Written for Camp Hogwarts, the July Writing Club and the Spring Seasonal Challenges of the same forum.
Disclaimer: Refer to chapter one, please.
Chapter warnings: angst? Yes, angst.
Word count (chapter): 6073 words
I've been told that this chapter is 'heart-wrenchingly beautiful'. I still hope I did this justice. Enjoy!
One brick at a time we watched it fall
I'm broken here tonight and darling, no one else can fix me
1.5 - In Reunion
His eyes have been on the map for more than an hour, but he still can't believe what he's seeing. This is absolutely ludicrous. He must be imagining things.
Maybe the constant lack of sleep is causing him hallucinations.
There can be no other explanation for why he's been seeing Peter Pettigrew's name on the Marauder's Map. And why, right now, Sirius Black is shown to be within three feet of this supposedly dead man, in the Shrieking Shack, of all places. And why thirteen year old Ron Weasley is right there with him, in the exact same position for the past six minutes.
It's inconceivable, that's what it is. This is his mind playing tricks on him. This is him paying for all his past sins. This is him being pulled into a fantasy of what-ifs, only for it to shatter into yet another fruitless nightmare.
This is the most bizarre delusion his mind has ever come up with.
Unless—unless this is all true. The Marauder's Map never lies, after all. He's calibrated the spells and runes for this piece of parchment himself, and as little faith he has in himself, his knowledge and accuracy of magic is the one thing he has learned to never doubt. With his role as babysitter for James and Sirius' wild prank experiments, precision has practically been part of his job qualifications.
Sirius.
That's Sirius, right there, a tiny footprint on a decades old map. And there's Sirius, but a few miles away from him, alive and real and in the flesh. Sirius is out there, so close, within reach. And apparently, standing close enough to Peter to seemingly be choking him.
Peter.
Is it true? Is his old friend really alive? Where has he been all this time? How is this possible?
Harry had mentioned something about seeing a dead man walking the halls on this very map. He'd thought it to be a figment of his imagination at the time, or maybe a product of the boy's insomnia. It's obvious that something has been troubling Harry lately, something that isn't letting the boy sleep well. He wants to help his cub, but he doesn't know how. He can't seem to cure his own sleeplessness, what will he do for Harry?
But Harry seems to be right. He's himself seeinga dead man's footprints on the grounds of Hogwarts, and he cannot possibly write off this ridiculous declaration as a product of a thirteen year old sugar rush, even if he was foolish enough to doubt Harry in the first place.
Peter. It's Peter. Peter's alive.
He sits back to think, and the pieces fall into place.
The growing distance. All the times Peter didn't show up. The lies, the excuses. All the quiet digs at Sirius, subtle enough to almost go unnoticed. The confrontation with Sirius—the single brave thing, the only brave thing Peter had done in his whole entire life. The single cut-off finger found as evidence. His Animagus form. Ron Weasley's constant complaints of his missing rat, vocal enough to be known by everyone in the school.
"Shit."
He snatches up the map and throws himself out his desk, grabbing his wand where it lays amongst the clutter of paper and quills. He knocks something heavy over in his haste—the simple grey chalice he hasn't paid mind to for the past hour—but he doesn't care. He's out the door before the steaming cup crashes fully to the floor.
He has never run so fast in his life. He sprints towards the Whomping Willow like a madman, thankful that he doesn't encounter any students along the way. The map is bunched in his sweaty hand, crinkling the old parchment. He has never handled this precious map so callously before, but he cannot bring himself to care.
He's stumbling out the main gates of the castle, dashing across the grounds. The night is heavy and dark, but he doesn't spare it a glance. His mind is churning, evaluating, coming to terms with his new revelations, but at the forefront of his thoughts, all he can comprehend is SiriusSiriusPeterSirius.
He reaches the Whomping Willow in record time, and dodges the drunkenly moving branches expertly, not bothering with the fiddling required to cast an Immobulus. He presses at the hidden knot at the base with practiced ease, and he's pushed himself through the hidden hole before the branches fully stop moving.
Shoving the map into an inner pocket, he scrambles through the tunnel.
SiriusSiriusPeterSirius.
He doesn't know what to feel.
Sirius' innocence has finally, finally been confirmed to him—he's been pulled in a constant state of back and forth ever since he had first seen that haunted face in the paper, and the flood of relief he feels is overwhelming in its strength. Every time he's felt relatively secure in his belief of Sirius' innocence, another event would come to light, casting him into doubt yet again. He's at the point where he just needs an answer, where he's been rendered insane with his inability to come to a conclusion, and being hit with this revelation is liberating.
He's been in love with a mass murderer for twelve years, and it's nice to let go of guilt that comes with it.
And Peter. He's thought Peter dead for twelve years, and now he's here. It feels like a miracle, and he's torn between rejoicing for the return of his old friend and restraining himself from wanting to ship the rat back to the land of the dead. Horror pries him open like a knife, and the betrayal burns him, right to his core. He can feel his self-control slipping, and he hasn't even seen the two-timing rat yet.
He's had twelve years of experience battling with betrayal, and yet, this feels like his first fight.
How will he react, seeing Sirius again after all this time? What will it be that consumes him? Anger? Betrayal? Regret? Fear?
SiriusSiriusPeterSirius.
He's tired, yet so, so alive. His mind is confused, but his body is already anticipating seeing Sirius again. He's running, racing, the fastest he ever has in his life.
"Where's your head at, Rem? Thinking up new genius pranks for us, I hope."
He wants to see Sirius.
"Moony, darling, I adore you."
He needs to see Sirius.
"Hah! One day people will be calling you Professor Lupin, and when they do, I'll be standing right there beside you going 'I told you so'. I'll say it as loudly as I can and rub it in your face, and for once you'll get to see what it's like to be on the other side of that sentence."
Rock, dirt, rock, dirt—he barely registers anything around him. He wants to hear Sirius say 'I told you so'. He was a fool to ever doubt a vow made by Sirius. He's been a fool to ever doubt Sirius. He's running, running, just to hear his voice again.
"They'll see who you are soon, I promise you this. I will make sure of it. I will fight for you to my last breath."
He feels like he's flying. Are his feet even hitting the ground? Will he ever run out of breath? He feels invincible again—he's riding the same high as on their last night at Hogwarts, right before they crashed and burned.
The tunnel seems unending, but knows that he's nearing its end. Only a few feet more, and he'll reach the trapdoor.
"Remus Lupin, you're the most precious possession I own, and I'd be a fool to ever let you go. You own my heart, love—but do I own yours?"
The trapdoor flies open with a loud creak. It isn't as silent as he'd like—he's a force of barely restrained energy, and he isn't in a position to temper his strength. Sirius knows this condemned shack like the back of his hand—much better than him, since he hadn't fancied the idea of exploring what was meant to be his cage— and he doesn't want Sirius to startle and escape.
He stills for a moment—a moment is all he can spare—but there is nothing to be heard. Either his disturbance has gone unheard, or Sirius is making his escape quietly without his knowledge. He doesn't bother waiting to find out.
SiriusSiriusPeterSirius.
He doesn't look around, doesn't think—he scrambles up the rickety steps two at a time, avoiding the creaky ones by muscle memory. He doesn't need to search the ramshackle house to know that if Sirius came here of his own accord, he'd be nowhere else but up in the bedroom.
He hates everything about this place, but that little six by six bedroom is filled with good memories. Sirius and James had commandeered that room for him to recover in until morning, cleaning out the room for him to use, taking the time to decorate it, and he cannot recall the number of conversations he's had with Sirius there, all those little talks that eventually built and deepened their relationship. If there's any place he'd find Sirius now, this would be it.
"Told you the Animagi forms would work. You really should listen to me once in a while, Rem."
He's up the last step, onto the landing, heading down the narrow corridor to the very last door.
"Didn't I promise you that I'd fix your furry little problem? I always deliver on my promises, Rem, admit it. And… you can thank me anytime."
He's so close. Just a few steps away.
"We revolve around each other, Rem. I'll always find my way back to you. Always."
The door is closed. He pushes it open.
SiriusSiriusPeterSiriusSirius.
Sirius.
He's there, right there, right within touching distance. His back is to him, and all he can see is a tangled mess of unkempt black hair and torn, ripped, blood-matted, disgustingly dirty clothes, hanging like a tent off his person.
It's Sirius.
The man before him then turns towards him, and he stumbles in the doorway, right where he stands.
This isn't Sirius.
He's… barely human, this man before him. He's a skeleton—so thin, that every rib and bone could be mapped across his body with just a glance. His state of his clothes is even worse up from the front, and they make the ash grey of his skin stand out with unhealthy pallor. His hair cannot even be called hair—it's worse than James' own untamed nest after his worst hangover. It's so much longer, so much more entangled, so much grittier, so much duller. Everything about this man is dull, faded—half-dead.
This man before him is completely unrecognisable, barely a shell of a man—the tent-like clothes keep swaying slightly, and he realises with a start that this person is still unsteady on his feet. He's moving like a drunkard, like he's been drugged, and even with how horrifying this scene before him is, this isn't what scares him.
No, it's the madness which does. There's madness everywhere, it's written all over him. In his stance, his spasming hands, the uneven stubble on his face, the hollow sunkenness of his bloodless cheeks, the almost unnoticeable twitching at the left corner of his mouth. It's in his eyes—his irises are completely swallowed up by his pupils, barely a hint of familiar silver to be seen. His eyes are black, a deep onyx, and there's madness bred in its depths.
It terrifies him.
This man—this man is unhinged. This isn't his Sirius.
The man recognises him, and his hand, just as unsteady as his footing, lowers it's wand with a jerk. He shifts his feet, and his dilated eyes widen in shock. He blinks, and blinks again, then opens his mouth.
"Remus."
His name sounds foreign, voiced from those cracked lips. The voice has no trace of its familiar smooth velvet, of its usual captivating suaveness. Sirius' voice used to be his magnet, that posh charm both extravagant and enticing. His voice had been the embodiment of his natural charisma, and now, it is perfectly reflective of the harshness of this unrecognisable state—more so that his current look.
"Remus."
His name, it's growled again. That voice is harsh, grating, damaged. Torn. His mind instantly flashes back to twelve years ago, screaming at the very edge of sea, and hearing those tortured cries in return. He remembers that first dark night, when he thought he'd heard Sirius scream, over and over, and those three nights that followed it.
He isn't oblivious to the reason behind this man's damaged vocal chords, and it tears him apart.
"You doubt my charm, Rem? I'll have you know, I'm a master at this. I have a natural swagger."
And it was true. He'd been a natural charmer, but Azkaban has spared none of that charm in this man.
This isn't his Sirius.
"You're back," he states, because he doesn't know what else to say to this stranger. "You're late."
The man shifts his feet again, swaying where he stands. The wand almost slips from his hand, but he catches himself in time.
He's braced himself to see something like this, he's prepared himself for this sight ever since he'd seen that damned picture in the paper nearly a year ago. But standing here, he realises that he's never truly been ready, and the sheer strangeness of this scene still hits him square in the chest.
He's been selfish, all these years. He's been selfish to think that he's the only one broken. He's been so consumed by his own betrayal, his own hurt, that he never really put a thought to Sirius' own state.
Guilt strikes him like a punch to the gut.
But then the man before him smiles, and the harsh buzzing of his racing thoughts ebbs away into numbing silence. This man is smiling, he's smiling at him. There's madness in his smile too, like all else—there's yellow in his teeth and dirt between his gums, but that smile—it's familiar. Just like old times. It softens his eyes too, and that familiar crinkle shows itself at the corners.
This really is his Sirius.
"Miss me?" Sirius asks with that perfect smile, and he—he can't help himself. Sirius opens his thin arms slowly, but he's already rushing into them. They come together in an embrace—Sirius feels just as grimy and dirty as he looks, and he smells like the devil, but he doesn't care, he can't bring himself to bother. This is Sirius, his Sirius, here and reachable and tangible and here.
Sirius' arms, thin and weak as they are, close around him with a fierce tightness that could only be from sheer stubbornness. He takes care not to crush him as he buries his face in the familiar curve of that neck. Sirius is shaking, but he holds on tight, and he hugs back just as hard. Merlin, he's missed this.
This hug is very different from the many ones they've had before, so unfamiliar—the planes of their shapes are different, their bodies don't fit together the way they did before. But yet, this is just so familiar—the tenderness, the desperation—and he can't get over it.
This feels like a miracle.
"Told you I'd find my way back, Rem," is what's whispered in his ear—the same words he's been dreamt being said for twelve years. A rougher voice, a harsher voice, but the very same.
"Yes, you did," he replies, because that's all he has. He can feel a single hot tear tracing down his cheek, soaking into the skin of Sirius' exposed neck, but neither say anything about it.
"Always keep my promises, darling."
He laughs wetly. Even when Sirius should rightfully be incapable of being smooth, he still finds a way to get his heart fluttering. It's just like him, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
This moment is perfect, magical.
Then comes the yelling.
He startles, shocked. He'd almost forgotten that they aren't alone, but the jarring shouts are a stark reminder that they have company.
Peter.
But no, it isn't Peter. In fact, Peter Pettigrew is nowhere to be found. What he finds instead are three thirteen year olds, two looking terrified out of their minds, the third angry enough to look like he's lost his.
Oh, right. He'd forgotten about Ron. He's such a terrible teacher.
And apparently, both Harry and Hermione have now joined the Weasley kid here. He doesn't know when exactly they'd arrived—he certainly hadn't seen Harry anywhere within ten feet on the map when he'd last checked, so they must have gotten here during his mad dash to the tunnel.
Ron's leg looks to be sprained, maybe broken; Hermione is cowering in the corner closest to him. And Harry, Harry's doing most of the yelling, more furious than he had ever seen. He can make out short phrases through the clouded haze that is his mind, words like "you murderer!" and "killed my parents!" filtering through to his consciousness.
"This can't actually be happening," Ron says faintly, and Harry shuts up for a millisecond to process the statement, before his yelling starts up again.
Sirius is silent next to him, his shaking getting more and more erratic, and he's finally had enough. Harry deserves to know the truth, and the faster they get through this, the quicker he gets to check over Scabbers.
Now that he's seen how far Sirius has spiralled, he wants nothing more than revenge. He's used to pain, and he deserves every iota of it on himself for being the monster he is, but he can't bear to see Sirius suffer with him.
He has never been so ready to kill someone in his life.
It goes well. Harry starts to understand, he can see it in his cub's green eyes. The boy is so much like Lily, for all he looks like James. He has her quick, analytical mind, and he seems to be putting it to good use, putting the pieces together. Harry is their perfect legacy, and he's proud of how his cub has turned out, even though he has had no part in his life before now.
Hermione—well she's the smartest witch of her age for a reason. She's apparently known about his furry problem for months already, and as shocked as he is, he isn't really surprised. He's grateful to her for keeping an open mind, though, and he wishes he can tell her that. This young girl is more understanding that witches and wizards thrice her age.
Ron looks confused, but the poor boy seems out of it. He must be in too much pain to fully comprehend the details of their conversation. When they get out of this mess, the first thing he'll get Sirius to do is apologise to young Weasley, because there's no doubt that this has been Sirius' fault, however accidentally.
Sirius. He's standing right next to Sirius. He can't believe Sirius is here with him tonight. When he started out his day today, he never imagined this.
He reaches out next to him, lets his hand brush Sirius' fingers. He touches him because he can, because he wants to, because he hasn't been able to touch this man for twelve years, and he's finally getting a chance.
Hermione glances towards their hands, nearly hidden by Sirius' loose robes—but not well enough, if she's noticed. She looks right at him, right into his eyes, and he's once again faced with the feeling that this young woman is one day going to do great things.
They look to be understanding. Harry's finally calmed down, Hermione narrows her eyes calculatedly and Ron's stopped chanting "bloody hell" with such worrying repetitiveness. They're starting to come around.
Sirius is beside him, as tense with anticipation as he is.
And that's when Severus Snape bursts in.
The man startles them all, throwing the door open with enough force to ricochet right off the cracked wall. He rushes in with a swirl of black robes, wand blazing, and throws himself before the three children.
He's thrown off his game, and Sirius isn't faring any better. Sirius has his teeth gritted, baring them at Severus, and yes, this is perfect. This is just what they need. He's been waiting for an answer for twelve years; how many more setbacks will they face?
"Why do you stick up for him, Rem? You're too nice, honestly, That's greasy git is a walking magnet for bad luck. I swear, Snivellous spoils everything."
He usually never agrees with Sirius' old assessment, but he's right near murderous now, and recounting their whole sorry tale to three teenagers hasn't been helping his seething rage. Of course Severus has to barge in right at this moment.
But they handle it. Things get dramatic when Severus disarms him and Sirius, spitting and yelling vengeance all the while. The man moves towards the old door, cracked down the middle with the force with which it had banged shut, and blocks their means of escape. But Harry—cunning, smart, perfect Harry—disarms Severus right back, and Stuns him for good measure.
He spies movement from the corner, and he sees Hermione lower her wand. He's surprised. The girl is notorious in her respect for authority figures, and for her to even raise her wand against a teacher—any teacher—is indicative of a truly major change of heart.
They're back on track. Ron catches Scabbers by his tail, right as the little rat is about to scuttle away. Hermione's Kneazle cat is doing a fantastic job playing bodyguard, and he'd be smiling at the scene if he isn't so consumed with rage at the sight of that—that rat.
The cards are on the table now. He gets a good glimpse of the missing toe as he takes the frantic rat from Ron and sets it on the floor, right between him and Sirius. He knows that this is Peter—the rat's form looks so familiar, now that he sees it with new eyes—but seeing is believing. He needs to be certain.
He hasn't even let go of the creature yet, but Sirius already has his wand up and pressed into its nose. There's utter insanity in his eyes, and the intensity terrifies him. He shudders. Is Sirius going to kill Peter before they even get answers? Is he going to commit the very crime he was wrongly imprisoned for?
"I'll protect all of you. You, James, Lily, Harry, Peter. I'll protect all of you with my life, Rem, and if someone makes it past me without killing me first, I'll search for them and hunt them down till I get to watch the blood pour out their skulls. I'll do anything to keep you safe."
He can't let Sirius fulfil this promise. Not yet.
Luckily, Harry stops them first.
"Wait!" Harry says, and Sirius listens. He's been waiting for this moment for twelve vengeful years of his life, but he listens.
"Promise me you won't kill him."
"Why?" Sirius rasps back, but he's still listening.
"You say you're not a murderer. Don't start now."
Sirius stares at Harry, then turns to look at him in complete shock, silently asking him what his reaction should be.
He doesn't give back any ideas. This needs to be Sirius' decision. He tries to say this with his eyes, but he doesn't know how well it's being conveyed. He's years out of practice.
But Sirius gets it, because he smiles that same little smile he'd have when they'd sneak out at midnight all through seventh year, making silent conversation with their eyes. They are twelve years out of practice, but they've started back up like a well-oiled machine, and he relishes their harmony.
Sirius turns back to Harry, and he's now talking to his godson. "Harry," he says, his voice even rougher with underlying meaning, "you don't understand. You don't understand. He killed them. He killed James, Lily. He's responsible for so many deaths. He killed those twelve Muggles. He needs to go."
He holds on to the wiggling rat even tighter. He doesn't know how it's possible, but the murdering rodent is getting even more frantic in his hands.
"Which is why he shouldn't be killed yet," Harry replies, "what happens if he's dead? We need him to confess to Fudge."
Sirius doesn't look like he agrees, but he heeds his godson's logic. Some of the madness fades from those dark eyes, and it instantly brings him relief.
"What should we do?" Sirius asks quietly, and that voice is still unrecognisable, but it has more of the steady calmness that always brings him that long-old feeling of safety. Sirius looks and sounds less unhinged already, and he finally lets himself hope that the toll Azkaban has taken on him could be somehow reversed.
Sirius is redeemable. He isn't lost to the madness yet.
Hermione pipes up from the corner, "Switch him back to his human form, and we'll bind him and take him to Minister Fudge."
He's getting impatient. He wants to see Peter.
"Why don't we get this rat transformed first?" he says, "I want to see Peter."
There's a sharp intake of breath to his side, and when he turns, he sees Harry's bright eyes narrowed, his fists clenched. "Yes, do that."
Hermione is staring at the rat fixedly, as if willing it to change form with her mind alone. Ron looks disbelieving, but he's completely silent, not moving an inch.
He turns back to Sirius, and Sirius is restless. "We'll have to force him to show himself. Peter won't transform of his own accord."
Sirius' nostrils flare, and he can see restless energy ripple across thin grey skin at the very mention of Peter's name.
"Together?" Sirius asks lowly, and there's fire in those black pupils.
"Together forever, remember?"
"Is there any doubt?" he replies. "Yes."
Sirius grins madly, and the rat in his hands is squirming, squeaking. Even Scabbers' tiny brain can comprehend that the crazy grin on Sirius Black's stretched lips is a promise of death.
They point their wands at the frantic grey creature, and in perfect harmony, two bursts of blue-white light shoot out their wands. The two jets of light hit the rat at the exact same time, from opposing directions, and the rat is silhouetted now, completely enveloped in white light.
It shoots up, frozen in midair as directed by their wands, and the silhouette grows bigger and bigger, until it takes the shape of a man.
This is it.
He's watching a dead man transform right before his eyes, and more than ever, this feels like a miracle. Then he sees the man, really sees him, and he changes his mind.
"I don't need a miracle," he scoffs quietly to himself. Nobody notices.
Peter Pettigrew crashes to the floor as the light fades with a quick flash. He looks different, unfamiliar. He hardly has any hair left, his front two teeth appear to have grown out over his bottom lip, his watery eyes are more black than blue, and his skin sags from his face with the look of a man who's lost weight far too rapidly to be healthy.
Peter is broken, just like them. Peter deserves it.
Peter.
That's his old friend, right there, snivelling and cowering and wringing his hands on the floor. He looks into the face of his old friend, and betrayal cuts right through his heart. It stings his eyes, it burns his neck, it pierces the indentations where his wand meets his palm. It guts his stomach, and he wants to throw up. He's mourned for this man, and every tear he's shed over this vermin is now just salt in the wound.
"Well, hello, Peter," he says calmly, too calmly. He's shaking all over, but doesn't want it shown. "I haven't seen you in so long."
Sirius is—Sirius looks mad.
"S—Sirius… R—Remus," Pettigrew's squeaky voice stutters. "My friends… my old friends…"
Sirius' wand arm jerks towards the cowering fool, but he stops him from casting anything. He wants to hear what Pettigrew says.
It isn't satisfying.
Pettigrew is simpering, twitching, pleading with each one of them. The pleading begins with him, then moves to Sirius. Pettigrew's mouth is moving, forming words, but none of them have any value. There's just mindless begging, for them to spare the life of their "old friend."
He's furious.
He's angry enough when the sycophant lays his filthy hand on Ron Weasley's broken leg. The poor boy looks the epitome of horrified, and he snatches away his leg immediately, even with how much it must pain him to do so. But then Pettigrew moves towards Harry and Hermione, and he's had enough.
"Incarcerous," he casts silently, and Pettigrew is bound with thin cords. He puts more magic into the spell, and it makes the cords razor thin, while maintaining its strength and tensility. He makes sure to pull the cords together just a bit too tight, and Pettigrew grimaces.
There. That felt good.
Sirius' eyes still burn, unsatisfied, but he turns towards him with a grin.
"Would've done it at the start," he says scratchily, "but someone stopped me."
He rolls his eyes. Only Sirius would try to joke in this state.
This really is his Sirius.
They're deciding what to do with the rat. Sirius wants to go for the kill here and now. Harry disagrees.
"Sirius," he whispers quietly, "Harry has as much right as us to have a say in this."
"He's a murderer," Sirius says again. "He betrayed us all."
"All the more reason to leave him to the Dementors," is what Harry replies, and his head instantly jerks up of its own accord. Is he hearing things?
Next to him, Sirius looks just as startled. Harry stares back at them, chin jet, eyes burning. Defiant. Vindictive.
He likes the way this boy's mind works. He looks exactly like James, but he has so much of Lily, and it's utterly fascinating.
"You know firsthand, what it's like in Azkaban," Harry follows up. "Do you think it is a fitting punishment?" Sirius doesn't reply. "Let the dementors take care of him."
Sirius listens.
He's proud of Sirius. He's proud of Harry. He's proud of his own restraint.
They make preparations to walk back up to the castle. The first thing he does is bandage up Ron's bad leg, tied to a conjured splint—it is a long walk back, and he cannot bear to let this brave young thirteen year old suffer more pain. He knows what walking on a broken leg feels like, and the experience isn't pretty.
They each assign themselves tasks for the way. They need to both watch Pettigrew, to make sure he doesn't transform back and escape, and transport Severus, who is still laid out cold on the floor. Sirius offers to levitate the unconscious man, but he refuses to let him do it. Sirius looks disappointed, but agrees with an affronted scoff.
This isn't the time for petty revenge, and he has no doubt that Sirius will use this opportunity to bump Severus' form into as many hard surfaces as he possibly can.
They come up with a plan. He levitates Severus out himself, and he's the first out into the tunnel. Behind him follows Ron, with Hermione supporting him, and as he turns back to check on them, he can see the pride in their eyes that they've been tasked with shepherding Pettigrew back to the castle. Ron, particularly, looks vindictive, jabbing his wand harshly into his former pet rat's back at far too frequent intervals.
Sirius and Harry bring up the rear of their odd little procession. He's assigned Harry to looking after Sirius—make sure he doesn't fall over himself, Harry, he looks like he could drop any second—and Sirius' disgruntled face had been funny, in a horrific sort of way—the wild, matted hair and ghastly gaunt features certainly didn't do him any wonders.
But then his eyes had widened, the silver ring around his dark pupils sparkling with sudden comprehension, and the wonderingly grateful look sent his way at being given some alone time with his godson was all Sirius. His Sirius.
He reaches the end of the tunnel, and he sees the barest sliver of silver light through the slit of the Whomping Willow's roots. His wand is occupied, levitating Severus, and he doesn't want to put the man down on the pebbled dirt. He bends down, reaching for the nearest large stone, and tests that it has enough weight. He throws it at the gnarled knot, nestled at the very base of the tree, and it hits its target in a perfect bull's eye.
He's out of practice, but he's still got it.
He climbs out, Severus' limp body hovering before him, and he instantly sets the man down on the grass, far enough out of reach of the Willow's branches. The night is dark, heavy, not a star in sight. The cloudy black makes the treeline of the Forbidden Forest look oppressive, and the grounds are deathly quiet.
He finds it perfect.
Sirius is back. He's here, at Hogwarts, and soon, he'll be a free man. Their life together can continue where it was paused, and everything will go on in calming consistence.
Ron, Hermione and Pettigrew come out next, and Ron immediately pushes his wand into Pettigrew's back again, steering him towards the castle. He laughs quietly at the boy's impatience, and Hermione is halting her friend by her hold on his arm with a soft chant of slow down, Ron! and everything tonight feels like something out of a dream.
Finally, Sirius, then Harry, emerge out of the shadows of the tunnel. He smiles, seeing the two of them together, then does a double-take at the look on Harry's face.
He's seen the boy grin before, but never like this. Harry has never looked so thoroughly, consumingly elated before in the one year he has known him. The boy is wearing an expression of pure joy, looking up at the back of Sirius' head in complete enthrallment.
What had the two of them discussed? What had Sirius said that painted such happiness on Harry's features?
The two of them silently make their way to the edge of a small rise in the uneven ground, and they watch the flickering lights of the castle with unspoken agreement. Sirius says something, and Harry glances at him with a quick grin of awe, and he's reminded of the times he's seen little Harry gesture at Sirius with unconcealed wonderment in his eyes.
Padfoot had always beaten the rest of them, hands down, as little Prongslet's favourite ever adult. And now, twelve years later, their dynamic doesn't seem to have changed a bit.
"And the brave, mighty, dashing lion Padfoot carries the young prince Harry back to safety! Look, Harry, there's the castle! We're gonna make it!"
"Fa'ter, Pa'foo'!"
"I'm carrying you as fast as I can! Harry—Prongslet, don't bounce so hard on Padfoot's back! You don't wanna break Padfoot, do you?"
"Go fa'ter, Pa'foo'!"
They're all fine. Things are going smoothly, and he's ready to wrap up the night's exciting events up at the castle with an equally exhilarating finish.
Then the moon makes its way out behind a thick cloud. The full moon.
His mind instantly flashes to the grey chalice with its spilled contents, rolling on the floor in his office, but it's too late. How did he forget his potion? How could he possibly be so careless?
"He's dangerous! He didn't take his potion!" Hermione is screaming out into the night, and everyone is frozen in place, staring at him.
He tries to gesture with his hands—he wants to tell them to run; run and don't look back—but all he gets out are jagged screams.
And around him, around the sounds of his own carnal growls, everything falls apart.
And so ends the first arc! From the next chapter will begin part two. Tell me your thoughts! I'd love to hear from you, and all the effort you need is to click the comment button and scream at me. I wanna hear all the screams ;p
On a more serious note, I really do hope you guys like this. I've spent a, frankly, ridiculous amount of time and tears trying to get this just right, and it would please me so much to hear from you. Pretty please, with a cherry on top?