Chapter Twenty Nine

Sirius had walked so many miles that his paws were aching and he was developing a bit of a limp in his back leg. It hadn't stopped raining since the morning, and his fur was slick and matted close to his skin, and droplets of water dripped down into his eyes. But he kept on walking.

For all he was damp - he was refusing to let his enthusiasm be dampened. He was free. He was going to catch Peter and expose him as the spy. And then Moony would be free too. And then they could have the whole of the rest of their lives together - far away from the people who had hunted them, far away from the people who hated Moony just for being what he was, far away from everything they had both endured since Peter had betrayed them, James had died and their whole, little world had crumbled around their ears.

And they would get Harry back as well. Once they were proven innocent - and were free men again. Sirius was Harry's godfather, he was Harry's legal guardian. The Ministry would have to let him take Harry back from those muggles. And Prongs would expect no less of him. He couldn't let Prongs down.

...

But first, he couldn't let Moony down either. He mustn't get ahead of himself. Proof of innocence, free Remus and then - and only then - could they settle down as a little family with Harry, and raise him as their own.

So he grit his teeth together and carried on limping towards London, ignoring the soreness that radiated up from each of his paws. He would get to London. He would make everything right and nothing was going to stop him - and nothing was going to dampen his resolve.


Little did Sirius know that, back in Azkaban, the wheels were already turning - the cogs in the Ministry machine were whirring away, trying to bring him back to the justice they were so convinced he deserved.

...

Having left the wolf lying in a puddle of its own piss and howling in agony, Severus took the aurors up into the high tower to look around Black's own cell. Although it was unlikely to yield anything interesting, he had to look. The pathetic creature downstairs might have been very helpful when it came to betraying its master's biggest secret - but had been less forthcoming on where its master might have got to.

...

Perhaps it really didn't know. Perhaps it was just a dumb beast that Black kept around because he liked the power of having a werewolf at his side… Though the way they looked at each other belied that thought… Severus was surprised that Black had abandoned the wolf, even if he was the only one who could possibly escape.

The way they looked at each other reminded him … although it sickened him to think of it - of the way he felt for Lily. Of the way nothing else in the world mattered as much as she did, and the way everything else in the room seemed to grow a little dimmer when she walked in.

When the two of them had looked at each other, in the courtroom, he had seen on their faces the exact way Lily made him feel - like his heart was too big for his chest and his love was too great to be contained. He would never have left Lily alone in a place like this. He was surprised, therefore, that Black had abandoned Lupin to his fate. That seemed cold - even for that bastard.

...

Still - whyever he had gone, whyever he had not bothered to wait the week until his monstrous pet died before he left, Black must have gone somewhere. And Severus needed to find out where. And to that end he had better make a thorough job of it and search Black's cell. He never knew - there might be some kind of clue in there. He had managed to parse out clues in the strangest places, so far, on this wild manhunt he had been on ever since Lily had died.

...

The dementor opened the door for him and he nodded his thanks, stepped inside and then cast a patronus. He did not want to have to try and search - to try and think - with that grey, miserable fog of unhappiness freezing his brain. And it was numbing, crippling - the power of the dementors. He had been close to them before, of course, during his time in the Dark Lord's army. But that had been before …

Now when they got too close, he heard Sybill Trelawney's voice: harsh, deep and strange as she made the prophecy - and his own excited mumble as he told the Dark Lord the news. He heard his former master tell him the child had been born - that it was the Potter boy, and he would kill the whole family to be sure… and then he heard his own desperate, wracking sobs echoing around the dungeon that served as his Hogwarts office as he understood that Lily was dead - and gone forever - and that he, Severus, had killed her.

...

But with the patronus in place, he could remember that it wasn't he who had killed her. It was he who had warned her and insisted she be made safe. Risked his life and the wrath of his master to do so - and sold himself into eternal servitude to Dumbledore in the process. It was Black who had killed her. Black and that urine soaked animal downstairs… and the thought of Lupin pissing himself made the patronus glow a little brighter, the dementor shrank back a little more … and Severus got on with his search.

The aurors joined him. The cell was dark and dank and small. The ceiling was low - low enough that Severus had to duck. Black was a far taller man than he. He mustn't have been able to stand up straight in here, must have been forced to remain stooped and hunched for the weeks he was locked up. It must have been agony - and claustrophobic too … that made his patronus grow a little brighter as well.

The walls dripped with slime. But there was nothing to see here - it was bare. Just the toilet bowl and the mattress and the few spare blankets. Black had not carved anything onto the walls - not even a tally of the days he had spent here - had not left any sign of who had been imprisoned within these four damp walls.

...

'There's nothing here,' Dawlish said, kicking the mattress in disgust. The mattress slid a little under the force - shifting ever so slightly across the floor and landing in a new position.

And that's when Severus' keen eyes saw it - just a corner, poking out from under the mattress - disturbed since Dawlish had kicked it. 'What's this?' he said, getting to his knees and pulling it free.

...

It was paper; paper that had gone wet with lying on the damp and gritty ground. As he picked it up, he realised it was a copy of the Daily Prophet, though the pages were sticking together and much of the ink had run.

'What is this?' he asked, bemused, 'how did he get hold of this in here?'

'What does it matter?' Proudfoot snorted.

Severus shot him a disbelieving look. 'It matters because something made Black break out of prison. And if he managed it last night, then he could probably have done it the day he got here … and yet he waited weeks to act. And if we want to track him, we need to know why he's gone - what he's hoping to achieve.'

But Proudfoot snorted again, 'he just wants to be free - wants to get out of this place. Who can blame him?' he spat in disgust in the general direction of the dementor.

...

Severus shook his head. Of course Ministry incompetence was something one came to expect, the longer one lived in the wizarding world. He remembered his mother complaining about what a load of bunglers they were, sending the country to wrack and ruin, when he was still a boy.

But still - one would hope for better from the dark wizard catchers, the so-called elite. One would at least hope for a modicum of brains - or a splash of investigative skill. Why, Rita Skeeter would do a better job ferreting out where Black had gone than these two. At least she thought to ask the tough questions - even if she then made up her own answers.

Apparently - though - he was asking too much. All of the thinking would be left to him. The aurors, like the Dangerous Beast lot, were apparently only in it for the thrill of the chase - the kill. Strategy, logic and tactics were not in their game plan. Fortunately, they were in Severus' … no wonder Dumbledore had insisted he take the lead on this matter.

...

With a feeling of distaste, his mouth twisted into a grimace - and trying not to get any of the slimy wetness of the paper on his fingers - he peeled the pages apart until he found the front page - and the date for this edition.

'This is from four days ago,' he said. He looked up at the aurors. 'How does a wizard who has been in prison for three weeks end up with a four day old paper? Someone must have given it to him. Someone must have been here. Dawlish,' he snapped his fingers, 'go and speak to the guard - ask if Black has received any visitors.'

Grumbling under his breath and with many a backwards glance, which seemed to entreat Severus to change his mind, Dawlish left the cell - stepping beyond the patronus to go and speak to the guard which lurked just beyond it.

Meanwhile, still at arm's length and trying to keep his hands as clean as possible, Severus started turning the pages again until he got back to the one he had found it on. It was page 16 - a page full of adverts, mostly taken up by Mulpepper's Apothecary and their offer on polyjuice potion. He turned the paper over - to look at what would have been on the other side. Page 17.

...

His heart froze in his chest and he had to fight the urge to be sick.

There she was. Smiling up at him. Waving.

Lily.

...

Merlin, but she was the loveliest thing he had ever seen - even holding the dratted Potter's dratted baby. The picture was black and white, and so the unusual beauty of her green eyes was not apparent but, even so, the size and shape of them were just how he remembered. They looked up at him, cutting into his soul - and he knew her face, every speck of her, well enough to be able to colour the image in, in his mind.

He hadn't been ready to see her - to come face to face with her like this - so unexpectedly. He was breathless - there were pains in his chest. His patronus started to flicker and grow weak.

...

'Snape?' He heard Proudfoot's voice as if coming from a very long way away. 'Snape? Now look here - what's wrong?'

The doe in the doorway sputtered and went out. Greyness crashed in on them… suffocating misery and cold.

'Expecto patronum,' Proudfoot yelled - and a bright silver wild boar erupted from the end of his wand and charged up and down in the doorway, bringing the warmth and happiness back. 'Snape - dammit- what are you playing at?'

'I - I …' unable to finish his sentence, to even think his way to the end of it, never mind say it aloud, he dropped the newspaper and scrabbled to his feet; turning his back on the auror and trying to gain control over his trembling.

...

But then a sudden thought struck him - and he was filled with rage, a rage so blinding he wanted to tear Black limb from limb with his bare hands and - unable to do that - was sorely tempted to do the next best thing and storm back downstairs and kick the beast to death where it lay in its puddle of piss.

Had Black had the page open on that story - on those photographs - in order to gloat? Was he looking at pictures of Lily and remembering how sweet it was to murder her? To take her life - her light - and snuff it out forever, take her away from Severus and leave him alone in the dark without any hope of love? Had he made himself happy, in this hellish prison, remembering killing Lily?

He couldn't breathe, the blood was pounding in his ears, deafening him and he was blinded with his rage.

...

And then Dawlish returned - he was vaguely aware of a muttered conversation. But whatever they were talking about seemed of little importance now.

'The Dangerous Beast lot were here four days ago,' Dawlish was muttering to Proudfoot. 'Setting up for the execution. The Minister herself came to watch over preparations. She asked to visit the pair of them - separately, of course. The beast first and then Black. The guard - ' he shuddered, 'the guard says Bagnold gave Black her newspaper…' There was a pause and then, 'what's wrong with Snape?' he asked curiously.

'He just went … mental. Dunno what's wrong - he was looking at this. Page 17.'

There was a limp rustle of wet pages, as Proudfoot showed Dawlish the paper.

'Pettigrew and the Potters!' Dawlish read. 'Peter Pettigrew to meet little Harry Potter - I'm the only family he has left…' There was another pause. 'So?' he sounded nonplussed.

...

But his words had cut through the maddened fog in Severus' brain, and he turned around - seeing them both standing there looking utterly confused. 'Give me that,' he snapped, snatching the paper back. His eyes scanned over the full article - taking in, for the first time, everything on the page that was not Lily. His heart began to slow, his breathing began to calm … and he was struck with great, shining clarity.

Lily had not been Black's interest in this story.

...

'We need to go,' he said marching towards the door - ignoring the even more confused expressions of the two witless aurors.

'What?'

'I know where he's going.'

'Where?'

'He's going to finish what he started. He's going to kill the last of the Potters.'


Remus hadn't moved from the spot he had collapsed in when Snape had left. He wasn't sure he would have regained the strength to move again before it was time for him to die. Every inch of him was in agony - it felt like red, hot pincers pinching at him from the inside. Everything stung, everything hurt - felt raw and fragile … burning pins and needles stabbing into him.

And then there was his wrist. That was … it would hurt less to just amputate his arm at the elbow. Such a move would come as a welcome relief right now. If the rest of his skin stung like a hundred sharp knives digging into him, then his wrist was like a thousand red hot wires being applied directly to his flesh - being pressed on so hard that they dug deep in, biting teeth cutting through to the bone. It stung. It throbbed. It ached.

...

He was in too much pain to even notice the misery of the dementors. They couldn't suck the pain out of him - more's the pity. So he had to suffer its full effects. And suffering he was.

If he turned his head slightly then he could see his arm - see what they had done to it.

There was a bright red welt, about three inches wide, that ran the entire circumference of his wrist. The skin had buckled and melted and giant blisters were raised up, pulsating - and disfiguring him. The wound oozed - yellow pus and the white liquid from inside the blisters that had already popped running up his arm. Shreds of skin hung loose ...raw and ragged.

It smelled bad.

The whole thing made him want to be sick. Just looking at it turned his stomach and - empty though it was - he had to fight the urge not to throw up.

...

And yet it felt far worse than it looked. For all it was vile and stinking and repulsive, so awful no one could bear to look at it, no one who saw it could ever begin to fathom just how much worse it felt.

If he had thought his previous scars were ugly …

...

He would be worrying about it going bad - about it getting infected but … he would be dead soon enough. It did not really matter what happened to his wrist, when he thought about what was soon to happen to his head … And with this much pain, he now thought of his transformation and subsequent execution as a blessing. Anything to put a stop to this - to put him beyond the reach of anyone else who would hurt him.

Death was starting to look very much like the easy way out.


Peter was all packed up, once again - and ready to go. He didn't care what people thought - what they said, if they suspected … He knew full well that Sirius had broken out of Azkaban to come after him. What else would he want? There was nothing else out in the world for Sirius - James was dead, Remus was still in prison, Harry was with the Dursleys. So what was his sudden reason for breaking loose?

He was hell bent on revenge - that's what! Half mad with anger and turned savage by the dementors, Peter didn't doubt - and seeking some kind of showdown. And Peter was not going to be around to have it. No - he was back to his original plan, from when he had first heard his erstwhile friends were captured. He was going to flee.

All the sponge cakes in all the world were not going to be enough to get him to risk facing an enraged Padfoot.

...

Merlin alone only knew how he'd broken out of jail. He must have dark powers beyond anything Peter had ever realised - must have learned them from … He shook his head, he was forgetting. Sirius wasn't really the spy. He had learned nothing from You Know Who. Never even met the Dark Lord, as far as Peter knew … But still, Peter was not sticking around to see him again.

...

Once Rita had left, it had taken him a good few hours to get over his fright. He had sat still and quivering, clutching his heart and trying not to have a panic attack. Needless to say, he had never made it into the office.

Around noon he had finally got a hold of enough of his wits to start making plans - and since then had been racing around, madly packing up everything he might possibly need for his new life on the run. If only he could remember how to conjure a moustache...

...

His trunks and suitcases were now stacked up in the living room; robes and parchment and the last of the scones all spilling out of them. He flicked his wand, bewitching the luggage to make it feather-light, and gathered it all together under one arm. Then he raised his wand again, preparing to apparate - when he was suddenly frightened out of his wits, once again, by three loud popping noises.

And then he felt a strong hand grip his upper arm. He looked down at it - and then up into the sneering face of Severus Snape.

...

'Going somewhere, Peter?' Snape asked him - there was a leer in his voice, and Peter could see every one of his yellow teeth.

'I - um - uh,' he gulped, couldn't get his words out, and ended up just squeaking in fright.

Snape grinned nastily. 'I'm guessing you've worked out why Black has escaped, as well. Am I right?'

'I- I mean … well…'

'He's going to kill Potter's brat.'

Peter felt himself deflate with relief. 'He is?'

'Of course.' Snape let go of his arm, 'and he's going to do it at your silly, little, fame hungry meet and greet… that's why you're running - isn't it?'

'Oh - y- yes … yes. Of course. Don't want to … Don't want Black to come near - near me.'

...

But that only made Snape grin nastily once again. 'Well, unfortunately, Pettigrew - you're not getting a choice.'

'Well - surely the meet and greet can't go ahead?'

'Of course it must go ahead! He's bound to show - and that is where we'll catch him. We're setting a trap and you,' he prodded Peter in the chest with a bony finger, 'are the bait.'

'Me?' His voice was so high pitched it was a surprise the men in the room could hear him. 'Se - Severus, is that wise? Black is - well he's mad. Dangerous.'

'Dangerous he certainly is. Mad he may well be - but he's also only broken out of prison because he read your story in the paper. Without your stupidity he would still be safely locked up where he belongs. So you …' he gave another prod with his bony finger, 'are going to do some damage limitation, help with the clear up. And if you fail … Well, we'll see if we can't find a nice cell in Azkaban for you along with your old pals. A little friendly reunion just before the wolf gets its head chopped off.'

'I - I … whatever you want, Severus.' He could feel the sweat pouring from his brow. 'I'll do whatever you ask - what - what do I have to do?' He licked his lips, nervously, tasting the salt of his own perspiration. His heart was beating so fast in his chest it felt like he was in his rat form.

'Nothing,' Snape told him. 'Just do what you were going to do anyway - go ahead as planned. And we'll sort the rest.'

'Ye - yes.'

'Oh - and Peter -' he raked his eyes over the luggage, 'no attempting to run. Proudfoot - why don't you help Pettigrew, here, unpack?'

...

Peter swallowed, as one of the aurors walked towards him and began to take the luggage.

'This - this way,' Peter gasped, pointing to the stairs, clutching at his heart and trying to pretend that he was nowhere near as frightened as he was.

...

As he followed Proudfoot up the stairs, he overheard Snape talking to the other auror: 'I want a guard on him at all times. He doesn't sleep or go to the bathroom alone. The cowardly, little rat will run if he gets half a chance - and we need him if our trap is to be sprung.'

Peter felt his heart sink inside his chest, like a leaden weight. He may not yet be in trouble - but he was already living like he was under arrest.


Sirius limped into London just as the sun was beginning to set. In the busy muggle streets he transformed back into a man - thinking he would attract less attention as a human than as a stray dog running down the road. London was too busy by far for any one to spot him and know who he was.

...

Although it had been a grey and damp day and although it was still drizzling - the dying rays of the sun caused the sky to light up like it was on fire, bright orange and crimson glowing above him in the heavens. And - after Azkaban - he stopped and looked up, just to appreciate the colour.

But he couldn't stand here and take in the wonder of the world - not when Remus was still locked away in prison. It was unfair for him to enjoy anything out here, while Moony was still trapped in that dreadful place. And he wanted to get hold of a copy of the evening edition of the Prophet. He needed to get moving. As safe as he was, hidden among the muggles, he needed to head into Diagon Alley, even if just to swipe a paper.

...

Without his wand, he could not apparate there. But his feet were sore and he was tired and time was running short. It would be fully dark soon. So he hopped a ticket barrier at the muggle underground and caught the tube to Tottenham Court Road.

What would have been another hours walk - at least - only took a matter of minutes. The train arrived at the platform in under a minute, and the journey through the tunnels was quick. He was impressed. Like with the air raid shelter, he found himself thinking that wizards never really gave muggles enough credit for all they could do. Building tunnels and putting trains underground - with no magic to help clear the earth - was an amazing feat of engineering. Made even more amazing by the fact that it was already over a hundred years old. Gringotts were still using rickety little carts to get around beneath the earth.

...

When he got to his station, he hopped the barrier again and - as he heard a guard start to yell at him - transformed back into Padfoot. It was safer to be a dog this close to the wizarding world anyway.

He couldn't get into Diagon Alley through the Leaky Cauldron, of course - not as a dog, and certainly not as Sirius Black - so he would have to get in there the back way: through Knockturn Alley.

...

He crept down the twisty street, past Borgin and Burkes, and skirted a witch with mossy teeth; who seemed to be selling human fingernails from a tray. He could stink the musty smell of wolves down here - though the humans might not pick up on the scent. Greyback's wolfpack lived not far from here. Remus had had to live rough on these streets when he had infiltrated them … and a cell in Azkaban and a death sentence was all the thanks he got for that hardship.

Padfoot kept his head down. Remus may be the most wonderful man he had ever known, but the same could not be said for his "brothers" - and Sirius was not eager to attract the attention of the other werewolves … They might take the presence of a large dog as a threat to their territory.

...

Just as the last of the sun died in the sky - and the stars came out, Padfoot reached the turning that took him into Diagon Alley. Gringotts was visible at the end of the road, snowy white and massive.

The shops were starting to close up. Slug and Jigger's Apothecary already had its shutters down. Right next to it, Mulpepper himself was taking in the trays of polyjuice potion that he had on sale right now at his own rival apothecaries. Madam Malkin was visible through the windows of her shop - switching off the lamps.

The street was emptying out - witches and wizards headed back for the Leaky Cauldron and then home … One wizard stood in the middle of the street, a bundle of newspapers in his arms - trying to sell them to the passersby. 'Read all about it! Black escapes from Azkaban! Read all about it!' He yelled.

...

Sirius felt his heart sink. So they did know already. Not that it was unexpected … but it did make his job harder. He waited until the paper vendor was distracted, selling a copy of the paper to a short witch with bright red hair and a gaggle of red headed children surrounding her, and swiped a copy of his own from the pile.

Then, with the paper in his mouth, he ran back down the street, back through Knockturn Alley and back out into muggle London, where he became Sirius once more - and found a quiet bridge to spend the night under, read the paper and find out what they were saying about him.