With the passing of Christmas and the coming of the new year, the delights of winter definitely began to wear a little thin for Sirius. Snow is all well and good when it is fresh and new, but once the novelty has worn off, one begins to crave the coming of spring, especially when one spends most of one's time out of doors.
The only thing apart from spring that Sirius really looked forward to was the resumption of Gryffindor's Quidditch practices. He was eager to see how Harry would handle his new broom. But in that, he was sorely disappointed. Harry was not riding the Firebolt. Instead, he was using an old broomstick that seemed to have trouble getting up to speed, and listed slightly to the left.
What had gone wrong? Could it be that the house-elves had failed to deliver the gift? Then his heart sank. Someone must have realised who had sent the broom to Harry, and confiscated it. Or perhaps Harry himself had been suspicious, and had turned it in. Sirius sighed at the thought of all those wasted galleons. He hoped he had not frightened the boy too badly.
A new factor also arose following the Christmas holidays, which complicated matters still further for Sirius: the frequent presence of Crookshanks' mistress in Hagrid's hut. Hermione visited Hagrid several nights each week now, helping him prepare a defence for Buckbeak. Sirius thought it would be better for the time being if he avoided being seen by Harry's friends. After all, if Peter thought Sirius was getting too close, he might do something rash.
Once or twice, he was caught unawares, unable to make a timely escape when the girl appeared. On those occasions, he quickly hid himself in the shadows beneath Hagrid's bed. Hagrid, wrapped up in his concern for the unlucky Hippogriff, took no notice of this odd behaviour.
Though hiding under the bed was uncomfortable and inconvenient, it did give him the opportunity to get to know Hermione a little, for which he was glad. The girl was clearly intelligent, but slightly bossy, with a deep-seated belief in playing by the rules.
Her sense of humour doesn't seem to be up to much either, he thought critically. But then, maybe she's just worried about Hagrid.
All in all, she seemed the kind of girl with whom Sirius would have had no patience in his schooldays, but she reminded him more than a little bit of Lily, and that made him smile. He wondered exactly how much like his father Harry was in that respect.
Sirius was still working with Crookshanks whenever he could on a way to get himself into Gryffindor tower, but they had had no luck yet. The great ginger cat was very concerned about the threat the rat might pose to his mistress. The problem of communicating the password was more difficult that Sirius could have guessed. The cat communicated with him primarily in images, of course, but the password was either too abstract or too complicated for Crookshanks to relay it to him. All exercises in this direction ended with both of them utterly frustrated, their fur standing on end.
Also making things difficult was Sirius's state of mind. His Christmas encounters with Remus had broken his ability to concentrate. No matter how hard he thought, or how much he plotted and planned, his mind continually wandered back to those stolen moments.
All right, he thought grimly. If I can't stop bloody thinking about the man, then what about thinking of ways he might help?
The only thing he could think of was to write Remus a letter, explaining everything. He even had Crookshanks bring him parchment and quill to the Shrieking Shack, showing the cat how to still the Whomping Willow by pressing the secret knot, low on its trunk.
But it was no good. He scribbled and scratched and wrote and crossed out, but the words would not come. There was simply too much to tell, his mind too disorganised, and his fingers too disused to holding a quill. How could he hope to explain in a way that Remus would understand - that he would believe? At last, he gave up the exercise in despair.
If only he'd use that damned lock of hair I gave him. That could tell him everything.
Something happened in early February, however, which turned his frustration to fear. He was dozing in front of the fire in Hagrid's hut one morning when he heard a sound of grim satisfaction come from the direction of the table where Hagrid sat, reading the Daily Prophet. Sirius raised his head.
"Listen ter, this, boys," Hagrid said, speaking to the two dogs and the Hippogriff. "The Ministry o' Magic has given the Azkaban guards permission to perform the Dementor's Kiss when they catch that bastard, Sirius Black."
Normally, hearing Hagrid relate the latest news and gossip about himself only amused Sirius. Knowing how badly the hunt was going and how frustrated the Ministry were becoming helped his peace of mind. But this news froze the blood in his veins.
"Serves him righ'," Hagrid was saying grimly. "All them people he killed. An' Lily an' James, an' all!. Still, them Dementors -" He shuddered. "Hard ter believe anyone deserves that."
Sirius had to agree. The Dementor's Kiss was the most extreme form of punishment allowed by the Wizarding judicial system, and was reserved for only the worst criminals. If they had chosen that fate for him, he was as good as dead, unless he could do something to clear his name, and quickly.
The thought of his last conscious moments being surrounded by Dementors while one of them sucked out his soul through his mouth made his stomach twist into knots of dread. He felt trapped in the hut, and the air seemed so stuffy he could hardly breathe. He scratched at the door to be let out.
Once outside, Sirius filled his lungs with the damp February air. He leapt off Hagrid's step and began to run. He ran as if all the Dementors of Azkaban were on his heels, not pausing until he was deep in the Forbidden Forest. At last, he stopped, forcing himself to think clearly.
They'll never find me in this form, he reminded himself. Remus is the only one who knows, and if he hasn't turned me in yet -
But that was nothing to count on. Just because Remus had not yet told anyone that Sirius was an Animagus did not mean he never would.
Then I must make Remus understand sooner rather than later.
He cursed Peter's name between panting breaths. I'll kill him. I'll get the bastard to show himself, and then I'll kill him. Then everyone will see his body, they'll know the truth. Remus will know, and he'll tell Dumbledore, and - and everything will be all right, he thought desperately. Won't it?
But he could not be sure, and for now, he could not trust anyone - at least, not anyone human. All he knew was that he must get into the castle, and soon. Only the truth could save him now.
Sirius barely slept over the next few days. Most of his time was given over to pacing, staring moodily up at the castle, and casting hunted looks over his shoulder as he imagined the Dementors creeping up on him to perform their horrifying Kiss. He wondered how Remus felt about the news, or Harry. He wondered if Peter knew - if he were at this very moment gloating in Gryffindor tower, thinking his secret would soon be safe forever.
I'll kill him, he thought again, savagely. They might take me afterwards, but if I kill him first, it won't matter so much.
But it would matter. It would matter most dreadfully if he lost his soul, and Remus and Harry never understood the truth - never knew that they were still loved.
He watched the students exiting the school and heading toward the Quidditch pitch, wondering if the Dementors would appear again, or if Dumbledore's wrath would keep them at bay. His heart lifted, though, when he caught sight of Harry swooping and diving over the pitch. He could barely see the boy at this distance, but it was clear that he was riding a superior broomstick.
He got it back! Sirius panted with pleasure at the sight.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Crookshanks. The cat held a roll of parchment in his mouth, and wore a very smug expression on his flattened face.
No more write, Sirius thought impatiently at the cat.
Crookshanks looked still more smug, and replied with an image of someone standing in front of the entrance to Gryffindor tower and saying words, then the image of himself grabbing the parchment from someone's nightstand. He batted the roll of parchment toward Sirius, then began to wash himself.
Sirius looked at the cat in disbelief before snatching up the parchment in his mouth and trotting deeper into the forest. Once he was out of sight of the preening cat, he shifted forms and eagerly unrolled the scroll.
I'll be damned! He got the whole bloody list!
The days of the week were printed on the left in neat, unadorned writing, and to the right of each one was a word or phrase.
Silently, Sirius blessed the clever cat and tucked the list into his shirt. The castle would be empty just now. He could find himself a hiding place, and make his move once night fell.
It was harder this time for Sirius to move around the castle by night without being seen. Almost every corridor, it seemed, was patrolled by a professor of prefect, alert for anything suspicious or out of place. He only just managed to avoid one such student, who was fortunately distracted by Peeves before he could catch sight of the lurking black dog.
He managed at last to reach his goal without incident. In the shadows, he quietly shifted forms, then approached the painting of the knight which guarded the entrance to the tower.
Sirius was sweating, wondering if the painting had been instructed to raise the alarm, but the knight merely said, "Stand and unfold thyself, knave!"
Sirius bowed to the knight and replied in as calm and respectful a tone as he could muster, "Good evening, Sir Knight. I beg leave to enter yonder tower."
The knight seemed satisfied with this form of address. "Have you the password?" he inquired.
"I have, good Sir." Sirius drew out the parchment with flourish, and, unsure what day of the week it was, began to read down the list. When he reached "Craven Varlet", the knight bowed to him, and the portrait swung silently open.
Sirius knew he should not linger any longer than necessary in the corridor, but the knight might be able to help him further.
He cleared his throat. "Before I take my leave, Sir Knight, would you perhaps be so kind as to direct me to the room where I might find the red-haired boy who owns a rat? I believe his name is Ron Weasley."
"Aye, I know well the lad you mean," replied the knight. "I am very much afraid, kind Sir, that I know nothing of the rooms within the tower. My place is here, guarding the entrance against those who mean my charges ill." He drew himself up self-importantly, then added conversationally, "I don't think the boy has the rat anymore. I haven't seen the beast for quite some time."
Sirius set his mouth grimly. "We'll see," he said. He bowed to the knight again and stepped through the portrait hole, closing the portrait silently behind him.
The common room looked very much as he remembered it. A bittersweet wave of nostalgia overwhelmed him as he viewed the remains of what must have been a very good party. Clearly Gryffindor had won the match today.
No doubt thanks to Harry and his world-class racing broom, he thought proudly.
He caught himself staring at a couch where he and Remus had once or twice dared to -
He shook himself. He had work to do, and quickly. Hanging about waiting for someone to show up and raise the alarm would not do at all. He slipped forms again and quietly made his way through the celebratory detritus, and up the darkened staircase that led to the boys' dormitory.
Sirius paused on each landing, sniffing around the edges of the door for the scent of rat and Harry. Regretfully, he passed by the room that had been home to him for seven years, and continued up the stairs.
There. This one.
He knew it right away, but sniffed again anyway, just to be sure. The scent was unmistakable. Like all the other rooms opening off the spiral staircase, this room smelled of young male, but it also smelled of rodent, and specifically of the one young male whose scent he had made sure to learn.
He shifted again, heart pounding, and slowly eased the door open. All around him, he could hear the steady breathing and snores of healthy adolescent boys, deeply asleep.
Sirius's hands shook as he drew the borrowed knife from his belt rope. His goal was near. Peter was somewhere in this room, and by God this thing was going to be resolved one way or another here, tonight. But he must take him by surprise. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and sniffed, turning slowly until he identified the bed with the faintly rodentish odor.
With a sudden movement, he slashed aside the curtains. He raised the knife over his head as moonlight flooded the bed and the suddenly wide eyes of Ron Weasley. In the split second before Ron's shriek rent the air, he saw no tiny, scurrying body making a desperate bid for the shadows.
Cursing silently, he turned and fled, slamming the dormitory door behind him, tearing down the stairs, and out the portrait hole before changing forms and running flat out for the entrance hall and the safety of the night beyond. Only one thought existed in his mind besides that of escape: the scent was cold; the rat was not there.