Thursday, 23rd June

Randolph Lestrange stood in front of the towering stone gates of Azkaban, shrouded in the heavy mist that rolled off the North Sea.

The cold air bit at his face, but he hardly noticed it, his mind focused on the task at hand. Taking a slow, deep breath, he shuffled forward with his walking cane, making his way to the visitor's centre - although calling it a security centre would be a far more accurate term.

The room was heavily warded and Aurors manned the desk inside in rotating shifts of one-hour intervals, and only ever when strictly necessary. Any longer risked the reduction of their capabilities due to dementor exposure, and even as the old man stepped into the small area, a looming grey-hooded figure silently glided past.

Randolph shivered and gladly shut the door behind him.

"Lord Lestrange".

The tall, lean man had gotten to his feet the second he saw him.

"Dawlish" Randolph replied with a nod, "I trust that by now, you know why I'm here?"

"Your scheduled monthly visit to those two bastards that you call your sons, I assume?"

He smiled. "You should better than anyone what assuming does, John".

The man scowled at him and by his side, his fingers twitched.

"That's Auror to you, my lord" he bit out, "Let's get this over with. Wand".

Randolph happily handed it over - beech, dragon heartstring, eleven inches, whippy - and Dawlish grabbed it with a snarl to safely lock away until his return. Then he turned his own wand on him, and he barely refrained from flinching as a wave of unfamiliar magic washed over him.

"... Alright, you're clean" Dawlish said a moment later, "Don't take it personally if I don't lead the way".

Lestrange gave a small, secretive smirk.

"Oh, don't worry John. I'm sure I'll find the right cell on my own".

Security in Azkaban was tight, but he spotted more than a few loopholes as he made his way into the depths of the building.

First of all, only so-called respectable Ministry officials were allowed to visit their relatives and although Lestrange was no longer considered a respectable name, being the former Marquess of Norfolk did have its advantages. The first security issue was the fact that no one ever checked that you actually were who you appeared to be.

The steel cap on his cane clinked against the old stone steps and although he refused to look up, he knew that there were dementors circling far above his head. They sensed something in him, perhaps, but they knew better than to get too close.

That was the second security issue - dementors didn't care about protecting the prison from attack or about keeping its occupants inside these cold grey walls; they only cared about consuming human emotions. Which, of course, meant that their loyalty could be bought.

Once inside the maximum security wing, the stench of despair and decay filled the narrow corridors. The screams of the tortured souls imprisoned within these walls echoed faintly through the thick stone, but Randolph paid them no mind. He was used to screams, and right now, he was only concerned about one thing.

Glancing into each cell he passed, he ignored the ramblings and ravings of madmen and didn't stop until he found a short, grubby-looking man curled up in a shivering ball on a thin grey mattress.

"Hello, Peter".

The trembling body froze before slowly, ever-so-slowly rolling over to face him. Although he'd only been here a handful of days, his eyes were hollow, his expression drawn.

He was already starting to waste away, reduced to a mere shadow of his former self.

Good.

"... L-Lord Lestrange?" Pettigrew's voice was barely more than a whisper, confusion flickering in his small dull eyes. "What… What are y-you d-doing here?"

Randolph allowed a thin smile to curve his lips. "I've come to help you, my friend".

"Help m-me? Why? Why would y-you-"

"Because I've realized your value, Peter" he smoothly interrupted, "I know what you did for the Dark Lord now - everyone does. If only you had told me of your role as our spy earlier… I would've gladly hidden you, my friend".

"Really? Y-You d-don't think that I… f-failed him?"

"Not at all. I think our Lord would be very proud of the extent you went to achieve our shared goals".

His eyes widened with a mix of hope and delight. "P-Proud? Of m-me?"

"Why, of course!" Randolph stepped even closer to the cell, glancing around and lowering his voice to a mere conspiratorial whisper. "And there have been rumours, my friend".

"Rumours?"

"About him. About him returning".

That got his attention. Lestrange watched in twisted fascination as the once-portly man scrambled to his hands and knees, and then, awkwardly, stumbled to his feet.

There was something distinctly rat-like about him even while in human form. Security issue number three, of course, was the distinct lack of anti-Animagus charms around any cell that didn't contain a known Animagus - hence Sirius Black's successful escape.

"Our lord returns?" he croaked, grasping the bars separating them, "He- He's coming b-back?!"

"Oh yes… there's just one thing he needs".

"What is it?"

"Something that only you can help him retrieve".

"What? What is it?!"

Lestrange's blue eyes pinned him in place with their intensity.

"His wand, Peter. Where is his wand?"

Pettigrew frowned. "His- what?"

"His wand. I know you were the last person to see it. Where did you put it, my friend?"

"I was the- b-but- no! No, I wasn't- That wasn't- How d-do you know that?!"

Randolph barely restrained from sighing.

"He told me, Peter. He's the reason I'm here. The Dark Lord has asked me to retrieve his wand from where you've hidden it".

"S-So you can g-get all the g-glory? No way! I'll- I'll tell him m-myself!"

"Don't be a fool! He needs his wand to return to power! Are you really going to deny our Lord his rightful freedom?!"

Pettigrew's resolve visibly wavered. Evidently, it wasn't just his body that was starting to deteriorate.

"... What's in it f-for m-me?"

Ah. Lestrange had to bite back a smile. Dumbledore's influence, no doubt.

"He has sent me to rescue you, Peter" he whispered, "As soon as you tell me where you put his wand, I'll release you from your cell".

"How?" Now his eyes were narrowed in suspicion rather than confusion. "You can't d-do wandless m-magic! Only the m-most p-powerful wizards can!"

Which led to security issue number four. Yes, visitors had to check in their wands at the security desk before being allowed to enter the prison itself - but what about visitors capable of, shall we say, alternative magic?

"Our lord has granted me enough power for this" he said, his voice low and persuasive, "But just for this! It's a boon, Peter, a trade. In return for telling me where you hid the Dark Lord's wand, I'll set you free as a reward. You do want to escape, don't you?"

"I… Yes, but-"

"No. Either you agree or you don't, my friend - our lord didn't send me here to negotiate".

Pettigrew's beady eyes were flickering up and down the corridor as if scared of being overheard. Security issue number five, the distinct lack of surveillance in the cells themselves, meant that they wouldn't be.

"How will you g-get m-me out?" he stammered, "If- If I tell you?"

"I'll unlock your cell door, using our lord's power. Then you simply need to wait until nightfall and make your way to the roof. An escape route will be waiting for you".

"Who?"

"Are you stupid?" he hissed, "Do you want me to give the entire plan away to whoever's on duty right now?! I've told you more than enough!"

Pettigrew didn't know about security issue number four after all.

"B-But how c-can I trust you?"

"Don't trust me, Peter. Trust our lord!"

The man hesitated, his eyes filled with fear and desperation, so Lestrange leaned even closer, trying to block out the acrid scent of sweat and decay.

"Do you really want to disappoint our lord, Peter? After everything you've done? Do you truly invite his anger on yourself?"

"... You'll unlock m-my c-cell?"

Randolph placed a hand on the lock, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and then-

*Click*

Pettigrew stared at the now-open door in wide-eyed disbelief.

"I've fulfilled my side of the bargain, my friend. Now fulfil yours".

"I… I h-hid it" he stammered, still staring at the door, "It's- It's in an old oak tree in S-St Jerome's g-graveyard. The one in the c-centre of the c-cemetery".

The rat was so scared, so distressed, and staring at him so imploringly, that it was positively sinful how easily Lestrange slipped into his mind, using Legilimency to scan his surface thoughts and-

Yes, there he was, over a decade before, nervous and jittery, scurrying through a graveyard until he found a hollow safe enough to hide it.

Subtly exiting his mind, Lestrange smiled - but there was no trace of warmth in it.

"Very good, Peter. Now, listen carefully. You must wait until darkness falls. Our brethren won't be waiting for you anytime before that. Understand?"

He nodded, almost frantically.

"Wait until n-nightfall and then g-go to the r-roof, I understand!"

"Good. I will see you soon, my friend".

His eyes lit up with hope and relief even as he nodded eagerly.

"Yes, yes, you will! Thank you, L-Lord Lestrange, thank you!"

Randolph's smile widened, and although Pettigrew didn't notice it, there was a hint of burgundy coming through in his gaze.

Without another word, Lestrangeturned and left the chamber, his expression returning to one of composed indifference as he navigated the corridors back to the main entrance. The dementors floated past him, oblivious to the fact that they had just let one of the most dangerous wizards in history walk through their fortress.

Outside, the mist was thicker now, wrapping the island in a suffocating blanket of grey. He got his wand back from a scowling Dawlish and internally smiled at how the Auror's own prejudice blinded him to how the wand sparked warningly in his hand, clearly not happy with its "owner" holding it.

As he stepped back onto the rocky shore, Lestrange pondered on the various security issues of Azkaban that he planned to correct once he became Minister. There were five already obvious to him just from that brief visit - although based on his lengthening figure and sharpened gaze, he'd been there approximately one hour already.

Swinging his friend's cane back and forth with all the contentment of a man about to whistle, Tom ran a hand through now-dark hair and made a mental note to praise Theodore on his potion-brewing skills - right after he returned Randolph's cane and wand, of course, especially since the latter was now starting to spit sparks at him furiously.

The buying and selling of Polyjuice was heavily restricted, unfortunately, and it took far too long to make, but luckily, he had someone paranoid enough, and resourceful enough, to keep one on hand.

Allowing himself one brief grin, Tom spun on the spot and apparated to an all-too-familiar graveyard to retrieve his beloved wand.

Friday, 24th June

The sun dipped below the horizon, plunging Azkaban into darkness. The only light that remained came from the cold, pale moon and the occasional flicker of distant lightning over the churning sea. The air inside the prison was thick with despair, pressing in on all sides as Peter waited in his cell, his heart pounding with both anticipation and dread.

The hours crawled by, each one feeling longer than the last, but he forced himself to stay calm. He replayed Lord Lestrange's words in his mind, clinging to them like a lifeline. Wait until nightfall. Make your way to the roof. Wait until nightfall. Make your way to the roof. Wait until nightfall. Make your way to the roof...

Now, the moment had arrived. The silence in the prison was broken only by the distant screams of the damned, the sound sending shivers down Peter's spine as he cautiously rose to his feet. His body ached from confinement - he had no idea how long he'd been here already - but adrenaline pushed him forward. He crept to the cell door, still unlocked, and slowly pushed it open.

The corridor outside was dimly lit by a few flickering torches, casting long, eerie shadows on the stone walls. Peter hesitated for a moment, peering down the corridor. No guards in sight. The dementors were likely patrolling the outer edges of the prison, but he knew better than to think the path was clear. They could sense fear, and right now, his heart was a drumbeat of terror in his chest.

He moved as silently as possible, sticking close to the walls, scurrying along as his eyes darted left and right. The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, twisting and turning as if trying to confuse him. Every creak of the stone, every gust of wind through the cracks, made him flinch. But he pressed on, driven by the desperate hope that freedom was within his grasp.

As he ascended a narrow staircase leading to the roof, Peter felt a flicker of hope - just a few more steps and he would be free. He'd find the roof, the escape route waiting for him, and then he'd be far away from this nightmare. The very thought of it made him quicken his pace, despite the fear gnawing at his insides.

Finally, he reached the heavy iron door that led to the roof. He hesitated, one hand on the cold, rusted handle. His breath caught in his throat, his mind racing with possibilities.

What if it was a trap?

The thought came unbidden, but he shoved it away. There was no time for doubt. Lord Lestrange had told him his lord would reward him and he would. Peter had been a loyal, faithful servant. He'd handed the lives of his best friends over to the Dark Lord, asking for nothing but his own life in return so… so he wouldn't go against his word now, would he?

With a grunt, Peter pushed the door open, wincing as it creaked loudly on its hinges. The night air hit him like a wave, cold and biting, but it carried with it the scent of freedom. He stepped out onto the roof, his heart pounding in his chest, scanning the area for the promised escape route.

But there was nothing.

No wizard, no broom, no wand, nothing. Just the cold, empty expanse of the rooftop. A deep sense of dread began to creep over him as he realised something was terribly, terribly wrong. He spun around, looking frantically in every direction, hoping against hope that something, someone, would appear.

And then he heard it - a low, rattling breath, followed by another, and another, and another, and-

Dementors.

The dark, shifting forms of hundreds of dementors filled the night sky, hovering like a stormcloud ready to descend. Their tattered cloaks flapped silently in the wind as they turned toward him in unison, sensing the presence of a living soul - a soul ripe for the taking.

Peter stumbled back, his mind reeling. No, this can't be right! There was supposed to be a way out, someone to help… But deep down, he knew the truth. He had been betrayed. There was never an escape plan. He had been a fool to trust that someone like Randolph Lestrange would help him.

Panic surged through him as the dementors began to move closer, their rattling breaths filling the air with an icy chill. The temperature plummeted, and Peter could see his breath in the air, a mist of terror and despair. His legs felt like lead, rooted to the spot as the first of the dementors reached him, its skeletal hand stretching out from beneath its cloak.

"No, no, please!" he whimpered, his voice a desperate whisper.

He turned to flee, but there was nowhere to go. The dementors had encircled him, their numbers too great, their presence overwhelming. He fell to his knees, his teeth chattering uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face as he realised the inevitability of his fate.

The only thing waiting for him was death - no, worse than death, a Kiss.

"Please!" he cried out, his voice cracking with fear, "Please, no! I did what you asked! I told you where it was! I'm here!"

But there was no answer, no rescue, no escape.

The dementors closed in, their icy fingers reaching out toward him. The last vestiges of warmth and hope drained from his body, leaving him hollow and empty, his mind screaming in silent horror. He could feel them pulling at his very soul, ripping it away from his body, consuming it with a hunger that could never be sated.

Peter's vision blurred as the dementor closest to him lowered its hood, revealing the gaping maw that would take everything from him.

He tried to scream, but no sound came out.

An unbearable coldness seeped into his bones.

The dementor clamped its mouth over his.

And then-

And the-

And-

A-

Saturday, 25th June

Sirius smiled as the very exhausted-looking healer levitated his breakfast tray over his bed, keeping it friendly rather than flirtatious because the poor witch already looked like she'd had enough and it wasn't even half-nine yet.

He was surprised he was even capable of still smiling himself given how long he'd been confined to this stupid bloody room - twenty-one days and counting - but he consoled himself with the thought of having the worst behind him now.

His healers hadn't been very happy with his sneaking-off-to-Hogwarts stunt and had him strictly limited to a bed for three days afterwards. Not that he could really complain, he supposed, given how exhausted he'd felt once he'd returned. Getting to Dumbledore's office had been a cinch - break into the healer-in-charge's office, pinch a bit of Floo powder, land in the Hog's Head Inn, sneak out the back, and climb the hill to Hogwarts - keeping his head down, keeping one foot in front of the other, and keeping his thoughts on Harry Harry Harry.

He was alive.

Harry Potter, his best friend's child, his very own godson was still alive.

The relief had almost flattened him there and then in that dusty old circular tower, the Book to his left and Dumbledore to his right, but he'd managed to keep it together, to keep a tight rein on the magic that was just itching to explode with joy and love and freedom but also fury because how the blithering fuck did they lose his godson?!

Remus refused to say any more on the matter since that day Dumbledore had told him the truth. He genuinely believed that Harry was dead, and no matter what Sirius said about having evidence otherwise, he wouldn't change his mind.

He couldn't blame him, he supposed. Moony already had that hope ripped out from under him once, and if it turned out that their pup wasn't coming back, then the second blow could very well kill him.

How had he gone missing?

How did the wizarding world lose its saviour?

How were his relatives able to look Albus Dumbledore in the face and say they got rid of him?

Sirius didn't have much else to do but think these days, confined to a bed taking potion after disgusting potion to try and regain his strength, and he couldn't help but wonder why.

Why had any of this happened? Why had Dumbledore given Harry to Petunia of all bloody people? Why hadn't she taken him in willingly? Why had she taken him in at all if she was going to abandon him somewhere else a decade later? Why hadn't Albus stopped her from doing so? Why hadn't anyone found him yet? And why hadn't they told him about it the second he escaped Azkaban?!

Shaking his head, Sirius reached for The Daily Prophet with one hand while his other snagged a piece of toast. At least that was one good thing he had going for him these days - they'd started giving him proper food about a week back, and he never thought that something as simple as plain toast could ever be so appealing.

Taking a bite - and thoroughly appreciating the crunch - he unrolled the newspaper. Nothing even remotely interesting had happened since his escape, but he had twelve long years of wizarding world events to catch up on and the present day was as good a place as any to start.

Finishing the triangular slice of toast, he scanned the headlines and-

Froze.

PRISONER PETTIGREW GETS KILLING KISS

Dropping the paper, he hurriedly grabbed the tray and shoved it onto his bedside table so that he could properly sit up, rereading the headline and quickly scanning the article itself because there was no fucking way-

The door to his hospital room slammed open and a very breathless Remus Lupin stood there, an identical copy of the Prophet in his hands and looking almost vicious in his delight which meant-

Which meant it was true.

Peter Pettigrew was dead.

Remus crossed the room so fast it made Sirius briefly wonder when the next full moon was but that didn't matter right now, nothing mattered right now, because there was a large grin on Moony's face, making him look a decade younger, and there was a darkly satisfied and smug gleam in his eyes, making him look twice as feral, and, well, Sirius had always had a thing for tall, dark, and handsome, even if "dark" here related more to magic than it did to physical appearance so-

He dropped the newspaper, grabbed Moony's face, and yanked him forward into a bruising kiss.

It was fierce and demanding and full of grief and guilt and longing. Sirius tangled his fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, Remus's own hands having automatically risen to clutch at his shirt collar. The older man poured every single emotion he had into the kiss before the need for air became too much and he pulled back, gasping.

Sirius kept his hands on Remus's face, his eyes searching the other man's expression wildly. Moony's gaze was wide, his breath coming in short, surprised bursts. The flush on his cheeks was unmistakable - and fucking adorable - as was the look of shock and confusion mingled with something else; something deeper and more complex.

Sirius wondered if he should feel regret, blindsiding him like this, but he was done with living with regret, he'd had twelve years of living with regret and now that he had a second chance at life, he was going to grasp at it like drowning men grasped at straws.

The only thing he did regret was not kissing his best friend sooner.

Remus continued to stare at him, his mouth open and red and so fucking kissable, a whirlwind of emotions clashing in his eyes and then-

Then he smiled.

Slowly, at first, and small, but then wider and broader and happier and-

Then there were calloused hands in his hair and chapped lips against his own and his neck was aching from being turned at such an awkward angle but he didn't care, he did not fucking care one bit because Moony was here and Wormtail was dead and he was finally, finally free.

Later, after Sirius tried to convince Remus to join him in the hospital bed and he reluctantly agreed with the strict stipulation that all of their clothes remained on - like the sourwolf that he was - the older man picked back up the newspaper with one hand, his other tracing meaningless symbols on Remus's cardigan, and stared at it thoughtfully.

It was an accident, the Ministry said, a grievous error on the prison guards' part. One of the arresting Aurors simply hadn't secured Pettigrew's cell well enough and the rat had managed to escape. It was truly unfortunate that he had walked straight into a hoard of dementors on the way out, and a horrible tragedy that he'd lost his soul before the prison guards could rescue him…

Bullshit.

Not just the "horrible tragedy" part, although Sirius had very strong feelings on that particular turn of phrase, but the entire "accident" part was absolute rubbish! He'd spent twelve long years without seeing any such accident happen, and it was figuratively and perhaps even literally drilled into Aurors to always triple-check the cell doors as they left. This wasn't a bloody muggle prison, after all, they were wizards!

It wasn't as simple as turning a key in the lock, although that was a part of it, but there were charms that had to be cast to prevent the use of wandless magic and there were spells used to prevent the transformation of registered Animagi and there were wards that were woven into the lock on every door that prevented the dementors from getting too close and-

It wasn't an accident.

It couldn't be.

As much as Sirius loathed the entire fucking Ministry for what they did to him, only the most senior and capable of Aurors were allowed to transport prisoners, and they simply wouldn't - couldn't - have forgotten to do all of that. Not to mention the fact that Peter bloody Pettigrew would never have waited this long before trying to escape either. And why would he go to the roof anyway? Surely if he was trying to escape then he would have gone for the main gates which he could then apparate past - not the bloody roof!

But if it wasn't an accident, then… someone had let him out on purpose.

He briefly wondered if it had been a failed attempt at rescuing the rat, but he dismissed that thought almost as soon as it arose because first of all, Peter didn't have any friends and nor did he deserve them, but second of all, and most importantly, if there was a witch or wizard out there who was smart enough and powerful enough to break into Azkaban and to get so far as to dismantle the wards around the cell and unlock it without raising a single hint of suspicion from anyone… then they would have finished the job and taken Wormtail with them - not leave him at the mercy of the dementors.

No. This wasn't an accident and this wasn't an escape. This was… purposeful.

Someone, aside from him and Moony, wanted Peter Pettigrew dead.

But who?

They always said that Azkaban was impenetrable, that nobody could ever break in or out of it. He'd disproven the latter himself, but to be fair, his own escape had been under… extenuating circumstances. Being an Animagus wouldn't help anyone get into the prison either - that much he did know - but someone had to have let the rat out of his cage and Sirius wanted to know who he should send the thank you card to.

But let's say that it really was impenetrable, he mused, that would mean that a guard or a visitor who was legally allowed to be there had opened the cell door. He highly doubted it was any of the guards and he could count the number of visitors he'd seen in twelve years on one hand.

There was the Minister, of course, who had to conduct inspections every once and a while, but aside from him… Sirius had only ever seen Randolph Lestrange. Clearly Fudge had nothing to gain by Pettigrew's death, but Lestrange…

Yes.

He could see that happening.

How ironic that Wormtail should be led to his death by betrayal…

Peter had betrayed the Dark Lord just as much as he'd betrayed the Marauders, after all, although his betrayal of Lily and James was the only side Sirius had ever cared to see before - but that didn't mean there weren't others that were just as pissed off with the rat.

In fact, he could rather easily understand why You-Know-Who's most devoted would be… irritated with Wormtail at the moment, having led their master to his death, having hidden like a coward for twelve years afterwards, having squealed on them the second he was arrested… and since Lestrange was the only person that particular part of Azkaban ever saw… perhaps Sirius should send his dear cousin's father-in-law a gift basket.

"Moony?"

Remus, half-asleep and lying against his chest, hummed. "Yeah, Pads?"

"I need you to pick up a few things…"