Sirius breathed in the humid air, and found it tasted of pine needles.
His legs shook; it seemed a small miracle they were strong enough to hold him, this crouched posture, the weight of this pain in all his limbs. As though he had been stretched, pulled taut, and the release had left him deformed. He had spent twelve years in a cell in Azkaban. Surely, that did something to a man.
And when again had he become a man? He did not recall making any conscious choice. He had been four-legged just moments ago, four-legged until now, diving from the tower and down through the water, through all that frigid salt…
His body was still damp with it- or perhaps that was sweat. He listened, quieted his breath. Was he pursued? He didn't remember. He heard nothing. He had the sense that he was alone.
Alone.
It hurt too to elongate his muscles, to pull their cords up straight; he did it anyway. He stood tall, he stood like a man, and he held his hands over his head, looking up at the starlit sky.
Emancipation. He was certain he grinned like a madman.
Rainy days passed- an uncertain summer- Sirius traversed the countryside as a stray dog. For a long time there was no one. Then, the occasional rural farm. There he snuck into the henhouse, into the trash. He was a vagabond in all forms. He supposed he must be starving- but for whatever reason, he didn't really feel it.
Where was he going? In a distant way, he thought he knew- home. Hogwarts. After the rat. In other words, away from the prison. I'm going to kill Peter Pettigrew. His feet- his paws- though, they had no clear plan; what he followed seemed to be instinct more than any rational map. There was a cord in his heart and it was pulled- he need only follow it to its source.
(And who was that, again? Wormtail? No, he thought it was something else.)
He took newspapers from driveways at any chance- mostly Muggle copies- those he used for the date, to make sure that time didn't run away from him. He tried to read. It wasn't easy.
Once, he found the Daily Prophet- that was his face on the cover, grinning, screaming, feral. Madman. Murderer. Notorious Mass-Murderer, Sirius Black…for some reason, the sight of it made him laugh.
A week, two, almost three. They hadn't caught him yet. Whatever measures they were taking, it wasn't enough. Sirius hadn't felt the breath of the Dementors upon him since before the ocean.
A morning dawned and Sirius found himself outside the safehouse.
It took him a moment to recognize it- the little house had been repainted, a new fence laid out around the backyard. But the smell of it was the same. He knew it, and the memories were as clear as day.
What if-
Still a dog, Sirius padded forward, sniffing at the borders of the fence, peering through the slats to the back door. Without intending it his tail was raised slightly, his ears flat. Supplication.
What if he never left-?
Sirius hadn't seen him- he had gone to kill Wormtail, and then there had been the explosion, all the Aurors, the rapid trial, all the disappointed faces- but not that face. And then he'd been taken to Azkaban, he hadn't seen him. For all of twelve years, only a memory…
The back door opened and Sirius startled, heart so high in his throat he had to swallow it, and- and-
But no. This was a woman Sirius did not know, a Muggle woman he thought, and through the fence he could smell her- a milky, indoor smell- and he knew this was not the place it had been before.
…
No matter.
Why would he have come here? It was out of the way. His goal was Scotland, the castle, where the red-headed boy would be living, and the rat…the rat…
Sirius shook himself, snapping his jaw; the Muggle woman must have seen him because she shrieked, calling for someone. A rabid dog. The neighbourhood must be warned.
Sirius bared his teeth and ran.
Another week. Up. North. The summer, previously so sticky with heat, was becoming cooler. Fall would come upon them soon, and whenever Sirius woke to find the early-dawn mist upon his skin he shuddered and howled, for it reminded him of worse things.
Still, something in him seemed to be becoming strong.
Perhaps it was his mind- the reading improved, slowly, but still- perhaps it was his legs. Lean, corded muscle with not an ounce of fat. He ran. He was following the current. At the end of it, there was his vengeance- there was the crime he had already served time for.
(What difference did it make, really? Crime and punishment, or punishment and crime- it was only a little rearrangement, the cutlery placed down inverted, not a mistake that really mattered. Really, who would be able to tell?)
Sirius wondered sometimes if he dreamt. If he was still in the tower- if he had cracked once and for all, truly, if he was gone from himself, like the distant voices he heard there, crying and singing…dizzy from it. Alone.
What did it matter, if he was?
He was wandering through some Muggle suburb, an eerie enough place, all these carbon-copy houses with identical lawn and cars and windows, windows like hollow, staring eyes. Any dogs here were little and white and yappy, not like him. He shouldn't be here- if not for the cover of the night he would stand out, man or dog he didn't belong here-
-then, on the street before him, Sirius saw James.
Prongs. It was impossible, yet- as Sirius approached it only become more clear- his tail lifted, his ears too, there was no mistaking it-
-James as he had been, a boy with that ruffled dark hair and the silhouette of spectacles. Sirius opened his mouth, to bark or something else, perhaps to transform back, unable to believe it still- perhaps if he became a man again he would not be a man but a boy, he would find all of this some terrible nightmare and the clock set over again, a chance to do it all better and do it right, he could turn and he would be thirteen as James was thirteen and he could reach out and they would embrace-
The boy turned, and Sirius saw then that it was not James.
Not James, no.
Too thin, a touch too pale, his face a little too pointed. And then, there were the eyes. Those weren't James' eyes, Sirius knew that.
The boy startled- there was a crack, a magical bus appeared- Sirius retreated, an animal still, darting away from the noise and the light. Not James, his mind supplied as he ran, not Prongs, and not Lily either.
Twelve years in Azkaban.
Harry Potter.
(He hadn't even thought of it.)
The leaves on the trees were just beginning to dry. Sirius was in Scotland.
Sirius was at Hogwarts.
In Hogsmeade, there was a wealth of information, and space enough in such a place for a stray dog; no one gave him more than the most passing of curious glances. At night he crawled into his first skin, naked and wild, and he picked through the garbage for news. It didn't bother him at all, to see himself in that way- he didn't recognize the face that stared out at him from every other page, every poster on every corner. It didn't really seem like him.
School would be starting soon.
The rat. The rat. The deer.
Harry.
Sirius pulled a rag about himself, looking up at the night sky. There was more than one reason to have come here.
(How long it had been- how long since he had sworn his oath to that baby boy- it seemed like a memory from another lifetime.)
Kill the rat. Protect the boy. A dual purpose.
(Something, though, was still missing.)
On the day classes began, Dementors flooded the streets.
Sirius found himself surprised by them. He hadn't felt their cold touch in so long, some hidden part of his mind had assumed he was out of their reach forever- that they were trapped, now, in their obsidian tower. He should have remembered that this was not true.
The first night was a great terror. Even as a dog, it seemed more than once that they almost caught him. He disappeared into the forest- the blackest part of a nightmare- and yet there they did not follow. Perhaps something about this place scared them.
(It had never scared him- back then, the Marauders, it had never scared any of them.)
(It hurt to think of that.)
It took Sirius several days after that initial fright to leave the security of the trees again. He spent hours curled upon himself- man or dog, he knew not which- shivering in the depths of great memory, feeling that phantom cold pricking at his paw pads. His hunger drove him out, back to the town. There, in daylight, bright warm autumn daylight, he knew they would not come. His movements were restricted, then, at nighttime. Like a fairytale creature- like another he had once known- he needed to retreat from the human world when darkness came.
Lessons. He was learning.
Sirius gorged himself on scraps from a bin behind a pub.
There, with his nose snuffling through the overturned rubbish, he heard his name said in a low murmur. An illusion- he had those often enough- but no, there it was again.
Sirius lifted his head and padded down the alleyway, a few cautious paces, not wanting to be discovered but curious- damn him- curious nonetheless; there was a small circle of people before the pub's door, gathering there to speak in sharp undertones, a conversation that had begun within and could not be finished, perhaps. They spoke of him, but as he was now, as an animal, Sirius couldn't really make out the rest of their words.
An older woman in a classic black witch's hat. Another, a man, much taller, a great bulk of a person- oh, but didn't Sirius know him? Didn't Sirius know them both? These were echoes from his memory, from his tapestry- and there, a third with them, thin and gray, both these things so much he was very nearly a ghost-
-and there he was.
Sirius felt his hind legs give out; funny, that, he fell to the ground like some paralyzed thing. He wanted to yelp, to bark- no, rather, he wanted to howl- but the sound wouldn't lift itself from his belly.
They were going, those people, their conversation done. They were going, they were gone.
That night, in the Forest, Sirius sat as a man in the hollow of a tree root and sobbed without intending to, without realizing he was until he found his face wet. Remus had been there in Hogsmeade, Remus Lupin. Moony. Sirius still had his scent in his nostrils.
So frail he had looked, the wolf. The image stayed in his mind like it had been pinned there. In the bright sun his skin had looked like tissue paper. The silver hair, so thin, and his eyes- Sirius had barely seen his eyes. Once the yellow of them had glowed like Galleons, but there they had been faded to almost no colour at all.
Moony. So many of his memories were of Moony- and so many of them were wonderful, and so many of them hurt.
When he could cry no longer Sirius looked down at himself- his withered body, his filthy clawed hands, the scars and the ink and the ravaging. What was he now? What would be thought of him? If he dared reach out- if he dared try to touch- what would happen?
Sirius looked up through the canopy to what little light could be seen; half-moon. A while yet.
An idea.
But where else?
Time passed. Sirius learned his bounds. He was careful- sticking to back alleys- starving still, but starving less. His hunger was for other things. At night he prowled the forest, the Hogwarts grounds, those places where it was still untouched and warm.
Waiting. He approached the stone steps of the main entrance on four legs, more than once- and at the last moment always he found he couldn't do it, found a fear that dragged him away. It was not an animal fear. The time wasn't right- everything seemed precarious, too much hung in the balance, if he misstepped now the results, he knew, would be catastrophic…
Waiting for the moon to come.
Sirius slipped back beneath the Willow, tracing that familiar old path. It wasn't nostalgic- he felt as though no time had passed at all, as though that frigid interim was only a dream. It wasn't a dream, of course. The chill of the Dementors spread like fog across the grounds. The two worlds were becoming one. He had to stop them. He had to kill the rat.
A day before the full moon Sirius gathered reserves. Old towels and rags, stale bread, a dish of rainwater. He laid these things out in the secret place- in the haven the townspeople called the Shrieking Shack.
It was unchanged. Over the strewn furniture and the old claw marks in the wood there was a thin layer of dust- nothing more. The stillness of it was complete. No one had been here- surely, no one had been here since.
Sirius traced his own numb fingers lovingly over these memories. He felt a tenderness in him that Azkaban had long sought to suck away. But they hadn't- they hadn't succeeded. Sirius remembered. This was where he had fallen in love.
The night itself came, and Sirius waited with his heart high in his chest. The Dementors must be outside somewhere, he felt their chill- but they did not come close enough, as he had thought. This place was safe. Sacred. Sirius sat with his legs folded, dressed as well as he could manage from clothesline theft, everything was here, everything was ready. He waited only for the wolf.
Sirius did not know precisely why Remus was in Hogsmeade- perhaps he lived there, yes, perhaps he had a little job, in the quill shop or the post office, something sweet like that, something to suit the frail grace of his thin hands. Perhaps he even worked at the school. But he was here. It was the full moon. Now, where else would he go?
He would be startled at first, Sirius knew, he would probably react poorly- but by then it would be too late, he would already be changing, and Sirius would tell him it was okay, all okay, Moony, and he would change with him. The dog and the wolf, together again. As a wolf he would understand, Sirius knew it, it was impossible that he wouldn't. Perhaps he would be scared. Perhaps he would hurt himself. All alone, all this time, all those transformations, for twelve years- the loss of it ached inside Sirius. But he would know him. Remus would know him then. And in the morning, then, when they turned back, he would be soft again- softened as he always was after the moon- and Sirius would tell him the truth, all of it, the truth he hadn't been able to give him before. The whole story- the true Secret Keeper- the betrayal- all of it. Remus would understand. Sirius couldn't say how he'd feel about Peter- Remus had always been gentle, so much gentler than him- but that didn't matter. Sirius would be believed, he wouldn't accept any other truth.
(And then? Would there be love after that? Could there be?)
Twelve years.
Sirius watched the sun set outside, his heart in his throat. He was patient. After all this time- if nothing else- he had learned to be patient.
The moon rose. Sirius' breath lay high in his chest, his human ears pricked for the sound of approaching footsteps- for the sound of the trapdoor- hell, for the front door, for anything. Sirius had to see him again. Had to see his face. Beautiful face. The minutes became slow, so slow they ached, and the moon moved too high…too fast…he should be here by now, should have been here long ago…if he was late, his transformation would run wild, would it not-? Without Sirius there to help him, he would be lost-
Twelve years.
(There might be nothing, now. Who's to say?)
When the sun rose again Sirius stood at last and screamed, screamed like he was one of those spectors the townspeople spoke of, screamed and pulled at his own hair. He hadn't come. He wasn't here. Had Sirius dreamt him? Had it been another silvery young man in Hogsmeade, had Sirius' recognition been false? It hurt to think this, it hurt like his insides were being wrenched out. Heartbreak. He couldn't bear this loneliness anymore. Moony.
On the following night, Sirius went into the castle.
He loped up the steps as a dog, panting, slavering, spit trailing from his jaws. He nosed open the door- perhaps it slipped ajar for him, knowing him, understanding his purpose- and there he was, the cool marble floor clicking under his nails, soothing his aching paw pads. This, here, this was all precisely the same. The scent of it was just how Sirius remembered.
And Sirius knew the way. He had walked these paths many times, countless times, he had memorized them in his bones. There was no doubt in his animal brain where Peter would be- the same place he had been- traitor, lying in their midst, a rat pretending to be a lion, pretending to be one of them…across the Great Hall, up the stairs.
There was no one. Sirius encountered neither ghost nor nightwatch nor errant student; by all appearances the place was abandoned. Even the paintings slept.
There. There was the one painting he sought.
At the Portrait Hole Sirius became a man again, and he stood before it as he had a boy, for a moment uncertain of his place in time. The door should open for him. He knew where to go next, he did, and yet…
Ah, that's right; there was a password. He had forgotten.
(He had forgotten, and Moony hadn't come.)
The Fat Lady snorted in her sleep, and sensing him perhaps she opened her eyes; there was a beat where they looked at each other and Sirius didn't know at all what she saw. Then, she began to scream.
Sirius screamed too. Something in him cracked- or it had been cracked all this time. He had not spoken a word to anyone else in months. Not a word to anyone he loved in years. In years, and years, and years…and Remus should have come home on the full moon, and Sirius should have been with him, and the rat should be dead, killed, dead…
Sirius had a knife, he knew not where from, if he had collected it in Hogsmeade he did not remember doing so; he lashed out, his scream and that of the painting joined as one, blending together, an unending drone, almost easy to ignore- he had to get inside, he had to finish it. He couldn't bear to be this way any longer. His jaws ached for a small spine to crush- it was bloodthirst, this, he knew it, he had felt it before…
When Sirius knew himself again he was in the Forbidden Forest, curled inside his hollow, between the roots of that same dead tree. He did not remember leaving the castle- he did not remember what he might have done there on his flight from the Portrait Hole. Surprise- he really was mad, after all.
Every muscle in his body ached, and his heart ached worst of all. Sirius curled into himself and became the dog again, tucking his nose under his own tail, and he let himself lie.
Why weren't you there, baby? Why didn't you come?
He hadn't been built to withstand this kind of pain.
Sirius was bruised from this failing. He retreated to the Shack and struggled to leave there, spending hours sniffing at the corners as a dog, trying to find traces in the dust of the wolf. There was nothing. His scent had been bleached from here.
In the darkest moments before dawn, the human Sirius wondered- he remembered how Remus had been when Sirius had known him last- remembered what he had done. Twelve years. More than enough time to do it again-
-but Sirius couldn't believe that.
He had to focus. He had to think his mind was sound- or at least, sound enough- that Remus really was here somewhere, not an illusion, and so was Peter Pettigrew, and so was Harry Potter. He had tasks. He had to eat. He had to hunt. Before it was too late- before the shadows took over this place, or else caught him again- he had to do what he had come for. Still. He was paralyzed. Fearful. He could only manage to drag himself out to Hogsmeade, to the trash behind the pub where there were the best pickings for a stray, and perhaps he returned there in the hope of seeing Remus again- of seeing what he had thought was Remus- but he never did.
One day, he did meet someone else.
An orange cat, massive in size and intelligence; he sat with his tail swishing on the lid of the bin and Sirius knew quite well that he didn't see Sirius as a dog, or not an ordinary dog, anyway.
The streets were empty with rainfall. A hand reached out, dirty nails and bare knuckles, stroking the cat's ginger ears. A purr.
Can you help me?
Then, both animals asked each other the same question.
When the full moon came again, Sirius did not wait in the Shack. It would surely have killed him to spend another night waiting there.
Instead, he went to the castle.
This was foolish, perhaps- he had read the papers- his first visit, that mad and dreamlike occurrence, had not gone unnoticed. It had been Halloween. He hadn't known that. He hoped he hadn't frightened the children.
(Oh, he probably had.)
Sirius padded across the cool front lawn, and this was just like a memory, just like his youth- where was the deer, the rat? One dead, the other a traitor…dead, and soon to be dead…
Inside, Sirius found the corridors once again vaguely abandoned. It was as though he had found some gap in their security- some slip in time- but where should he go? A soft call in the darkness, and the ginger cat joined him, rubbing a bottlebrush tail under his chin. The cat's yellow eyes called him, and he followed. He followed loyally enough. Until-
-a scent.
Sirius stopped in his tracks, frozen by it, a trace- that trace he had longed for. The cat meowed at him, impatient, it had a goal in mind- but Sirius couldn't think of felines, couldn't think straight at all. The current in his spine had been electrified. He pressed his nose to the floor and either it was all a hallucination and he was damned or else it was- else it was real-
Up the stairs, Sirius' claws clicked on the floor, should anyone hear him he would be caught but he couldn't make himself stop. Down the corridor- not towards the Portrait Hole, not this time- the cat called after him only once more, plaintive, he did not listen. The scent grew stronger.
A door, closed tight. Locked. Sirius opened it with wordless magic- animal magic, heart-magic.
But this was an office, and distantly the human Sirius knew it, it was that place allotted to the Defence professor, oh, he had been here, troublemaker he was, once or twice. It did not smell as it had then. No, now it smelled of the wolf.
Sirius stood for a moment in the entryway, frozen, and a whimper tore from his animal throat. There was no reply.
A fire was on in the hearth, bright and warm, and on trembling legs Sirius approached. On a rug before that fire lay the wolf, curled about himself, head tucked between his paws. That thin silver fur, the faint arch of that spine, the long slender limbs and ribbonlike tail. Sleeping, was he? But Sirius would have known him anywhere.
At the edge of the rug Sirius paused again, his tail wagging first tentatively, and then with great excitement. He whimpered again- there was no greater relief, no greater joy. He felt almost as though his heart would give out. Twelve years, and here. Moony. Remus, Moony-love.
…the wolf did not stir.
He should have opened his eyes by now, those beautiful yellow-gold eyes, should have lifted his head and sniffed. Sirius would not blame him if he was wary, but to be wary he had to know Sirius was there- he was sleeping, now, sleeping still. Sleeping deeply.
Hesitantly Sirius put one pad on the rug, then the other, sniffed at the side of Remus' face, his nose brushing his ear, the grey ruff at his neck. The fire crackled warmly, and Remus did not stir.
But oh, here, there was another scent- Sirius hadn't noticed it at first, too distracted, too overwhelmed by his recognition. Some sweet, cloying smell, clinging to the follicles of Moony's silver fur. Like syrup. Like laudanum. The wolf's jaw was slightly askew, his pink tongue lolling between his teeth.
Sirius licked Remus' forehead once, then over the bridge of his nose. There was no pain then, not like the first time. Perhaps as a man this would have anguished him but as a dog he understood well: Remus wasn't waking now. Something had drugged him- but he was there, and he was safe. Sirius could hear his heart beating, slow and steady in his chest.
Sirius curled into Remus' side, their fur rubbing together, and with a contented sigh he lay his head across Remus' back. The places where their bodies touched were warm.
Would that he could stay this way forever. This was paradise- this was all he had ever really wanted.
…but the sun was set to rise.
Even like this, Sirius knew he could not be found here; knew that even if a waking Remus stayed to listen to his explanation that he would not be believed by all, and even if he was, the chance would be taken from him. He had work to do. He still had work to do, yet.
Before the dawn, when the fire had died down to embers, Sirius rose. He licked Remus' face again- across his forehead, his long ears, the bridge of that slender nose, anywhere, everywhere- let him wake with Sirius' scent on him. Certainly, let him wonder it a dream- a good dream, Sirius hoped, a gentle dream. The vigour of his kisses shifted Remus' limp form, rocked it. What was this? Sirius did not know- he did not have time to think on it, to find out. Remus was alive and well, and that was all that mattered.
Remus, and Harry. Sirius had them both.
Then, what remained was the task.
I'm going to kill Peter Pettigrew.
Sirius' mind was cleared- as cleared as it could be- his night with Remus, though unreciprocated, had done this for him. A reminder of the way things were supposed to be.
The wind whipped the grasses, and rain lashed at the castle windows, at the dying leaves on the trees. Sirius, a dog, unlikely to be seen in this weather- and this way, he went out to the Quidditch pitch, mingling among the stands. Those who did see him- students only- gave him no more than the fondest of passing glances, some reaching out to pat his head, but not many- he was wet, and surely he smelled it, and they were all too chilled themselves anyway. Of course, the game went on. He had known it would. Quidditch purism at its finest- even when the game would benefit everyone to be postponed, play they would anyway.
Sirius came to watch Harry.
Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff; the colours in the stands made that clear. And there he was. At the start of the game, Sirius could see him, marching out into the field, already waterlogged…there he was, taking flight. Sirius' tail stirred against the seat. He wanted to bark, to jump for joy, to run out into the field and leap onto Harry's chest, a dog, he was a dog; such a thing would knock the boy over for sure. So much like James he was- not exactly the same- smaller, sharper. He flew a little differently, Sirius saw, but just as well. Perhaps, even better. Pride swelled in his chest, old friendship. A happiness like this was impossible to temper.
Then, the Dementors came.
With their fog on his heels, Sirius fled.
(He wondered: could they have sensed it in him, that unconvertable joy? Had it drawn them to him, jealous, hungry?)
Ice water soaked his fur and the chill in the air left his lungs burnt. By the time he had made it back to the Shack all his limbs shook and he turned back into a man- quicker to dry that way- and lay on his pile of accumulated rags, on the moth-eaten mattress where he had first seen Remus transform. It was hard to move for some time.
But no matter.
They hadn't caught him; he had seen Harry fly.
Despite it all, Sirius laughed. He didn't care how he looked, no one was watching. In that way, it wasn't so bad- being mad.
Sirius' newfound clarity, seemingly, came with an increase in his challenge. Whether Fate or Destiny or God or whatever was real or not, sometimes things went together. Perhaps, in truth, it was because the Dementors had nearly found him at the Quidditch match. In any sense the security at the castle became stricter. Though Sirius tried, more than once, to sneak back in the way he had before, he was always warned away by the march of footsteps out of bounds, by the silvery signs of watchful ghosts. No one knew he was a dog- no one, save Moony. But even in that form he did not think he would go uninvestigated, and such a risk he could not take. He had to begin learning their methods instead- watching, waiting- learning to predict their schedules from the shadows…time taken…the weather became colder.
Sirius still ate exclusively from bins in Hogsmeade, and from the hands of the occasional elderly townsperson who had become fond of him as a stray; when bells and wreaths joined his screaming face as decorations about the village he knew it must be nearly Christmas. Half a year, or just a little less, since his escape. He had made history, he realized, and it was odd but some part of him was proud.
In a moment of confidence Sirius wrote a note- his hands shook, but not so much it was illegible- and then as a dog took it to the post office, where he wagged his tail and widened his eyes, all innocence, and was rewarded with a treat and scratches from the proprietor.
Mail order for a Firebolt- the newest and bestest broom, as he had seen it advertised.
Twelve years of no presents. As godfather, he needed to catch up.
Bad things came in pairs- but good things did so, too.
The ginger cat purred in Sirius' lap. With one hand he stroked its back and with the other he held up the gift it had brought him: a piece of paper upon which, in an uncertain hand, were written a series of nonsense words.
…and Sirius knew precisely what to do with those.
The second attempt was done with Sirius' new mastery over himself- a mastery that it tested quite thoroughly.
Sirius had learned the guard schedules, and that night when he arrived a canine there was no one in the Great Hall- or at least, no one yet. He darted up the stairs, down the corridor, his heart pumping in his chest, all four legs trembling just slightly, this was anticipation. His mouth was so wet with saliva he drooled all over the floor. He was preparing, perhaps, to snap Peter's spine.
Peter. Not a person in his mind anymore, not so much as an idea. Somewhere in Azkaban, that betrayal had ceased to hurt- any affection he had felt for the boy who had once spent so much time at his side, who had once been something very like 'dear'...it was dissipated now. Peter was only a thing, an obstacle, an image. Something that must be destroyed- for James and Lily, for himself even, a payment for all the years spent in Azkaban.
(Punishment and crime. Commit your murder; you were already sentanced for it.)
At the Portrait Hole, Sirius found a new image, a knight, not the woman whose canvas he had shredded in his dream. He had the password, he gave it. Magic had rules. He was let in.
He knew he had no time to waste, and yet still the sight of the Common Room made something in his heart freeze- he was still for a moment, still in this darkness and this silence, a man. A boy. But this place had hardly changed at all. The smell of it was precisely the same.
A soft call from the shadowy corner; yellow eyes flashed in the non-light. He could not afford to stand here. This place wasn't his anymore. He had work to do.
One scratch to the proud head of the ginger cat and then Sirius was on his way up the stairs. Even as a man his nose was strong, perhaps his forms were blended, perhaps there wasn't really that much of a difference between them now.
First year boys- no- second, perhaps- how old had the redheaded boy been, the one he had seen in the paper- could be this, or…Harry would be in third year now, Sirius knew. So, that was the door he chose.
Inside, like a night thing, like some grave robbing creature. Sirius' bare feet were silent on the carpeted floor. The beds were shrouded by their hangings. Sirius' nose crinkled; he sniffed. One step, then the next, he could feel a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, surely he looked feral, but strange, how he felt so childish, like this was nothing more than one of his pranks from school…
Sirius could smell the rat. For a moment, he could have sworn he heard the thing's heart beating, could have sworn he could taste the skin bursting on his tongue…
Sirius drew back the curtain of the bed-
A boy there, a shock of red hair, and a jolt of something-
Some movement-
A writhe against his chest-
Sirius' bloody hand extended, reaching for the rat, and then the boy woke and began to scream.
…it became confused after that. Confused, again. Something about the noise- the screaming- it was too much like the cold place, the prison, it rattled something in him-
-and he grabbed for the rat as it shot from the bed and he missed its tail by an inch.
Sirius barked, he was sure of it, his hands scrabbling after the racing little rodent, and there was motion all around him, everyone else in the room was waking- and in the other rooms, and in the rest of the castle- in his mind he could feel the world stirring, like some great, malignant beast-
By the time Sirius was back down the stairs into the Common Room the rat was gone, having slipped into some hole or other, under some couch or chair. Sirius cursed his lack of a wand. He hadn't thought of it much until now- he was too much a dog- but if he could Accio, if he could Silencio, if he could- if he- Avada-
There was no time. Back out the Portrait Hole, four legs again. A race against the clock, against the footsteps he heard pounding. The skin of his teeth. It took only moments to return to the forest- seconds less and he would have been captured.
The failure stung more bitterly this time. Sirius pulled his own hair from his head and cursed it.
A thought: breaking into the castle wouldn't work. He could get in, but it was very nearly too hard to get out.
He would have to find another way- he would have to bring Peter to him.
Snow fell gently in the Forbidden Forest. Not all of its depths were so dark- there were lighter places too, where the unicorns lived, clearings where flowers might grow in spring, where snow fell between the barren deciduous branches so lightly it made no sound on the frozen earth at all.
Footsteps, though, those could be heard, and Sirius heard them- he uncurled from his own position under the roots of the tree, a dog, a dog still, a dog always. The thread in his heart was tugged. He heard the footsteps, he heard a voice. Without even catching the scent, he knew.
"Sirius!"
Sirius padded through the undergrowth, both afraid and not afraid, calm, oddly so.
"Sirius- you're in here- I know you are-!"
He should be torn, perhaps, aching, but this was just like that night on the moon. As a dog, Sirius was at peace with it.
"Sirius Black- Si- Padfoot…"
Remus moved through the undergrowth without the grace he would have possessed as his other self. Sirius remembered playing with him here, as children, as teenagers- those memories were of yesterday, and of a million years ago. Should Sirius bound from the bushes, assume the play position, lift his tail and bark for joy- no. Even as a dog, he could tell his Moony was crying.
(And the wolf had always been so reluctant to play.)
Sirius transformed despite the cold, despite the pain- the sight of Remus' human face somehow forced him to. Still, he remained in the bushes, in the bracken, unseen. Remus stayed to the path like he didn't know this place. Perhaps he really didn't, not anymore.
He was still beautiful to Sirius. He looked sick and weak and fragile, inexplicably old, young and old at the same time, worn down before his time. The silver of his hair was faded, more like gray in this form, just like his eyes were faded, dim. His clothes were surely too thin, like this he would be freezing. Sirius wanted to take him to the abandoned third-floor bathroom, ghosts be damned, patch him up. But then, he didn't seem to have any wounds.
(Twelve years. Too long- and too late. By now, Moony had surely found something else to comfort him.)
(Someone.)
Remus paused in a clearing, out of breath, looking up at the pale gray sky. How long had he been calling before Sirius woke? Why would he have come at all? He didn't smell Sirius on the breeze. Was that because his senses were dulled, or because Sirius didn't smell like he used to anymore?
"Don't do this to Harry," Remus called weakly. "If you have to- if you must have someone, take me…"
Sirius didn't understand.
"I- I mean, why…why would you…"
Remus dropped his head, and Sirius saw for a moment the vertebrae in the back of his neck, slightly raised against his bare skin. If he was going to step out, he should do it now. Rise from the thorns and step out, reach for him, take Remus in his arms and hush him and stroke his hair- no, I didn't do it, I didn't do any of it, it was Peter, you see- he could go further- it was Peter and I'm going to destroy him but I love you, and I loved you, and I'll probably love you 'till I die…
Remus had a wand, Sirius saw, though he wiped his eyes with one hand his other was in his pocket, fisted around it. An attempt. That's what this was- not surrender, but bravery instead.
Not yet, then. Not until the rat was dead, not until there was real proof.
Funny- Sirius didn't blame him.
But it still hurt to leave him crying in the snow.
Spring. New growth.
A whole year gone.
Sirius chased scents in the grass, made mad by them. He could hear the rat in his dreams, scrabbling away at the wood, chewing at cords. More than once, he thought he nearly saw him, nearly caught him, somewhere about the greenhouses…about the roots of the Willow…chasing, always ready, always slavering for it.
He was never quick enough; but he became quicker all the time.
Time. That was the problem; it seemed to him that it was running out.
The day came.
(Looking back, Sirius would realize- he hadn't had a clue how any of this would end.)
The day. Wet and windy. Wandering. There.
Chase that scent.
The world bent and from between folds of air Sirius saw it appear, the rat, the red haired boy. But Sirius knew what that was, he had played with it once himself, in another lifetime- inheritance of his dearest friend. But he couldn't think of that now.
The boy caught the rat before Sirius could; so Sirius caught the boy. He had failed already, too many times, to be delicate about this. The shadows of the tree enclosed over both their heads. He felt a savage thing. Desperate. Animal. Wild.
There. In his childhood haven, his old home, this place where everything had come together and everything had fallen apart- he had blood in his mouth. The moment was upon him. It had come down upon them both.
Noise and interference- joined, not his intention- and there was Prongs and there was Lily both, the stag and the doe, and Sirius tried to explain but his tongue caught in his mouth for in that instant he saw a viciousness in those green eyes that had never been there before. Never, never, never before. That violence should be alien to them- but not just a deer, for a moment Sirius saw in that boy a snake.
(...are you going to kill me, Harry? For a moment, he truly didn't know-)
A flash. He should have known it would go this way- he had never been the type to make well-calculated plans. He should have known it wouldn't really be up to him.
Moony told the story to the children, and even though Sirius itched throughout it he couldn't help but stare, rapt. He was so close, awake and so close, and after all this time- Sirius shook and paced, trying to hold himself back, it hurt because Remus wouldn't look him in the eye, they had embraced but there had been something off about it, something feral, he had initiated and Remus had responded only- but hadn't they always been that way? Old friend, he had called him. Seashells.
The rat writhed in the corner.
Then, let's finish it together…
A wand pointed at his throat- and this was a terrible memory, so Sirius was well acquainted with it, the Dementors had brought it to his head often enough. That first betrayal- that very worst thing- the crime he had committed.
Here was Severus Snape! Snape in the Shack, fox in the henhouse! Sirius had sent him here after the wolf- you wanted me to kill someone- but, it seemed, it was Sirius that Snape intended to kill…
Run along, and play with your chemistry set!
The two of you, quarrelling like an old married couple…
Wandlights, streaks of red, like lightning. Sirius didn't even have the chance to think about what Snape had said.
A moment of quiet. Sirius thought it was over- for one blessed, cursed moment, he really thought it was over. He looked up at the twinkling lights of the castle and he thought, could it be? Not much further now- Pettigrew was with them, bound, and Snape was unconscious, and the children were safe, and they could take the rat up there and hand him over and what further proof would be needed- all this time Sirius had thought there was only one option, that Pettigrew had to die, but like this it would be better- like this, perhaps, he could be free…
Sirius looked back at Harry, wary but not so angry now, and offered him a home. In that moment the future seemed to blossom before them, a whole and handsome thing.
Then the clouds shifted, and Sirius saw the wolf.
A race. It was all spilling over. This morning he hadn't known any of this would happen, hadn't predicted it. It was nearly summer, the air should be warm, and yet it was cold, so cold…
Sirius' chest and shoulder ached as he ran through the grass, a dog still, stumbling. Moony had attacked him. Moony had attacked him. Remus had become the wolf- but of course, Sirius should have remembered- but of course, he would have gone wild, standing there before such obvious and succulent prey. And what he felt for Padfoot- Sirius knew it then for certain. Twelve years had been too long.
He had to lead him away. Even if Remus shredded him, it didn't matter, the children had to be safe- but when Sirius turned he did not hear the cries of the wolf behind him anymore, did not smell his familiar scent, did not feel the rumble of other racing paws through the earth. He had been left alone- but that was no good-
-to his surprise, the dog form gave out; a weakness had come to him, he was bleeding, red on his hand and red on the stones of the riverbank. A man again, and a man alone. A year's worth of racing exhaustion settling into him at last.
And Moony- dear Moony-
Sirius pressed a hand to the claw-rip the wolf had left behind, and then realized his breath was fogging before his face.
Across the pond, he saw them. Dementors.
Sirius looked out from the bars of his tower window. So, he had failed.
The places were collapsed, just as he had feared they would be- Hogwarts and Azkaban, his two great states become one. He was imprisoned, and he had not killed the rat, no, the rat had gotten away. He had held the thing in his jaws and still it had gotten away.
Peter was free, and Remus-
Sirius strained in the quiet to hear him howling. He wished he could. It would be a comfort, for when they came to kiss him- when they came to take the last of him away. But of course, he did have some memory; under his rags his shoulder felt as hot as a small fire. If he moved too much, he was certain it would begin to bleed again.
There was nothing else like it, this perfect despair. It was one thing to be crushed the way one was in Azkaban- crushed and crushed and crushed with no reprieve- eventually there was no farther to go. But this- after having freedom in his mouth, after having so much joy, and so much hope- to see it all snatched away again-!
Perhaps it was a mercy, what they intended to do to him-
-but something was moving over the Forest.
Sirius sat up a little straighter, and watched a great winged creature approach.
Sirius told Harry the truth, and in that instant, it seemed he was absolved.
Harry was not James, nor Lily- but then he seemed like both of them, and both of them purely, and there was no other word for this but 'peace'.
The night wind whipped his hair and his rags and the feathers of the beast beneath him; Sirius turned back to look at the dwindling castle only once, for doing it made him lightheaded. Over, all of it, over and done with. He realized he did not know if he would ever see the place again.
Sirius realized also that, strangely, this did not really hurt him. Something had changed- something had settled. For now- perhaps, just for now- it didn't really matter where he went next.
Sirius raised his head, letting the cold air freeze his face and sting his eyes. The Hippogriff and he were flying- flying into the moon. Funny- that was where he had always wanted to go.
No turning back, then. No turning back now.
For the first time, he really was free.
