"I love you as certain, dark things are to be loved
in secret between the shadow and the soul"
Canon Divergent AU where Sirius reaches Godric's Hollow first and takes Harry away. Slowburn wolfstar with lots of angst
Chapter One
'Wormtail!' There was no answer when Sirius banged on the door, so he used both fists to hammer all the harder, 'Wormey?'
Something did not feel right - he couldn't quite place it. The sun was just beginning to set, though the day was still warm enough for late October, the autumn mists and winter frost were yet to settle in. The leaves were turning red and gold and the birds still sang in the trees - but for all this was a glorious harvest evening, the last of the good weather, there was something in the air that made Sirius' blood run cold.
Not least, the fact that Wormtail's hideout was dark and deserted.
He took out his wand and - with a glance to check no muggles could see him - whispered 'Alohomora'. The handle twisted in his grasp and he pushed against the door, practically falling through into the dark hallway beyond. All was quiet inside.
'Peter!' he heard his own voice crack with fear. 'Peter, it's me!'
This was supposed to be just a routine check up - to make sure Wormey was doing OK after taking on the responsibility of being Prongs' secret keeper. It was a big ask, after all, and little Peter wasn't brave.
That was why it was the most marvellous double bluff. No one would ever suspect ...
But Wormey would still need checking on, making sure he was all right - and no one, not even Dumbledore, not even Moony, knew about the swap. And Prongs and Lily were locked down tight in Godric's Hollow with little Harry. So that left only Sirius.
Wormtail knew he was coming - they had arranged it. Sirius had expected to turn up, be warmly welcomed inside by a nervous and twitchy Peter - relieved to see him - and then spend the evening drinking firewhisky and swapping rumours.
But, from the moment he had knocked and got no answer, his heart had sunk and he had an uneasy feeling that something was terribly wrong. And the quiet stillness of the house, the darkness and the only sounds being his own footsteps and the echo of his own voice, were doing nothing to dispel his disquiet.
The whole house had the air of a place abandoned … even though Peter must have been here less than a day ago, it felt like he was gone and he was never coming back. Sirius couldn't explain it - but the feeling was unmistakable.
There was a copy of the Daily Prophet lying on the kitchen table, and Sirius picked it up. He recognised the headline and the photograph before he even checked the date. It was today's paper. Wormtail had been in this house earlier this very day - had sat at this table, had read this paper. And now he was gone. When he was supposed to be here. When he was supposed to be waiting for Sirius, expecting Sirius.
'Someone must have known,' he muttered to himself, dropping the Daily Prophet back down on the table, and looking around. He drew his wand and held it raised and ready. 'Voldemort must have found out…'
Fear seized his heart. If the Dark Lord had somehow found out Wormtail was the Potters' secret keeper, if he had come here, taken Peter … then it would only be a matter of hours - if that - before Voldemort was at Godric's Hollow.
Sirius did not think for a moment that Peter would be able to stand up to the threats of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. And even if he proved he had more mettle in him than anyone ever suspected, he could not stand against the Cruciatus curse, or the Imperius curse. One way or another, Peter would tell - and James and Lily would die.
No one would stand against Voldemort in the end, that was why Sirius had insisted on the swap. Because he knew the Dark Lord would go after him - would use Imperio on him, if that's what it took. And he would go after Dumbledore. But no one would think to go after little Peter. And the only way to hide the secret was to entrust it with someone Voldemort would never think to ask.
And yet somehow - Peter was gone, Voldemort must have known. And - with dread rising to panic inside his chest, threatening to overwhelm him, Sirius renewed his search, hunting through the house from top to bottom, sweeping through every nook and cranny for any sign of his missing friend: 'Peter, Peter!'
But it was no use. There was no reply. And no clue as to what had gone down here. There was not even any sign of a struggle…
That gave Sirius pause.
No sign of a struggle …
If Voldemort had come here and taken Peter, as Sirius had first thought, then true enough Peter would not have stood a chance … but that didn't mean that he would go quietly.
There should be signs of a fight. However one sided, however massively outmatched Wormtail would have been - there should have been some evidence of his attempts to defend himself. A chair knocked over, a door knob blasted off by a curse hitting it, a broken window, blood, something … anything … But all was exactly as it should be. Apart from the fact that Peter was missing.
A different type of panic began to seize at Sirius' heart. If Peter hadn't fought … if he had gone willingly … Perhaps there was no sign of a struggle because there had been no struggle. Perhaps Voldemort had never been here, had never come here for Peter. Perhaps Peter had gone to him.
But why would he…?
There wasn't time for this. Sod Wormtail. He was either safe or he wasn't - and there was nothing Sirius could do for him now. But if he had been taken - or if he had gone of his own volition - then Lily and James were in very real danger … and only Sirius knew.
He ran for the stairs, his feet thundering in time with the pounding of his heart - he dashed down the hallway, and back out into the street where, not caring if the muggles saw him, he threw his leg over his motorbike, gunned the engine and flew up into the air.
'Come on come on come on come on,' he muttered, squeezing the throttle and making his bike go faster. His hair streamed out behind him in the wind and the cold air stung his face and made his eyes water - but he barely noticed. His heart was beating a frantic tattoo in his throat, his blood was pounding in his ears and his insides were painful with a dread and a fear he had never felt before.
The sun was past the horizon by now, the sky around him was turning black. Stars were beginning to twinkle, like icy diamonds, and beneath him the lights of the muggle world spread out like those same stars had fallen to earth. 'Come on come on come on come on come on.'
He flew over Bristol and then out across the channel. The sea was as black as the sky and, without the guiding lights of the cars and lampposts, it was hard to know exactly where he was. Out over the open water, the wind buffeted him about and blew through his robes; chill fingers nipping at his flesh… but he didn't notice. He was too afraid to feel the cold. The molten panic in his chest left him flushed with heat. He just squeezed the throttle all the tighter and headed straight on.
Eventually he flew over land again, and could see little clusters of lights spread out across the endless moor. He had left behind the big cities - and was now amongst the little villages of the wild West Country. He just needed to find the right one …
He landed his motorbike in the streets of Godric's Hollow, causing a whole load of trick or treating muggle children to scream. He ignored them, gunned the engine again and roared off down the twisty lanes, past the poky cottages with their thatched roofs and bright flowerbeds, until he reached James and Lily's house.
He pulled up outside - and felt all that panic condense inside of him into one tight ball of pain … and then drain away, leaving him feeling sick and empty, shaking and fighting the urge to throw up.
The house had been half destroyed.
The wall had been cracked, he could see right into the living room. The roof was blown off. The little garden, which Lily had taken so much pleasure in planting and nurturing, was buried under rubble; bricks and plaster and roof tiles were strewn around, like so much debris.
He didn't even switch off the engine. He didn't even kick the bike's stand down to keep it upright. He just clambered off, on legs shaking so hard he didn't know how they were supporting him, and staggered and stumbled his way up the garden path - ignoring the great crashing sound that signified his bike falling to the ground.
James was dead in the doorway, half buried beneath the rubble.
On seeing him, Sirius lost his fight, and sank to the ground, bending over double and vomiting copiously into the destroyed flowerbeds.
Once he was done, he rested his hands on his knees, took great lungfuls of air and - still shaking - half staggered, half crawled his way back to James.
'Prongs!' He used his bare hands to dig his friend out from underneath the fallen bricks, ignoring the scrapes and grazes caused by the sharp remnants of the wreckage - and the way his knuckles and nails bled. 'Prongs!' His voice broke when he finally pulled James free and held him close. He gave him a little shake, and then a harder one, willing him to wake up. Willing those brown eyes to focus, that familiar grin to spread across his face.
'Gotcha!' Prongs said. 'You thought I was dead.'
'You bastard, I thought no such thing!'
'Yeah? What's Lily gonna say when I tell her you were sick in her flowers? I got you good - admit it.'
But the brown eyes stayed glassy and staring. James' body stayed stiff and still. There was no smiling, no laughing, no final joke to make it all OK.
Sirius cradled him in his arms and wept.
He felt like he could stay there forever. Never move. Just him and James. Padfoot and Prongs. Together - the way they were always meant to be.
If he got up, if he moved away - then James was really dead. He would be leaving him behind, to be stiff and cold and dead forever. But as long as he stayed here, holding him - as long as they were together - then Prongs was not really gone, nothing was really broken. If he could just freeze this moment: him and his best friend. If he never moved then it would not matter that James would never move either. They would both be still forever. If he just held James close and gave him some of his own warmth - then James would not be cold. It was only if he let go, if he got up, that he would be letting James be dead, would be admitting that James was gone and not coming back - and he was still here, still had a life to lead, still had things that needed doing. If he got up, that would be a betrayal. But if he stayed here - stayed still...
It was not meant to be.
Over the sound of his own tears he heard something else. Someone else crying.
He raised his head from James' chest and stared upward, his heart pounding in his chest once again. 'Lily?' he called out, 'Lily, are you there?'
But there was no answer - save for the continued crying - a wordless wail … and he understood. Not Lily.
'Harry.'
A sob caught in his throat, his grief choking him and exploding outward as he gently placed James back on the ground and immediately did what he had sworn he would never do - got up and moved on.
But Harry was alive up there. And he could not sit here grieving James and leave James' infant son to fend for himself.
'Get over yourself, Padfoot. Put your hanky away. My son needs you.'
...
The stairs had been damaged in the blast, whatever had happened to bring down the walls and the roof had also caused no small amount of destruction on the inside of the cottage - and Sirius picked his way carefully up the creaking steps.
He followed the sound of the baby crying, along the landing and down to the nursery. When he reached Harry's room, he found the door hanging off its hinges, and the far wall had been blasted away, he could see right into the house next door. The silence that came from the neighbours must mean either they were out - trick or treating - or they were injured … maybe dead. But Sirius did not have time to care about that.
Harry was sitting in his crib, wailing - his little face all red and scrunched up. There was a cut on his forehead; a jagged red gash, the exact shape of a lightning bolt. 'Harry, Harry, what happened?' - Though of course the baby couldn't answer.
But at the sound of a familiar voice, the wailing stopped - and one screwed up little eye was pried open.
And then Sirius had Harry in his arms, and was hushing him - and Harry had stopped crying, because he was now safe and warm in the arms of someone familiar and loved.
'Shush shush, everything's OK, little man, everything's gonna be OK…'
Though that was a lie. Lily lay on the ground, dead - just as James was. And Harry may have been too young to understand what he had lost, but Sirius understood all too well. His heart broke - for himself and for the little boy.
'Shush, shush - Uncle Padfoot's here.'
He couldn't understand what had happened. Lily and James dead - their bodies so unmarked that they must have fallen to the killing curse; Harry injured - cut - but otherwise fine; the house destroyed … and no sign whatsoever of who had done this. Not even a Dark Mark cast above the house to signal a murder had taken place inside.
This must have been the work of Voldemort, himself. Sirius could not believe they would have fallen to anyone less, lost to one of his followers. This must be the work of the Dark Lord. But why had Voldemort not made a clean job of it? Why leave Harry alive? Why bring down the whole house?
Something must have gone wrong - for Voldemort. Oh, some of it had gone right. Too right. Lily and James were dead, cold and still and gone forever - and that was a victory for the Death Eaters in and of itself. Two more of The Order down, their ranks thinning.
But no Dark Mark, all this destruction and Harry still alive … He gently reached out and touched the cut on the little boy's head. Something had stopped Voldemort killing Harry, something about this little boy had stumped him - and now Harry was alone, apart from for Sirius. And this was all Sirius' fault.
...
Whatever had happened here, whoever had come here and killed Prongs, they could only have done so with the help of Wormtail. Only Peter held the key to finding the Potters; without that information, Voldemort could have peered in through their living room windows and been unable to find them.
Peter had betrayed them. Sold them out to Voldemort.
And it had been Sirius' idea to use Peter as the secret keeper, to only be the decoy himself and fool everyone else. So it was Sirius' fault James and Lily were dead - and Harry was an orphan and Sirius was alone …
...
His grey eyes snapped open. No one else knew Peter had been the secret keeper. Not Dumbledore or Mad Eye, not even Moony.
Well, he couldn't tell Moony - could he? Not when…? He closed his eyes again and hissed in pain, as the bitter recriminations threatened to overwhelm him.
He had been so sure Remus was the spy. Well, it had to be one of them. It wasn't James - he was the one in danger, and Sirius knew it wasn't himself, and it couldn't be Peter - he was so small and worthless. It had to be Remus. He was the only one left. And... besides Remus was a …
...
It wasn't that Sirius believed his old friend was inherently bad because of what he was. He couldn't help it, any more than Sirius could help being a Black. But the truth was, the world offered very little for Remus' kind. Voldemort offered greater freedoms, more opportunities. He wouldn't have to live on the margins, being rejected and shunned, if he joined the ranks of the Dark Lord - he could be an integral part of the army, doing Voldemort's bidding and reaping the rewards. And for handing over the Potters, the rewards would be big.
For dark creatures, Voldemort offered a chance of a better world. Unlike the rest of them, Remus actually stood to gain something if the Dark Lord took over.
Of course Sirius had thought it was Remus.
Remus was clever and brave and powerful and held back only by his condition, unfairly treated by a world that hated him for what he was. He owed no loyalty to a world and its people who cast him out. Of course he seemed a more likely spy than little Peter, who could barely master basic spells and was afraid of his own shadow and had a job and a home and a future.
But he had been wrong. Peter had double crossed him and his own blind, stupid prejudice now meant that James and Lily were dead and Harry was parentless.
And as far as anyone out there, who had known the Potters had used the fidelius charm knew, Sirius was the secret keeper. He was the one responsible for this - or that was what people would believe.
And who would believe him that it was Peter? That was the whole point of choosing him in the first place.
...
He needed to get away - though his heart ached at the thought of leaving Lily and James dead among the rubble. But if he stayed he would be arrested, and Harry would be taken from him … and who knows where the baby would end up?
Sirius was Harry's godfather. He was who Lily and James wanted raising Harry if they were not there to do it themselves. The last thing they would want would be him being taken off to Azkaban and Harry given to some other family to raise. If he couldn't save them, if he had let them die, then the least he could do was honour their wishes and protect and raise and love their son.
He and Harry needed to vanish. Tonight. Right now.
There was only one place he could go.
Peter had betrayed him, Dumbledore would be against him and he only had one friend left in the world - a friend he had forced his heart to say goodbye to, only to discover his catastrophic mistake. Well, James was lost. Peter was dirt. But he now discovered he still had Moony. He had to get to him, before Remus heard what had happened from someone else. Before Remus turned against him as well.
...
Holding Harry tight in one hand, he clutched his wand with the other, closed his eyes - said a final goodbye to James and Lily - and then apparated right out of Godric's Hollow.
Just as Sirius and Harry vanished from the nursery, Hagrid arrived in the street. He saw Sirius' motorbike lying abandoned on its side - its engine still running.
'Sirius?' he called out, recognising who it belonged to at once, 'Sirius are you here?' And then he turned and saw the house. 'Oh no. Oh no no no no no.'
Tears welled up in his eyes and he stumbled up the garden path. 'James!'
Like Sirius, he shook the body - hoping to get a reaction. But like Sirius, he had no success. He began to cry in earnest then, noisy tears and great heaving sobs. 'Not Lily too,' he wept to himself, 'not Lily and Harry.'
...
He made his way up the stairs, having to duck down low as the small cottage was not wide or high enough for his massive frame.
Sure enough, he found Lily dead on the floor - her green eyes wide and staring. He collapsed beside her and cradled her in his huge arms. 'Oh not you, love, not you as well.' And then he glanced up at the crib - and saw it was empty.
'Harry?' He looked around, 'Harry!' But there was no sign of the baby and - apart from the motorbike outside - there was no sign of young Black, either.
He didn't know what he was going to tell Dumbledore.
