago, when it would have been easy for him to do so, he had preferred to force Sirius into making the choice. Perhaps he would be reluctant now. Besides, Dumbledore was curious, he was a studious man. Before he killed Harry, he would want to study him, learn about this Horcrux that walked and breathed and spoke. There might still be time for Sirius to act.
And also, there was Lupin. Perhaps Remus would find Harry before Dumbledore did, and he would contact Sirius at once. Remus would not let Dumbledore hurt Harry. Remus would…Remus would…
Sirius could not stand up. He had to stumble back to the table and fall into a chair, clutching his skull and pressing his forehead to the cool stone. He had been fighting this final conclusion for hours, ever since he had found Harry missing. What if Harry had not left for Hogwarts alone? What if he had not made the choice on his own, as Sirius supposed? What if, when Mrs Black had laughed and said 'he asked me for silence', she had not been speaking about Harry at all?
What if Lupin had taken Harry?
Sirius shook his head, "no, no," he muttered. It couldn't be true. Lupin loved Harry. Sirius had trusted Lupin. But come, now, a quiet voice whispered in his ear, how could Lupin keep this secret from Dumbledore all year? He couldn't. No one can resist Dumbledore for ever. You were a fool to trust him. Remus is in the Order, after all. He is intimately connected to Dumbledore. Isn't it obvious, Padfoot? Lupin has been passing information about Harry to Dumbledore all year.
"It's not true," Sirius mumbled, "he wouldn't."
(Oh, wouldn't he? Remus owes everything to Dumbledore. He said it himself. What does he owe you? Nothing. Just a few years of grief and a Christmas umbrella. Face it, Padfoot – Remus has been loyal to Dumbledore all along. He gained your trust, made you believe he loved Harry – just long enough to devise a way to steal him away.)
"But he's been with us all year! Why didn't he act sooner?"
(He needed Harry's confidence as well. He couldn't carry Harry off unless Harry wanted to come with him. So he's spent all year building Harry's trust, and then, convincing him to run away to Hogwarts – it was so easy, you see? Harry wanted to go to Hogwarts so badly. He probably asked Lupin to take him away. And Remus, ever-so-reluctant, would have agreed – all the while rejoicing that at last Dumbledore would be able to get his hands on Harry. Why didn't Harry write you a note to tell you why he was leaving? Because honest old Remus told him that he would send you a letter himself.)
"It's not true."
(Remus has spent all year trying to convince you to let Harry go to Hogwarts. Didn't you find that suspicious in the least? But it should have been so obvious! How else did he get the invisibility cloak from Dumbledore? Dumbledore wouldn't give something that precious away without good reason! How else did he get all those schoolbooks for Harry? He certainly couldn't afford them himself! Why else was he always dashing off to help the 'Order'? He's been working for Dumbledore all along.)
"He hasn't."
(He has.)
Sirius groaned and sat up. It wasn't possible. He knew Remus Lupin. He was friends with Remus Lupin.
(Like you were friends with Peter Pettigrew?)"No."
(LIKE YOU KNEW PETER PETTIGREW?)Sirius stood up and staggered away from the table. His hand, flying wildly, knocked the candle over, and it hit the scruffy map and suddenly it was alight. Sirius picked up the mug with the last dregs of coffee and threw it over the map, extinguishing the flames.
He would have to go to Hogwarts. Tonight. He would take his bike and set out right now. Dumbledore was bound to have spies looking out for him, so he would only be able to fly by night. And he didn't know whether he still remembered the way to Hogwarts. It could take him three days to get there…would Harry still be alive by then?
"He will be," Sirius said adamantly, "he has to be."
With that, he grabbed his wand off the table and dashed out of the kitchen, his cloak billowing behind him. Before he left the house, he went into Harry's bedroom, opened the drawer by Harry's bed, and put something in his pocket. Then he headed back for the entrance hall.
He didn't know what he was going to do when he got to Hogwarts. With the threat from you-know-who, the wards around the school would be so strong, so tight, they would be near impossible to slip through undetected. But Sirius would manage it somehow.
A few minutes later, there was the deep growl of a motorbike starting up, and a dark shape flew over the roof of number 12, Grimmauld Place.
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A few hours later, as the sun rose into the sky above London, a small rat poked its nose out of a hole in the kitchen of number twelve Grimmauld Place. For a few moments it sat, sniffing the air, its whiskers twitching. Then it slipped out into the open and bounded across the kitchen floor until it reached the pantry door, which was open a crack.
The rat wriggled through the crack in the pantry door. There were a few stale cornflakes spilled on the floor at the back, and the rat gorged itself on these for a few minutes, crunching happily through the scraps. When the last of the cornflakes were gone, it squeezed out of the pantry again and crept across the kitchen, keeping close to the wall. It paused and sneezed as it ran through a patch of dust, then continued on its way. At last, it reached the stairs.
It took a powerful jump for the rat to climb each stair, and it paused at the top of the flight to rest. Then it took off again, scurrying along the sideboard, its claws catching in the frayed carpet of the entrance hall. It passed beneath the portrait of Mrs Black without stirring her curtains, and ran past the troll's leg umbrella stand without brushing it with a single whisker.
Down the hall, and up another flight of stairs, went the rat. Finally it stopped at the door to a bedroom, which was open just wide enough for a rat to slip through. In the darkness of the bedroom, it paused for its eyes to adjust. Then it began to scurry through the bedroom, searching every nook and cranny as if foraging for food. The rat scurried over a schoolbook lying on the floor entitled The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1). It climbed up the covers of the unmade bed and walked across the wide pillow, its nose full of the smell of the boy who had slept there. It paused on the edge of the pillow, bracing itself, then leapt onto the chest of drawers beside the bed.
The top drawer was wide open. The rat dropped into it, snuffling about in the deep shadow of the drawer. It came across a notebook, several well-chewed pencils, a broken alarm clock, a photograph of a red-haired woman with her arms around a black-haired, bespectacled man, a lone orange sock, a faded birthday card, and a jar with a very large spider in it. But there was nothing else in the drawer apart from dust and more pencils. The rat made another circuit, its claws clicking on the jar, but to no avail.
It climbed out of the drawer and sniffed the air. It almost looked as if it might be considering its next option. It scurried to the edge of the chest of drawers and made as if to leap down to the ground.
"Gotcha!" crowed a croaky voice. Thin, scabby fingers locked around the rat's plump body and lifted it up. Two bloodshot grey eyes inspected the rat, above a crooked grin. Then the house-elf limped out of the bedroom and into the hall. The rat struggled desperately, squeaking and shrieking, trying to sink its teeth into one skinny finger, but the wizened house-elf clutched so tightly that the rat's breath was driven out of its body and its eyes bulged.
"Kreacher has caught a meal, oh, clever Kreacher," the house-elf wheezed, "Poor Kreacher must eat rodents, but he does not mind, he is ridding Mistress' house of the horrible dirty squeakers. Good Kreacher has rid the house of all the vermin, yes he has, the dirty werewolf and the scarred little freak and the filthy blood traitor, Kreacher is a good, loyal house-elf, and now he deserves a nice plump rat for his dinner."
Kreacher squeezed the rat harder, "rat would do best to die quickly, Kreacher will not be letting him go," he laughed, as the rat struggled harder.
But the rat was not dying. In fact, far from being crushed by Kreacher's vice-like grip, it seemed to be getting larger. Kreacher grabbed the rat with both hands, but to his horror, the rat was getting bigger and bigger, it was the size of a cat, now, and he could not hold onto it any longer. He threw it away, wailing in a high, croaky voice. The rat continued to grow, and its face was shortening, its tail being sucked up into itself, its legs lengthening and claws vanishing.
And then it was not a rat: it was a man, hunched over the terrified house-elf. He was a short man, and he still had the air of a rat, his eyes small and watery, his nose pointed like a rodent's. There was a bald patch at the back of his head and he looked rather dishevelled, his robes flaking with dirt and hanging loosely off him. He fumbled for a wand, still snivelling from his squeezing, and pointed it at the house-elf, "what do you mean by trying to eat me, you f-f-filthy elf?"
"Do not kill poor Kreacher!" the house-elf fell flat on his face in front of the man, "Kreacher did not know his plump rat was really a wizard! Oh, Kreacher did not know!"
"You belong to the man who lives in this house, d-d-do you?" asked the man, still pointing his wand at Kreacher.
"Kreacher does, yes indeed, but Kreacher hates it and hates him, he broke my Mistress' heart and Kreacher weeps that he must obey the filthy blood-traitor!" sobbed Kreacher, and he raised his head, "does the rodent man want Kreacher to help him? Will he spare poor Kreacher if Kreacher does as he says?"
The man jabbed at Kreacher with his wand, "you're a liar, elf. You won't h-h-help me. You tried to kill me."
"Kreacher did not mean it, sir!" Kreacher wailed, "Kreacher really will help rodent man if he can, oh yes, he will!"
"Then tell me what's h-h-happened here," wheezed the man, "where's he gone? Your master? Why was he here all alone? Why was he so angry? Tell me, elf!"
"Master ordered Kreacher not to speak," wept Kreacher, "he ordered Kreacher not to leave the house or speak to anyone outside the house about himself and the boy," and suddenly Kreacher stopped weeping and his eyes grew wide, "but…rodent man is not outside the house," he said to himself and climbed to his feet, "rodent man is inside the house! And that means Kreacher is allowed to tell rodent-man the secrets!"
The man shuffled a little as the house-elf, his fear suddenly gone, turned his mad eyes on him, "will rodent-man help Kreacher?" the elf rubbed his hands gleefully, "the rodent-man smells like the dark magic, the stuff of my mistress. If Kreacher tells the rodent-man what he wants to know, will the rodent-man make sure the blood traitor never, ever, ever comes back to my mistress' house?"
The man looked rather frightened now, trying to make sense of the house-elf's strange speech, "I s-s-suppose," he said.
"Then Kreacher will tell the rodent-man everything," grinned the elf, and now he truly did look frightening.
And he did. In broken, strange words, punctuated by complaints and breaking into moans about the treatment of his poor mistress, Kreacher told the rat-like man all about Sirius and Harry living in the old Black house, and that Harry had run away to Hogwarts, and that Sirius had gone after him.
The man listened, and his own expression became gleeful. He rubbed his hands and scratched at his chest, as if ready to burst with joy. Oh, the pleasure his master would show when he heard this news! "And the locket?" he demanded, "where's the golden locket? That's why I came here! I thought this house was empty, I didn't expect to find so much – but it means nothing if I don't bring my master back the locket, the locket that that traitor Regulus stole all those years ago."
Kreacher shook his head, "Kreacher knows of this locket, rodent-man. Kreacher has tried to steal it back. But the scarred child kept the locket, he would not let Kreacher have it. And now the filthy blood-traitor has taken the locket with him to that school, and it is long gone."
The rat-like man swore, "well, at least we still know where it is," he mumbled.
Kreacher looked up at him, "Kreacher has told the rat-man everything," he wheezed, "and now the rat-man must do as Kreacher asked. He must go away and make sure the blood-traitor never comes back to the house, so that Kreacher and his mistress can be alone for ever, and ever, and ever!"
The rat-like man who was Peter Pettigrew pointed his wand at the wizened, gasping house-elf. He should kill the pitiful thing, so that it couldn't reveal to its master that it had betrayed him. It would not do if Sirius Black came home and found his house-elf had spoken to his old friend Wormtail…but he would not be coming home. Pettigrew did not doubt that. And besides, he did not like killing, for his own part.
He lowered his wand, "goodbye, elf," he said, "you have done a g-g-great service, and perhaps one day you will be rewarded f-f-for it."
Kreacher crowed, as the man transformed back into a rat and scampered away down the corridor, "Kreacher has already been rewarded!" he called after the rat, cheering and leaping up and down, "And Kreacher is happy at last!"
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TBC