- 6 -

.

1996

Silence. Peaceful silence. Harry floated in nothingness, darkness, light. The pain from earlier was gone. Or maybe there had been no pain to begin with.

Was he flying? Yes. Flying. Finally. He should open his eyes, look around, watch the sky, the clouds, the woods from above.

He turned around, flying upside down. Flying, soaring through the air. Harry laughed in exhilaration but couldn't hear his own voice. Maybe the wind took it away, snatched the sound as soon as it left his mouth, and made it echo behind him like the white trail lingering in the wake of a plain?

A sudden pain, flaring in his chest, jolted Harry out of his musing. Something was missing, wrong, very wrong, he just didn't know what yet.

He moved his arms, trying to find balance, but they moved sluggishly, slowly, as if something was holding them, him down.

Air. That was what he was missing. That was why his lungs were on fire. He opened his mouth to take in a deep, relieving breath of fresh air, only to find water pouring in. He choked, coughed, tried to get rid of the liquid that seemed to be filling his lungs with ice, fuelling the fire. But only more came in.

And with the water, the memories came back. A blow to the head. Darkness. Voices. Darkness.

He became aware of the coldness of the water surrounding him, needling his skin, freezing his muscles.

Somewhere deep inside he knew that he had to fight, to swim, to get to the surface, to the life-saving air.

He opened his eyes but only more darkness welcomed him. Where was up and where down? Left and right?

Moving his arms became harder by the second. He felt his energy leaving him, felt his limbs cease to fight – and maybe he should stop fighting, the water didn't feel so cold anymore, the darkness less frightening.

Maybe this was, where it was supposed to end, his wonderful dream of magic and a Dursley-free life.

If he closed his eyes and ignored the fire in his chest, then he could still believe he was flying. It wasn't so bad to die while flying, high up in the air, in freedom.

Al. The old man's face appeared before his eyes, clear as if he was standing right in front of Harry. 'I should have listened to you. I'm sorry.'

.

About three years earlier

1993

Sirius stretched his claws, sank them deep into the muddy sand of the coast. Just a little bit farther, just a bit more strength, and with one last, strong forward jerk he was out of the water, out of the cold.

He made it. He made it. He felt light-headed, light-hearted. For the first time in years, there was hope, a silver lining on the horizon, a light at the end of the tunnel that was his life.

He wanted nothing more than to lay down and rest, sleep free of the oppressing presence of his guards, but he knew that he couldn't rest yet, that he had to run and get away from here as fast as possible. Soon they would discover his disappearance, soon they would send Aurors and Dementors to come after him, to catch him and cage him once again.

His legs trembled as he pulled himself up once again. By all rights, he shouldn't have the strength to continue, starved and weak as he was, but then again, he shouldn't have managed to escape in the first place. His hope gave him strength, for the first time in years he was filled with a purpose. He had to save Harry. Peter – a shudder of anger and disgust, of deep, boiling hate ran through his body at the mere thought of the traitor – was at Hogwarts, Harry wasn't safe.

.

Knockturn Alley was as dirty as he remembered. He was hiding in a corner opposite a dingy pub. The nearest streetlight was broken. Still, he thought, and suddenly old memories of better times overcame him.

Memories of the summer after his sixth year, when James and he had still been carefree, filled with dreams, hopes, and no small amount of recklessness.

They'd come here, to this pub, to drink firewhisky, to sit at a bar and feel grown-up and rebellious. They'd stumbled out of the pub sometime in the wee hours of the morning, when it had still been late enough to leave undetected but early enough that they could feel the rising sun, the nearing daylight in the air.

They'd been sloshed beyond comprehension, had been laughing and singing stupid rhymes… Then one of them, probably James, had remarked that the streetlight was broken, that nobody could see them here. And as one – so in tune as he had only ever been with James – they had turned to this corner, this corner right here, where he was sitting now, where the darkness was even deeper and had transformed into their animagus forms and then raced each other down the street. Stag and dog, bumping into each other from time to time because they had been too drunk to run straight, accompanied by animalistic cries of freedom and laughter.

When the pub's door opened with a slight cringing of the hinges and stopped his painful trip down memory lane, Sirius was so thankful for the interruption that he nearly felt bad for what he was about to do.

But it wasn't as if he had many options left.

A drunken wizard stumbled out of the pub, wand in hand, slurring something that could have meant Lumos or something else completely.

Too tense to wait any longer, Sirius crouched down and pushed himself off the ground with all the might his emaciated legs would allow, his eyes were fixed on the stumbling wizard's wand hand and one moment later his mouth closed around the thin wooden stick.

He dashed away, fled down the same street he and James had run down years ago, but instead of laughter, this time his run was followed by the furious swearing of a wandless wizard.

.

Harry was gone.

At first, he hadn't wanted to believe it. But with every old Daily Prophet he found, with every article he read, the truth became more inevitable.

Harry was gone and nobody knew where he was.

With a furious swish of his wand, Sirius sat the whole pile of painstakingly collected newspapers on fire. That little act of destruction didn't help release his anger in the least.

"Bombarda," he said and watched with a smile of grim satisfaction as a few stones broke out of a nearby wall.

"Bombarda," he said again and again. The cave he was hiding in crumbled around him, dust was heavy in the air and sank down on his sweaty skin and unwashed hair.

"Bombarda! Bombarda! Bombarda!"

The rocks above the entrance began to tremble, but Sirius didn't stop.

Harry was gone.

What was he supposed to do now?

Find Harry? He was a fugitive. He didn't have any connections, any friends left.

"Bombarda!" A huge rock fell down, right in front of the entrance, blocking out most of the sunlight.

All he had wanted to do was find Peter, kill Peter, tear Peter limb from limb, watch him suffer, writhe in agony…

"Bombarda!"

Then Harry would have been safe again. Then he could have left with the knowledge that he had done at least something to redeem himself – even if he could never fully repay his debt. Even if his mistakes were too grave to ever be forgiven.

James and Lily were dead because of him. And now Harry was gone.

He had to change his plans. He couldn't simply kill Peter and disappear. He had to find a way to look for Harry, had to find a way to get in touch with his old friends again... He was Harry's godfather; he was the person James had trusted with the wellbeing of his only son. He had to do something.

.

1994

"Wingardium Leviosa," said Harry, his wand pointed at the broom Al used to sweep the hut.

It was an old thing, with dirty fingerprints on the stick and bristles protruding in every which way.

Al had forbidden him to enchant this broom to fly and didn't budge even after Harry had nagged him every evening about it for two weeks in a row. Apparently racing brooms that were made specifically for flying differed a lot from normal brooms. But Harry didn't care, he wanted to try flying, and Al, who was away for a few days like every spring, couldn't stop him this time.

The broom hovered mid-air and Harry looked at it questioningly. The slender broomstick didn't look too inviting, more like it would hurt to sit on it, really.

Harry harrumphed, resolutely swung his legs over the broom, and bent his knees to lift his feet from the ground.

This position was supremely uncomfortable, but Harry gritted his teeth, he was determined to fly. He gripped the broom handle tightly with his left hand; the other one was still holding the wand. It might not be ideal – or all that safe – but that wouldn't stop him. Not now that he was about to fly for the first time.

He directed the broom with his wand, made it fly higher until he was on eye level with the chimney on their hut.

It was… okay. The high trees surrounding their clearing blocked his view, sitting hurt even more now that he moved around and directing his flight with his wand just wasn't the same as he had imagined.

His wand arm hurt a bit from holding it up all the time, but he couldn't put it down or the broom would follow.

When he'd read about flying in Al's books it sounded magnificent – souring through the air at high speed, the broom following the body's movement so quickly it felt like an extension of it.

This… no, this was nothing like he had imagined. Disappointed Harry directed the broom to sink down to the ground.

He winced in pain as he got off the broom, left it lying in the grass, and went inside to get himself a glass of water.

The Levitation Charm obviously wasn't the right method to make a broom fly. There had to be different charms to accomplish that, ones that he hadn't yet learned. Charms that weren't in any of the books Al had given to him so far – Harry had perused them repeatedly – but maybe in other books…

Harry put his drinking glass down, left the kitchen, and went to Al's bedroom. Like always the door was locked, but Harry knew a charm that could help with that.

He hesitated for a moment – this was Al's room, and Al never allowed Harry to go in there… but he wanted to fly, and he was only looking for books. Books Al would give to him sooner or later anyway.

Harry looked over his shoulder - Al had only just left this morning, he shouldn't be back until the day after tomorrow at least, but better save than sorry – then lifted his wand.

"Alohomora."

The door clicked open so easily that Harry wanted to laugh out loud. Magic was incredible.

He opened it only slightly, slipped through the gap, and closed it softly behind himself.

The room was bigger than Harry had thought. The ceiling and floor were clad in a dark wood, but the walls, in all the other rooms made of wood too, were different.

They were of a dark green, reminding Harry of the forest, and above Al's double bed was an emblem depicting a silver snake. Beneath the snake was a banner embroidered with words Harry couldn't read. The letters looked odd and the words seemed to be written in a foreign language too.

Harry walked in further, there was a desk opposite the bed, and above it wizarding photos on the walls.

One seemed to be a family portrait, showing a few old people, probably parents, even older ones (the grandparents?) and quite a lot of children.

All of them, even the youngest children, bore a haughty expression, nobody smiled.

The next photo was of a young boy with a pageboy haircut who was sitting on a white-haired man's lap, ripping the wrapping paper off a parcel. The parcel nearly dropped to the ground and the old man had to intervene. Both man and boy were laughing. Then the scene started anew.

Suddenly Harry realized that the boy on in the picture was probably Al, and he looked down uncomfortably. He felt like he had intruded on a private part of Al's life that he had had no right to see. Not without Al's permission.

The next second though, all thoughts of respecting Al's privacy were forgotten. There, in the center of the table was one of the mysterious letters Al always got by owl, the letters he never allowed Harry to read, never even told Harry what they were about. The letters that were the reason, Al, from time to time disappeared for a few days.

Harry's stomach fluttered, he was nervous and pretty sure that he shouldn't read this letter, but his curiosity was overwhelming.

He wanted to know why Al disappeared, where he disappeared to, what he did there… and the answers to all these questions were right in front of him.

He bent over the table and started to read.

London.

Mary Marshall.

05.10.1960

5'6''

XX

London.

Thomas Reid.

23.04.1953

6'3''

XXX

Bristol.

Michael Jenkins.

27.09.1957

5'8''

XX

Next to every name was a muggle photograph of the person. Harry stared at the letter some more, as if trying to get it to tell him its hidden meaning, then turned away.

He wasn't any wiser than before. The names and pictures made no sense to him. Who were these people? Did Al have to meet them? Give them something to? Take something from them? Maybe even do something to them?

Frustrated he went to the bookshelves that dominated the wall opposite the door. There had to be a few hundred books on these shelves, too many, Harry soon realized, for him to find the one he was looking for among them without help.

He left the room more frustrated than ever before.

.

The last class of the day was over, and Remus Lupin was looking forward to a nice, quiet evening.

After dealing with overexcited first and second years for the better part of his day – 'But Professor, my mother said the wand movement is-' 'Professor, can you show me again?' 'Professor, Anne is cheating, I know it!' 'Professor, look, look, I did it!' 'Can you give us a hint for the test? Just one hint, please!' – he really needed some peace.

His old leather armchair, a cup of tea, and a good book (preferably something that had nothing to do with his lesson plan, for once). Maybe he'd finally get around finishing the muggle detective story Albus had given to him for Christmas…

So when he opened his door, his thoughts circling around the mystery in his book, and saw a person he'd hoped to never see again standing behind his desk, his first, irrational thought was, that he had to delay his reading once again.

Then reality caught up with him. He pulled out his wand and pointed it at his old friend, his traitor turned friend.

"You," he hissed, his voice carrying all of the anger, the pain, the disappointment he felt whenever he thought of the man now standing opposite him.

Sirius was holding a wand too, his hand was shaking.

"Moony."

Remus flinched. "Don't, don't call me that. You have no right."

Sirius looked down. "Remus then. Please, just listen, I have to-"

"Listen? To you?" He took in a deep breath. "You dare come here? After what you have done?"

"I understand that you're angry-"

Remus severely doubted this. A man capable of what Sirius had done could never understand the depth of his feelings.

"-but please. Just take a look at it."

"You have no right to ask anything of me. I'm going to call Dumbledore. You won't get away this time." His voice was shaking.

Sirius looked bad; his face gaunt, his once-proud stance ducked under an invisible burden.

"Remus, please. Just take a look. It- it wasn't me." It seemed to take great effort for Sirius to speak these words. "I didn't betray them. Peter did."

"Peter?" Remus said. "You killed Peter. You killed him after you betrayed Lily and James."

"No. I didn't, I swear. Just take a look. Please."

His voice was so insistent, so desperate, that Remus couldn't help but glance down on the desk.

His breath hitched. There was a parchment lying on his desk, a parchment he knew all too well and had thought lost long ago. The Marauder's Map.

"Why?"

"Just do it. Please. The Gryffindor Common Room. Please."

With a swish of his wand, eyes still trained on the traitor, the parchment flew in his outstretched hands. He looked down at it, his eyes searching for the all too familiar Common Room, and what he saw nearly made him lower his wand unconsciously.

"Peter Pettigrew," he breathed, not understanding what he was seeing. "But how?"

"I never was the Secret Keeper, Peter was. We have to catch him. Please, Remus."

Remus didn't know what to say. This was a trick, the map had to be wrong.

"The map never lies," Sirius said as if anticipating his thoughts.

"No, it doesn't," Remus had to agree.

He lowered his wand and Sirius did the same.

"You really didn't betray them?"

"Never."

Sirius sounded so sincere that Remus wanted nothing more than to believe him. But he couldn't decide this alone, maybe it was just a trick, an elaborate plan.

"I'll call for Dumbledore," he said in the end and conjured his Patronus.

After his wolf Patronus had left to find the headmaster, he leaned back against the wall behind him, fixing Sirius with his eyes. His former friend did the same.

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