Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I do not. All I own is Antoinette, her family, and the plot (and a couple of minor characters). I am not making any profit whatsoever in writing this story. This is an amateur attempt.
A/N: I would recommend you read the last two chapters before reading this one. Pay particular attention to the dates.
Hmmm . . . what can I say about my absence? I've started my Masters this year and it's been taking up a lot of my time. My thesis is due in a couple of months and I'm beyond panicking. Everything I've been working towards this entire year is based on this one 10 000 word paper. This chapter I wrote partly out of guilt and partly to remain calm. I've discovered writing – that is, creative writing – to be a very relaxing pastime, but only when I forget not to feel guilty for abandoning my uni work.
Anyway, on with the chapter,
Hope you enjoy!
xxxxx
Chapter Sixteen: The Journey
Whatever joy Sirius thought he'd felt upon first escaping Azkaban was overpowered by the immense flood of emotion that filled his chest with every new second he swam away from the island. Compared to the elation Sirius felt now, that burst of exhilaration he had experienced upon seeing that slightly ajar cell door seemed a mere grain of sand in an entire universal beach of happiness. He'd had no earthly idea exactly how effected his mind had been behind those grimy walls, no idea of the depression that had seeped little by little into his soul, transitioning over the years into actual physicality; his body so thin and wasted now that he could hardly believe the creature in the watery reflection was him. That last plunge into the ice cold sea had, apart from invigorating his body, seemed also to wake him up from over a decade's worth of half-sleep. His heart felt as though it would burst from his chest, so 'awake' did he feel now.
Sirius had swum for days unaccounted for, even slept while he paddled, movements not connected to his brain but purely automatic. His limbs had gone numb a while ago and he had no control over his magic. At times, when his numb limbs were feeling too tired to carry on further his body transformed from that of a man into a dog seemingly on its own, compensating for his current euphoric high, which seemed to have addled his wits for he could only seem to think of the joy within him now and nothing else.
He could not think of the repercussions of escape either; could not think that he was in the middle of the ocean, with creatures of the deep surrounding him and land possibly hundreds of miles away. He could think only of his happiness and the knowledge that it had sprung because there were No. More. Dementors.
But never once, amidst all his reflective joy, did he lose sight of the reason behind his escape, and no matter his euphoric feelings, his numb limbs, his addled wits, the one purpose that kept him going was enough to overwhelm all of that . . .
Wormtail. Harry.
And so, he swam. In no particular direction. As a dog he was stronger, the muscles more durable, so he adopted Padfoot's form most of the time unless he forgot.
The sea was black during the never-ending twilight in these parts, and some not yet conscious piece of Sirius's mind acknowledged that only in some parts of the world was this phenomenon possible, but his conscious mind could not grasp the reality of it yet. Could not grasp that he had not seen the full night sky for a very long time. He saw colours, lots of colours, up near the clouds, but he didn't know what they were.
A family of whales appeared on either side of him once, moaning to each other and startling him. At one point an enormous flipper nudged him offhandedly, tossing him some metres away, but Sirius only laughed and nipped back at the flesh, too emersed in exhilaration to care. He even caught a ride on one slippery, humped back for a few miles of respite, human fingers digging hard into the barnacles for balance, the passing wind drying out the sea from his limbs, but leaving behind salt-encrusted skin, which he licked off, not acknowledging the reason behind the action to be that of extreme hunger. Sirius had to let go of his new friend when the creature and his family dived back into the depths, their forked tails seeming almost to wave goodbye as they disappeared beneath the waves.
And it was then that Sirius spotted it. A tiny fleck in the distance, a mere pinprick against the black horizon. So small he thought it sand on his eye at first.
Land.
His limbs took on a new fervour, and he swam now all the more swiftly, mind conjuring a new purpose in order to reach the old.
Land! Wormtail! Harry!
xxxxxxxxx
July 30th, 1992
"La-la-la-laaaaa!" squeaked the dragon before pirouetting on many clawed toes; its leathery wings flapped furiously, determined not to fall from its spot on the tiny white cloud.
It was very small and squishy and red. It wore a yellow tutu and delivered pumpkin juice to the crowd hovering around it on broomsticks. Or at least it had. Now it was attempting a triple back summersault leap to another cloud whilst snorting fire and whistling the tune of Celestina Warbeck's newest love song, "I Sense Magic in You!"
The dragon looked constipated as it attempted to purse its lizard lips in the correct moue in order to whistle louder, its little face growing impossibly redder with the effort. Eventually the whistling grew louder and shriller, and shriller still. The onlookers clapped hands to their ears, faces twisted in pain. The dragon just flew around, whistling merrily and painfully, until it halted in front of a short, grey-haired man, stared him straight in the eye and ROARED HIS NAME . . . !
"What — Whoosit? AHHHHRGH, GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU DRAGON!" The wizard sat up in bed, velvet embroidered coverlet clutched between pale-fingered hands and up against his throat as he stared around wild-eyed.
His wife, hair hidden under a red lace sleeping cap, gaped at him in open-mouthed consternation. "Cornelius, really! Dragon?!"
"What?" Cornelius blinked, glanced twitchily at his frowning wife. Blinked again. "Oh, it's you, dear. N-no I didn't mean — that is to say — I-I had the strangest dream about a dragon and a tutu — lot's of tutus — and singing and pumpkin juice and what in Merlin's name is that horrible noise?!"
The terrible shrilling from his dream seemed to have followed him to the waking world.
"That is why I woke you," she said, looking placated now that an answer had presented itself. "It's coming from the fireplace. By Merlin, I've never heard anything so irritating — started about a minute ago."
Cornelius went suddenly very still and small.
His wife blinked at him, stare curious. "Are you all right?"
Cornelius gulped, whispered, "I don't fancy having to talk to Dementors now."
His wife blinked again. "It's coming from Azkaban?" she asked in surprise, but mostly in shock, now staring at the hearth as if the flames could come alive, wrap themselves around her ankles, and drag her bodily to the prison.
The Minister for Magic nodded, eyes now barely visible over the drawn up coverlet.
"Well? What does it mean?"
Cornelius winced at the commanding tone. He slowly lowered his covers. He licked his lips. He cleared his throat. "I-It's never happened before, that's why I didn't recognise the shrilling immediately. I mean, Milicent Bagnold told me about it w-when I took over in office but I never thought . . ."
"What's never happened before?" she asked impatiently when it seemed as if he could go on no longer.
"There's been a security breech," he wheezed.
His wife gasped so hard and long that she actually started choking. Cornelius' senses had flown along with his courage (not that he had ever had much) so he was in no position to help her. In fact, it took her several long seconds to appropriate the correct vocal chords in order to speak.
"B-but who?!" she yelped, eyes glazing over. "Who could have — I-IMPOSSIBLE — alarm . . . must be broken — HOW? — never been done before — WHO?!" she finished, hysterical.
"I-I don't know," the Minister whispered through the coverlet in the same tone one would say "You're asking me?", but his eyes were darting.
His wife shook her head, at loss for words. "Well find out! Go on!" she barked when it looked as though he wouldn't.
Cornelius, trembling, made to get out of the bed. His wife yanked him back instantly. "Wait!" she squealed. "Don't leave me here by myself. You're the Minister! An important authority figure! What if whoever it is comes here to get us?"
Cornelius paled even more. "Y-you're absolutely right, dear. We have to alert the press, the Aurors, the muggle Prime Minister. I'll send another alarm through the floo. That ought to get everyone — yes I-I'll go and do that."
He threw back the covers, pushed his trembling toes into his bunny slippers, then just sat there. For long seconds. The shock of hearing the alarm and all that it meant was wearing down now and overwhelming fear and anxiety were slowly consuming him. Dread crept in along with the negative feelings also, intermingling, but it was so small at this point in time that he barely noticed it. But the feeling was still there, along with the dreaded sense that this was just the first in a long line of problems to come.
His wife had told him to check, to see the Dementors. He would check, just to confirm, but he knew that he needn't.
Call it simple knowledge, call it fear, call it intuition, call it sixth sense, but Cornelius was very certain — as certain as he was that his name was Cornelius Oswald Fudge and he'd grown a wart on the end of his smallest left toe — that he knew who . . . .
xxxxxx
Jerrick Handsel had always been a particularly sceptical man.
His wife liked to say that maybe he could even be too sceptical at times, a fact that clearly irritated all who knew him. This disbelief, this propensity towards scepticism that he could never learn to shove out of his system, was perhaps the reason why Jerrick had such a hard time trying to believe exactly what it was his eyes were now telling him. Of course, the fog played tricks on people all the time — and had been known to do so as recently as a week ago when poor Bjarny thought he'd spotted a wood sprite standing on the opposite shore near the most hazardous part of the fjord, beckoning to him seductively (they still hadn't found Bjarny's body after he'd gone to visit "her" that second night). But Jerrick didn't believe fog was the answer in his case.
For one, there was no fog. Unusual at this time of morning, but true all the same.
For another, he actually was seeing something. He just wasn't sure what.
With narrowed ice-blue eyes Jerrick watched the "creature" (he refused to believe it a man, though his eyes had told him something different a minute ago) struggle against the current, its limbs paddling swiftly but tiredly.
It really was too huge. Or, rather, too long. It had the look of something that might have once been huge but recent diet, or lack of, had thinned its body out. Still, its head was massive, easily surpassing a normal dog's by at least a foot in diameter. Its paws, from what little Jerrick could see as they sliced through the black water, had to be as big as a grown man's hands.
A sudden chill crept up Jerrick's spine as he watched the creature struggle through the fjord. A brief memory from his mother's old book of Norse Myths and Legends crept into his brain and refused to leave. Of Fenrir, the monstrous wolf prophesised to kill Odin during Ragnarok, the Viking version of the end of the world. Fenrir had bitten the hand off some God or other and Jerrick was sure he'd read that the wolf had procreated, resulting in two offspring.
An impossible thought occurred, as impossible thoughts occur in impossible situations: what if the offspring had procreated as well?
Jerrick looked hard at the still struggling creature. Its mouth gaped wide as it panted, its long pink tongue trailed through the water and its fangs glinted white and long and sharp and massive and sharp against the blackness of its fur.
The fisherman shivered.
This dog, looking so much like what he'd always thought the god-wolf should look like, and appearing on the heels of Bjarny's wood sprite, was enough to scare the sceptic in Jerrick, and he picked up his paddles with the intent to swiftly get out of there. Sceptic or not, nobody sane would want to stay in the presence of such a huge beast.
xxxxx
"You're fired."
Antoinette had to bite her tongue hard to stop the automatic — and, in her opinion, warranted — "what?!" from erupting out of her mouth like an exploding cauldron of noxious liquids. Instead she breathed deeply, subtly, thrice, and continued looking Bartemius Crouch in the eye.
Calm. She had to remain calm. Calm, damn it!
"For what reason am I being dismissed?" she queried, voice all politeness. Inside she was boiling! The last time she'd been this annoyed, this furious, was — well, she didn't want to relive that particular memory, especially not now with the current circumstances . . .
Crouch looked grim. Understandable, since they'd become quite close over the years. Not friends, but certainly allies. Yet to fire her . . .? She tuned in quickly when her employer started speaking. "Surely you understand, Mrs Black?" he sighed quietly, clasping hands behind his back. The black-haired wizard currently stood before the window, the simulated sunlight throwing the wrinkles on his face into harsher rigidness. "You, too, are a political being, just as I am. When you read the Prophet this morning you understood immediately what the consequences would be. Don't have the nerve to act affronted now."
Slender shoulders, clad in immaculate blue silk robes, stiffened in outrage for exactly one second before slumping heavily in defeat.
Crouch was right. She should have known.
She should have expected this, really. Should have prepared herself. But she had still been too shocked over what she'd read in the paper not two hours ago. Still been utterly humiliated over having to listen to everyone pitying her or sneering at her or trying to offer her comfort. She had milked the condolences, the pity, for all they were worth, knowing that she might now have to work on rebuilding her reputation all over again. And all because her murderous husband had thought to escape Azkaban. Wasn't it supposed to be impossible?!
"He's used the dark arts, what else could it be?" Kingsley had told her, gently, when she had first regained consciousness in the privacy of his office and spoken her shock out loud. Then he'd given her a cup of strong tea and offered to take her home. She'd refused. Antoinette had had a sudden, desperate need to speak to Crouch, to find out where he stood in all the mess. Her very proper superior had been the one to arrest Sirius after the Dark Lord's fall and Antoinette understood with all the logic of someone who knew him well that he still considered it to be his greatest capture to date. He had to have been simply fuming at this unexpected turn of events. She realised that Crouch would be feeling slighted, at fault, somehow; as if Sirius' escape could somehow be linked back to him, back to his 'good' name. Having a good reputation, for Crouch, was his number one priority. Having Sirius Black's wife under his employ might have been permissible before this disaster, but certainly not after it.
As she stared at Crouch's rigid back in his formal black office robes, the folds of which were invisible amongst the pristinely pressed fabric, his stance could not have been any colder, his aura could not have been more dismissive. It was painfully clear to Antoinette that he wasn't going to be turning around and facing her anytime soon. Whatever she'd thought of Crouch (and it was a lot) she had never even considered the possibility that he should be acting the proverbial coward. Surely the man who had captured so many Death Eaters, who had discovered their hiding places, who had tortured them for information, was anything but? Surely she deserved more respect from someone she'd been working under for the past ten years other than a cold brush off?
"That's really all you have to say to me, sir?" she asked now, voice flinty. The tone in her voice lent slightly towards begging also but Antoinette was too proud a creature to consciously acknowledge it.
Crouch's stance turned even more rigid. He sighed once, hard, and unexpectedly whirled around, his polished shoes squeaking on the marble floor, pinning her with a glare. The action was so strange and unbecoming of how he usually presented himself that Antoinette could only stare, blue eyes wide. "What more could I possibly have to say?" He cleared his throat, rather evenly, before continuing in a tone that froze steel. "Other than to let you know that the Minister's Junior Undersecretary had been terminated this morning, effective immediately, for a very unfortunate wrongdoing."
Antoinette stilled, eyes widening even more. "Indeed?"
As a pureblood she understood political intrigue when it was being shoved right under her nose; she was no simpleton, she knew what Crouch was trying to tell her. Excitement and hope built in her chest. She felt as if she could kiss him!
Fortunately, only a mad person would attempt to kiss Crouch, so Antoinette contended herself with asking him what he expected her to ask. "What kind of unfortunate circumstance?"
Crouch blinked slowly, expression calculating, as if trying to judge her worthy of the impartment of such delicate knowledge. At last he opened his mouth, and said, softly, "It seems as if the Minister suspects him, at least in part, for Black's escape."
As it always happened when someone mentioned Sirius in any context other than to compare him to a slug, Antoinette straightened her spine in a contrived act of subconscious protection — making sure, as was her due, to paint a layer of disdain over her face so that Crouch could never know the ghostly pain of betrayal that lingered even now after all these years.
Instead she bit her lip (an unfortunate weakness) and queried, "How so?"
Crouch never had been one to wishy-wash. "Cotswold's employment was terminated due to simple negligence on his part: it seems that he dropped his wand right outside Black's cell for a time of about five minutes." Here the black-haired wizard paused, as if to gauge her reaction, but spotting nothing other than what Antoinette conveyed — that of cool, wide-eyed concentration — continued on. "The details are sketchy, but according to Cornelius Cotswold became frightened of something and didn't think to pick his wand up afterwards, after which he and the Minister ventured to three more cells in the high-security ward before they remembered."
"They didn't think to check and see if Black had used it for anything?!" Antoinette almost screeched. The incompetence of the Minister and his party wasn't to be born!
"The wand was apparently lying far enough away from Black's cell that he couldn't possibly have reached it." Crouch said coldly, embarrassing her. "As it stands, the Minister is now convinced that Black used dark magic to somehow summon it to him, after which he preformed an unlocking charm before placing the wand back."
"But why would Black wait until — how long as it been since the Minister's annual inspection? Six days?" Unknowingly she started to pace, something that she'd only ever done when extremely agitated and certainly never in Crouch's presence. But she was too shocked now, too shaken with all that she'd heard, too stunned, to think of the potential repercussions such lack of decorum could bring. "And if Black escaped yesterday morning that would make it five days after he supposedly used Cotswold's wand." She looked up at her former boss, eyes imploring. "Why wait so long . . .?"
"Only Black knows, Antoinette" said Crouch softly using, very rarely, the title of her first name. This was enough of a shock to calm her down and put a halt to her pacing. "All we do know, and this information came direct from the Minister's lips, is that Black isn't as mad as he ought to be."
She froze, heart beating fast. "What to you mean?" she asked, slow, throat quivering.
"He was the only Death Eater in the high-security ward that spoke to the Minister directly and rationally. He seemed, according to Cornelius, quite altogether. Even asked him for the newspaper he'd been toting under his arm, something about wanting to do the crossword."
Crossword? Antoinette had a complete unAntoinetteish urge to laugh hysterically. Instead, she choked down a sob. "Dark magic?" she questioned. The thought of a sane Sirius seemed somehow worse than an insane one.
"So the Minister and his subordinates suspect." He looked her straight in the eye. "So I suspect."
The smile that appeared on her face then, she knew, was the bitterest of bitter. "So everyone suspects," she whispered.
"Indeed," Crouch sighed. He turned to face the window once more, hands clasped behind his back in the exaggerated pose of the very disciplined. "As you have probably already deduced, Cornelius is not planning to tell the wizarding public of the Ministry's supposed incompetence — naturally this would be an embarrassment to us. He is planning to tell media representatives that Black used dark magic, taught to him by his former lord, to escape the impossibly inescapable prison." He hesitated, looked over at her with his peripheral vision. "Only the Department Heads were intrusted with this highly delicate secret. I trust I needn't mention that you should not attempt to convey any part of this conversation to anyone. In fact, I shall deny it if you do and people will be more inclined to believe me than the wife of an escaped murderer."
Antoinette wasn't offended. She understood why he'd told her, and at great personal risk to him, his job, and his so carefully built reputation. But she asked him why anyway. Had to ask him why.
"Because you will hear it again when you begin to work under him, which will be never if you don't leave now," said Crouch, for the first time showing emotion since she had walked into his office that morning. "You know what to do, Mrs Black. Good day. And good luck."
He didn't look at her again, though his tone had been almost fond.
Antoinette calmly turned and walked the few steps to the door, nervous tension pulsing along with the beat of her heart. She reached for the antique brass handle, opened the door. Didn't acknowledge the curious stares of colleagues that were loitering in the corridor instead of at their desks, working. "Thank you, sir," she said, so softly that he mightn't have heard.
Then she walked out and closed the door quietly behind her.
She would never speak to nor acknowledge him again.
She had more important fish to fry.
She was nervous, certainly, for what she was about to do, but then anyone would be. Antoinette had played her cards right through the years, made friends and contacts in other departments, slowly climbing up the social and political ladders. Crouch might have been forced to dismiss her, but that was a matter of personal preference; his belief in having a strong political presence and hardy reputation by far surpassed any affection he may have felt for her.
Others, however, did not feel the same.
Crouch had done her a favour — a last hurrah for the assistance and companionship she'd provided these past ten years to a frankly unstimulating job and to a lonely, traditionally-upheld man — he had hinted to her what she had to do. If she managed to pull it off it would be the biggest coup in her political career. Not to mention her life. She would get other work, better work, and she knew just where to go to get it.
All the way to the top.
But first she needed to find Delores Umbridge.
xxxxxxxxx
The blonde man in the little boat was staring at him in fear and shock, but Sirius acknowledged his presence only by transforming into a dog once more. He had to get to the shore. The current had brought him to an inland river of sorts, a ford, and there were just a few more metres until he reached the banks.
Fatigue should have been setting in (should have arrived days ago, in fact) but Sirius's adrenalin, Padfoot's adrenalin, was such that Sirius was not feeling tired. The exhilaration, also, was sustaining him and hadn't yet begun to abate. It was as though he had snorted a gallon of muggle 'happy pills' and had yet to recover from the effects, so pumped and full of life did he feel — the first time in nearly twelve years.
Now that he could actually see the shore, and know that it wasn't an illusion, assisted his muscles into working harder. He just needed to reach it, that rocky, mossy beach, and everything would be all right. Nothing mattered but reaching it. The outside world, the man in the little boat, even the limb-numbing water surrounding him failed to register in his consciousness. At last when he finally reached the shore, collapsing onto the banks, the water lapping at his back paws, did Sirius finally allow himself to rest, to feel the fatigue, and the adrenalin high he'd been riding for the past few days disappeared as swiftly as a wave breaking against tumultuous rocks. His body, limp now, fatigued almost to the point of death, but sated.
Yes . . . he had done it.
The large dog gasped out one last, deep sigh of satiation, before its eyes closed, its head lolled awkwardly to the side, dreaming of nothing.
xxxxxxxxx
Antoinette paused on the threshold of her front door, staring blankly at the scratch that sat just above the knob, the edges of which white paint peeled out in thin curls.
Strange how one notices little things when one's life has spun so erratically out of one's control. The thought drifted into her head and out again like a summer breeze. She blinked herself back into reality, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
A chill greeted her the moment she entered, a consequence from a previously cast cooling charm that had spun slightly out of control and which she'd never thought to fix, preferring, instead, to acquaint herself with a bundle of warm blankets in front of a merrily crackling fire. In her youth (which, truth to tell, still existed) she had always preferred winter to summer. Because of the picturesque image the former brought to mind or because of her temperament Antoinette had yet to determine.
She unclipped her blue-hooded cloak and hung it on one of the hooks beside the door, under-robes shimmering almost green in the light of the yellow hallway lamp. There, she paused and stared. This would probably be the last time in a long time that she would be performing these actions in her own house. Comfort, she had once felt here, comfort in the little things, the little step-by-step actions that were part of her way of living. Coming home every day after work and hanging up her hood had, she now noted, been a simple contentment, something she'd once dismissed as irrelevant . . . but no more. Comfort had deserted her. Alphard's old house had become an enemy overnight.
Something foreign and singular made its way down her cheek, and the only reason she'd noticed at all was because the preceding charmed air had left in its place a cold, wet line.
Antoinette released her death grip on the cloak and turned to face the empty corridor.
"Kreacher?"
The elf popped into view under the lamp, the stiff white hairs between his bat-like ears trembling. The yellow light bounced off his walnut-like skull, gleaming grey and knobbly. Antoinette stared, fascinated.
"Mistress?" Kreacher croaked.
"You've packed everything?"
"Kreacher has."
"You've heard the news, I imagine."
"Kreacher has read from the paper, Mistress, of the blood traitor's escape."
"Then we leave for Grimmauld Place. Now."
Absolute silence as Kreacher stared at her in shock.
"Was there something particularly hard about the request?" Antoinette asked her servant, still staring at the fragile little white hairs.
Kreacher shook his head, ears flapping dully against his skull. "Mistress wishes to go back to Grimmauld Place?" he asked, tone tentative and disbelieving.
"Yes," she said quietly.
"But Mistress has always told Kreacher that she would never again step foot in . . ." Kreacher stopped speaking on his own accord as Antoinette blinked at him slowly. It frightened him, her lack of awareness.
"Things have changed now, Kreacher," she whispered to the elf. An alabaster pale, long-fingered hand smoothed out a crease in the collar about her neck. "My husband has done what everyone had thought to be the impossible and escaped Azkaban. I am a sitting duck here. I need the protection of the wards that only Grimmauld Place can offer."
"The blood traitor master can pass through the wards," Kreacher pointed out in a helpful tone.
"Not if another master is currently residing behind them and refuses him entry," she reminded the elf.
"Of course, Mistress."
"Very well, then. We're leaving now."
"Of course, Mistress."
"I'm now the Junior Undersecretary to the Minister, Kreacher," she told him, smiling slightly. "After a three hour interview, I managed to get it."
"Well done, Mistress."
"This should be one of the happiest moments in my life. Strange it should happen in the midst of such, personal, chaos, isn't it?"
"Mistress has to go now. Mistress has to be safe. Kreacher shall escort her out." A firm, spindly-fingered hand grasped her gently about the wrist and, almost as a parent leads their child, ushered her down the corridor and towards the drawing room fireplace.
"Yes. Out. Safe. Where he can't find us."
xxxxxxxx
The dog had been rescued, dumped gently into his hastily retrieved wheelbarrow after a lot of hemming and hawing and ushered onto the warm rug in front of his fireplace.
Jerrick did not go to the morning markets that day (the first time in three decades), nor did he go the next day. Or the next. Instead he tried nursing the big black dog to health. His wife wasn't all too pleased (about his defection or his playing nursemaid to a washed up mongrel) but he'd always held a soft spot for animals (unlike his wife) and had always wanted a dog (wife, again) and, he reflected, this one gave him the opportunity to fell two birds with one stone, as it were. Despite the dog's resemblance to the monstrous beast of myth, Jerrick fantasised for days about waking up to a wet tongue licking his face in gratitude and became very fond of this fantasy. So much so that he spent nearly all waking hours by the dog's side, eagerly waiting for it to rouse to see if his hope would come true.
xxxxxxxx
Sniff.
Sniff. Sniff. Sniiiiiiifffff.
Smell. Delightful, delicious, what is it? What . . ?!
The wet black nose, slightly sheeny from the flames in the nearby hearth, twitched experimentally as a smell — delightful smell, really. Delightful and warm and food! Food! Food! — soaked his nostrils.
Sirius sat up jerkily, tongue lolling and drool seeping from out the corners of his mouth. His stomach growled a greeting and Sirius growled back, too thrilled by the implications of what the smell actually meant to care.
A bowl, a large wooden bowl, lay beside him, but what was in the bowl was far more tempting to Sirius's palate. Without out pausing to thinking about anything, he stuffed his entire head into it, as if by doing so he could somehow devour the food from within an imaginary mouth at his temple. Not that he cared; he was more intent on finishing it as fast as possible, frankly. In fact he was so intent on finishing it, that it took him up to the time when he finished licking his chops to sense that there was anyone in the room with him at all. When he finally acknowledged the person sitting next to him in the wood-framed armchair, he scrambled up and scuttled backwards, hitting a wall with dull bang.
"Goddag," said the blond man, smiling faintly.
An instinctual growl threatened to rise from his throat; Sirius suppressed it. He wasn't too far gone not to know that this man had been the one to feed him that delicious stew.
The man in question extended a hand, eyes slightly wary, but no less gentle. Sirius wagged his tail half-heartedly. The leap from hearth to wall had exhausted him and he was clever enough to establish he would not get anywhere without a protracted rest. This man would give it to him.
With that thought in mind, Sirius slumped to the floor, belly first, in heavy placation, large eyes soulful and tail thumping as joyously as he could get it to. He permitted himself a helpless whimper; the sound worked, as the man's expression eased. He began to walk towards Sirius, movements small still, but hand extended firmly and without fear.
He spoke in a gentle murmur. "Artig arbeidsdrengen."
What in Merlin . . .? Sirius had no idea what that meant only that it sounded almost Scandinavian. "Wuff!" he barked in greeting, and the man jumped. Sirius's canine nose picked up a common enough scent, one that had permeated Azkaban with never-ending intensity, one that had drenched its walls in putridity. Yes, he could smell the momentary release of pheromone and consequent sweat — the man had become frightened in that one instant but had regained almost instant sobriety upon remembering there was no danger.
"Artig arbeidsdrengen," the man repeated again. Upon noting the mollifying tone of voice, gentle countenance, and cautious scent, Sirius was intelligent enough to put together that he was being called a 'Good boy'.
The extra appendage attached to his buttocks thumped an even speedier tattoo on the wooden floor.
The man took this as the invite it was intended to be and finally placed his hand on Sirius' head. "Du er ikke altså ar", he said happily.
Sirius barked but this time the man did not jump.
He let himself be petted a few minutes, the man even kissing him on his head in delight at apparently being permitted to touch him, when a sudden new scent assailed his nose, a flowery/fishy concoction, before booted feet stomped into the room.
"Anika!" the man exclaimed, warm hand jerking from Sirius' temple.
A woman stood in the threshold. A blonde woman with dark blue eyes and a vicious crease stamped in the middle of her forehead. "Jerrick," the woman said back, eyes focused on Sirius. Her scent changed, then: fear mixed in with caution along with a healthy dose of anger and disgust. Well . . . Sirius had always thought he looked rather loveable as a dog. Apparently not . . .
"Hvad er den skønt gør her ovre? JEG indfald JEG fortalt jer hen til komme af med sig!".
"JEG skal!" said Jerrick.
"JEG savn sig op fra mig hus!" shouted his wife, pointing a stick-like finger in Sirius's direction, then at the door.
The message was unmistakable. Bloody hell . . . he did not have time for this. His mission now was to recover as fast as possible and be on his way. He still had a rat to ea – catch, and a godson to find. He did not need this Merlin-damned bint . . . Argh! The sound his mind conjured vocalised as a rather vicious growl. The woman choked on what she'd been saying, turning terrified eyes in his direction.
Her gaze jerked to her husband's. "Ud , ud, ud!"
When Jerrick sighed, eyes downcast, Sirius knew his rest was over.
xxxxxxxxxxxxx
It had taken him a couple of weeks to reach England, once he'd stolen a map from a muggle travel shop and deciphered the undecipherable. He caught a lift in a large truck carrying chickens in metal cages and it was the work of nothing to paw at the lock and snatch a fat one out with his jaws. It would shame him even years later to think about how he'd devoured the squawking bird, its guts squelching between his fangs but its meat so hot and tender and filling . . . if he thought too long about it he had the urge to throw up. Or drool.
More and more did his depression wane. The further behind Azkaban went, the happier Sirius became in spirit and body. If he thought his limbs could let him get away with it, he would run up and down the streets, barking for all the world to hear, "I'm free, I'm free, and you were wrong! I escaped Azkaban. I did, I did, and you'll never know how!"
He wept also, of course, from pleasure at his freedom, but mostly because he knew that it would be impossible to convince anyone of his innocence, let alone the four people he most desperately wanted to know. Remus believed him the traitor, Dumbledore, in his mind, had indisputable proof of his guilt, Harry, his beautiful little Harry, had probably heard all about how much of a coward, traitor, backstabber, etc, he was from people he deemed friends and confidants to give him the benefit of the doubt now, and Antoinette . . . Antoinette. . . .
The chickens clucked around him, shifting their feathers guardedly, and despite the smell of the chicken crap saturating the air Sirius attempted to rest his head on his paws and allow himself to think on his wife. Toni had, he believed, never really trusted him. He had treated her far too poorly in the little time they'd known each other for her to even think of trusting him now. Forcing her to listen would do no good: she had always been stubborn. It amused him to realise he felt proud of that. Toni, Toni, where do you now? Who do you now?
The anger that came with that thought was so debilitating Sirius believed he might actually bite through his own jaw. No, no, no! Enough! he screamed at himself. In fact, he wasn't even sure that Antoinette was his wife anymore. Surely she would have gotten their marriage annulled at the soonest possible opportunity?
It took a cacophony of squawking, battering, terrified chickens to make him realise he'd uttered a deep, low growl.
He barked at them to shut up, but that only made them squawk even more. At the rate they were going the driver would soon be alerted. In desperation Sirius shifted to a man. But now he was cramped, no space between his body and the chicken cages.
Everlasting, buggering . . . Oh well, he'd slept in worse conditions. It didn't really matter anyway. How he got to England, what he had to eat to survive . . . he would be killing rat soon. That was all that mattered.
Soon.
xxxxxxxx
A/N: I have no idea if the Danish is right. If there are any Danish readers out there, could you maybe give me a heads up?