Disclaimer: I still do not own Harry Potter.
Hello everyone. I'm really sorry I haven't updated in so long. Things have been extremely busy lately and there has been a lot on my mind. I am very happy to now get back to writing, and I really hope this update is worth the wait.
In regards to Rita Skeeter, she will definitely play a role in this story; you will see her involvement in the plot later on.
I really hope you enjoy this, and thank you so much for the reviews. This chapter is between Sirius and Dumbledore; we haven't seen Albus since chapter 1, after all. But, in the next chapter, Sirius and Harry will have a heart to heart.
Again, I hope you enjoy this one.
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Every bone in Sirius's body screamed at him to return to Harry's bedside, even though the boy was beyond hearing him at this moment. After all, Madam Pomfrey was right; the sleeping potion in his system was keeping him immobile for now. Sirius despised that the old man across the desk from him was taking him away from his first priority again, but he knew it was better to have this conversation here in Madam Pomfrey's office than it would have been to have it by Harry's bed, where his godson could wake up and hear it.
It had been less than twenty-four hours since Sirius and the Headmaster had been in this position, but it felt like a multitude of events had happened since then. He was honestly surprised that the old man had waited this amount of time to speak to him again, and the ex-convict truly dreaded what scheme Albus had come up with now to try and pry him away from Harry. Whatever it is, I won't fall for it, he vowed solemnly. A pinprick of guilt jabbed through him as he wondered how it had come to this, that he was thinking such vicious thoughts about a man he had fought for, who he had once looked up to and respected. But in the next instant, it was gone; he had a much bigger purpose now. It didn't matter what Albus's goals were, or how noble his intentions; Sirius's sole mission was to protect Harry's well-being.
Minutes earlier, as he'd sat by Harry's bed watching him sleep, thankfully no longer being disturbed by Madam Pomfrey, his mind had come to some other harrowing and devastating realizations. Last night and throughout the course of the morning, he'd been so entirely focused on Harry's emotional turmoil, and his goal of helping the boy recover from the catastrophic events of the night before that his conscious mind had blocked out the physical danger the boy had been in. To put it plainly, his beloved godson had almost been brutally murdered the night before. When Harry had explained, with a trembling voice the previous evening, of the occurrence of Priori Incantatem, he had been completely and utterly overwhelmed by the thought of James and Lily's ghosts appearing from the end of Voldemort's wand and helping Harry escape, and consumed by the raw jealousy that Harry had gotten to speak to them and see their faces, if only for an instant. He remembered the shame he felt over that selfish jealousy; he, after all, had gotten to know them, gotten to love them, and it was his own arrogance, his own presumption that he knew exactly what he was doing, his own stupid, foolhardy, idiotic plan that had gotten them killed. Harry had gotten fifteen months with them, fifteen months that he probably remembered none of. In his opinion, Harry had much more of a right to grieve for them than he did.
Then had come the heart-stopping gratitude that even in death, they had been there for their son during a moment when Harry had needed them most, and it filled Sirius with such love for them that he thought the emotion would literally knock him over; it had swept over him with such intensity he was sure he would break right then and there. But it wasn't until a few minutes ago, as he watched Harry lying asleep after his ordeal with Cedric and the Diggorys, that it really hit him. His best friends had truly saved Harry's life, had given him the courage to struggle on when giving up must have looked like a sweet escape.
And looking at Albus now, any remaining guilt he felt towards how he was treating the other man instantly evaporated. If he had full control of his faculties at the moment, he might have had an inkling that the vitriol he was about to unleash was somewhat irrational, but right now, the thought didn't cross his mind. He felt as though a huge weight was crushing down on his chest, compressing his lungs with such a vengeance so that he felt like taking a single breath was agony. Moments earlier Dumbledore had asked benignly, "How is young Harry coping?" He had asked it so innocently, so nonchalantly, and Sirius's senses had been immediately flooded by rage. Dumbledore had then explained that Madam Pomfrey had informed him of what had happened between Harry, the Diggorys, and his emotional parting promise to Cedric.
"Oh, how is Harry doing?" Sirius whispered in a hoarse voice, but the single sentence carried an extraordinary amount of venom in its path. "How can you even ask such a thing, Dumbledore? How do you truly expect him to be faring after everything he's been through?"
"Sirius," Dumbledore said in that soothing, unflappably calm tone of his that had comforted Sirius in the past, but now only stoked the flames in his soul. "You must know, I care about Harry too. I mean no offense by my question."
As Sirius stared into Dumbledore's eyes, the fury he felt suddenly disappeared, and a rush of sadness took its place. It was true; Dumbledore meant no disrespect towards Harry, and a profound realization seized Sirius in that moment. The man sitting across from him, looking old and weary, had been involved in so many battles, so many wars, and had seen an infinite amount of casualties. He had defeated Grindelwald and had led the fight against Voldemort during the First War, and was gearing up for a second one. And it was because of all of this, Sirius realized, it was because of all the bloodshed, carnage, and violence he'd witnessed, that he was now numb to it. He could deliver platitudes, speak words of supposed wisdom to those who were grieving, but could not truly feel the losses anymore. His thoughts were always about the bigger picture, about who could be sacrificed to achieve the goal of defeating Voldemort. At that instant Sirius knew Albus still had a heart, still had a conscience, but it had been ravaged and spoiled by all it had seen.
A sigh of pure grief left Sirius's lips as he whispered, "I know." His voice was still hoarse, but it no longer had the venomous quality to it that it had before. "Albus, you need to understand, Harry's not doing well. He is emotionally taxed from his meeting with the Diggorys."
"I am sorry, Sirius," Dumbledore said, and Sirius knew the man meant it. "You know I never wanted things to happen this way."
"Neither did I," Sirius said quietly, holding the Headmaster's eyes. "But Albus, how could you not have known?" he asked, almost pleading with the other man for understanding. "Alastor Moody ... you two have been friends and comrades for so many years. How could Barty Crouch Junior have fooled you the entire year? An entire year, Albus, of staff meetings, meals in the Great Hall, conversations in the corridors ... how could you not have suspected?"
To this, Dumbledore simply had no response. He looked away from Sirius, almost like a child looking away from a parent when they were being scolded and didn't want to admit they deserved the disappointment. "There is nothing I can say that can truly make up for that error in judgment," he finally said, his eyes eventually raising and locking with Sirius's again.
Sirius sighed as the two held the stare for an indeterminable amount of time. After what seemed like an eternity, Sirius said, "I know you mean well, Albus, but there's something I don't think anyone has truly told you, and as someone who has failed Harry so completely for so long, I now need to be the one to put things right by telling you. Albus, when it comes to Harry ... you. Don't. Know. What. You're. Doing."
Dumbledore stared at him, and for a split second he looked shocked that someone would have the audacity to deliver such a statement. But the moment was so fleeting that anyone else could have blinked and missed it. Despite his now calm expression, however, not a word escaped Dumbledore's lips.
"I don't know what your plans are for Harry," Sirius said, and his resolve hardened again as he stared the other man down. Despite the fact that he now realized that Albus's psyche had been damaged by seeing so much war, and despite the pity and sympathy he felt towards this man he had once idolized, it only made his desire to fight for Harry a million times stronger. "But rest assured," he said, his voice now not angry, but filled with a sturdy resolve that it would be impossible to break, "I will not allow Harry to partake in any of them which do not have his best interests at heart. You and I both know what the prophecy says. We both know that one day, Harry will go up against that despicable monster for the final time, and one of them will be destroyed. I will make sure Harry is the one left standing when the dust settles, Albus, but your machinations will not play a role in that. You think it is your duty to protect the wizarding world, no matter the cost. Well, let me make one thing clear, Dumbledore. My godson will not be included in any sacrifices."
And with that, Sirius got up from his seat and left Headmaster and war leader Albus Dumbledore behind for the second time in two days. He had told the old man, in no uncertain terms, that Harry would not be included on his chessboard.
The horrible, inescapable truth of the prophecy had bludgeoned Sirius again as he had sat brooding by Harry's bedside. It made him sick to his core when he thought about the fact that the entire survival of the world was due to whether his godson succeeded in defeating the abomination known as Lord Voldemort. He wanted to pretend it didn't exist, wanted to wrap Harry up in a cocoon of love and protect him from harm, wanted to shelter him from all the pain and trauma he'd suffered. Helplessness strangled him, and his stomach churned with nausea at the realization that there would be many, many more battles in his godson's future.
But he vowed, as he once again took his place by Harry's bedside, that he would make sure that Harry survived to see the end of it all, and not just physically either. He would work, with every bone in his body, to make sure that Harry wouldn't break emotionally. Sadness swallowed him up again as he thought of Albus, already broken by a life full of bloodshed. As he took Harry's hand and squeezed it in his own, he said softly, "I promise, Harry, you will always have me. Always."
And as minutes lengthened into hours, Harry gently slept on.