The air inside Number Twelve coiled, stretching against the walls as if the house itself had drawn breath and refused to let it go. The dim sconces sputtered, shadows that pooled in the corners swallowing their feeble glow like tar. Dust drifted in the air, stirring under movement too slight to see, settling in the deep grooves of ancient wood paneling. The long dining table bore the weight of war—maps spread haphazardly, ink-stained parchment crumpled at the edges, the bones of a half-eaten meal lying abandoned among them.

Sirius slouched in his chair.

He kept his boots hooked over the table's edge, clutching a glass of firewhiskey in fingers gone bloodless. The liquor remained untouched, amber light fractured through the crystal, the scent curling up in sharp, smoky ribbons. The moment Dumbledore spoke, everything inside him locked up—lungs, throat, every muscle pulled taut beneath skin that had stretched too tight.

"There was a shooting at Privet Drive."

Of course.

Sirius had seen it coming—hell, he'd written the damn letter himself. Stay put, pup. Don't do anything reckless. We're handling it. Words he'd scratched onto parchment with the blind faith that Harry would listen. That he trusted Sirius enough to wait. But trust meant nothing to a boy who had spent every summer locked behind that fucking door, left with nothing but silence and neglect.

And now—

"Harry's gone." Dumbledore's voice stole the air from the room. "Petunia Dursley confirmed it. The girl—our unknown variable—took a car and left with him. The details are sparse, but what we do know is that Vernon Dursley is dead."

Sirius' stomach twisted with something dark and slow and rotten curling beneath his ribs.

Molly's gasp cracked the stillness. Her hands flew to her mouth, knuckles pressing white against freckled skin. Across from her, Arthur dragged a weary hand down his face, breath leaving him in a long, frayed exhale. Even Mundungus ceased his restless shifting.

Tonks frowned. "What the hell do you mean dead? Are we sure?"

"His body was still warm when I arrived. Shot at close range. Petunia was in no state to provide further details." He lifted his gaze. "And yes, Nymphadora, we are sure."

Sirius clenched his jaw. The muscle twitched. A slow, pulsing ache crept up his temple.

Dead.

Another body. Another life stolen right in front of Harry.

"Do you have any idea who she is?" Remus leaned forward, hands clasped, fingers pressed tight enough to turn the scars white. His eyes flicked over the scattered reports, the inked scrawl of names and dates, a tangle of unanswered questions laid bare. "We have nothing on her. No connections, no affiliations. Just Arabella's vague description. You must have some theories."

"Arabella said she saw blue hair…" Kingsley crossed his arms. "Young. Unhinged. Is she a muggle, Dumbledore?"

Sirius frowned. "What makes you think that?"

"Even the most rebellious and progressive in our society don't dye their hair blue. Furthermore, if she's a witch, she's learned magic in a way I've never seen before. She didn't use a wand."

"Harry wouldn't leave with just anyone." Molly's eyes darted between them. "Whoever she is, she persuaded him. She—she manipulated him! She must have—"

"He made the choice." Sirius gulped from his glass.

Molly flinched. "Sirius—"

"He made the choice."

His boots hit the floor, the chair scraping back as he sat forward. The firewhiskey in his grip sloshed as energy burned beneath his skin, coiling too hot and too sharp. Fire filled the spaces between bone and marrow like something that refused to let him contain it.

"There was no manipulation. No deception. Just desperation." He swept his gaze across the table. "You don't get it, Molly—none of you do."

A brittle silence settled over the room, stretching taut like old leather ready to split.

The air hung thick with unspoken words, pressing against walls lined with peeling wallpaper and dust-heavy drapes that swallowed the dim candlelight. Sirius curled his fingers tighter around the glass. His pulse hammered in a relentless drumbeat against his ribs. Molly's lips thinned, her breathing shallowing, but Sirius had no patience for whatever plea she meant to shape. He pushed up from his chair, wooden legs scraping over ancient floorboards, the sound splitting the hush like a knife drawn too fast from its sheath.

"None of this would have happened—" He turned to Dumbledore. "—if it weren't for you."

Whiskey sloshed, amber liquid lapping against glass. His grip turned vice-like, a pressure that should've shattered the rim, should've cracked something to match the feeling splintering through his chest.

"None of this would have happened if you hadn't sent him back."

Dumbledore met the words with the patience of a man who had spent a lifetime burying sins beneath quiet conviction. "Sirius—"

"You sent him back to them." Sirius slammed the glass down, the liquid spilling over maps and seeping into the fragile paper, blurring ink meant for battle. "After everything. After the graveyard. After Cedric. After Voldemort came back. You sent him back there."

A muscle shifted in Dumbledore's jaw.

Molly tensed, squaring her shoulders like she wanted to come rushing to Dumbledore's defense, but she didn't speak. Arthur's fingers twitched against the tabletop, slow and thoughtful, eyes shadowed with something heavier than worry. Remus watched with the steady gaze of a man who had seen this kind of fury before and knew better than to flinch. Everyone stared at Dumbledore. Tonks, Kingsley, even Mundungus.

No one denied it. Because they knew. They knew Sirius was right.

"He needed protection." Dumbledore's voice bore the quiet certainty of someone speaking a fact that should have excused his decision. "It was the only way."

"Protection?" A sharp laugh tore from Sirius' throat with jaggedness and bitterness. "Is that what you call it?"

"Sirius, the blood wards—"

"You isolated him. You cut him off from everyone—his friends, his godfather, the people who actually give a damn about him. You locked him in that house and left him to rot."

"He couldn't be here, Sirius. We're in the midst of a war."

"The hell he couldn't have!"

"Harry is a fifteen-year-old boy." The blue behind Dumbledore's glasses dimmed. "He's not a soldier. He's a child."

"A child you've left to fend for himself his whole bloody life!" Sirius stepped forward, every muscle as taut as a bowstring drawn too far. "You didn't tell him the truth about the prophecy. You didn't let him know what was coming. You lied to him. And now? Now you're surprised he ran?"

Dumbledore exhaled. "I did not mean for him to feel abandoned."

Sirius barked another laugh, cold as winter air through broken glass. "And yet, that's exactly what he felt, wasn't it?"

Molly shifted, her hands pressing against the table. Arthur's gaze flicked toward Dumbledore, a rare flicker of doubt darkening his features. Even Kingsley, usually unreadable, studied the headmaster now with calculation. Sirus locked eyes with Remus. In that quiet, unflinching stare, he found what no one else dared say aloud. 'You're right.' But Remus wouldn't speak the words. Because saying it meant admitting this a mistake and more. It was a failure.

And Dumbledore never failed.

"We must speak of the girl." Kingsley's deep voice cut through the thickening silence. "Regardless of why Harry left, he's with her. We must—."

A sharp knock crashed against the front door.

The candles shuddered, their flames bending as though exhaling a final breath. Shadows thickened in the corners, crawling up the walls where the specters of the Black family clung like dust in the grooves of old wallpaper. The house listened, the very bones of Number Twelve tightening as if bracing for the weight of yet another unwelcome presence.

Sirius' fingers twitched toward his wand, the instinct buried so deep it barely required thought.

The door groaned open. A figure coiled from the darkness beyond, the sweeping motion of his robes swallowing the candlelight in their wake. Snape slid into the room like an omen scratched into the pages of some ancient, ill-fated prophecy, the scent of burnt incense clinging to his presence, thick and acrid, a whisper of whatever filth he had been steeped in before slithering back here.

Sirius curled his lip. "You're late."

Snape moved past him, not sparing a glance. He crossed the room in measured, deliberate strides, claiming an empty chair near the fireplace. The battered upholstery sagged beneath his weight, as if the house itself recoiled, trying to absorb him into its rot and be rid of him all at once.

Snape's black eyes flicked over the gathered Order, dissecting the room before settling on Dumbledore. "What happened?"

No drawl, no sneer. Just a clipped demand, lacking its usual venom. Whatever shadows he had walked through before stepping into this room had drained him enough to forgo his usual theatrics.

But Sirius knew better than to mistake exhaustion for care.

Kingsley exhaled. "We have a situation."

Snape arched a thin brow, the curve of it speaking what his mouth did not—When don't we?

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, the candlelight catching on the knotted joints of his hands. "Harry has disappeared. He left Privet Drive with an unknown girl—an individual of considerable… unpredictability."

A flicker. Barely more than a ripple over the surface of Snape's face, but Sirius caught it. Sharp. Fast. Gone. "Explain."

Something sick churned in Sirius' gut at the idea of him being the one to explain any of this—to Snape of all people. The bastard would savor it, would roll every last failure around his mouth like wine, letting it stain his teeth before spitting it back. But Snape needed to know. And worse—he might already know more than the rest of them.

Molly inhaled. "There was an incident at Privet Drive. A shooting."

"A shooting?" Snape's head tilted, the firelight carving deeper hollows beneath his cheekbones. "Muggle weapons?"

"Yes." Arthur rubbed slow circles against his temples. "Vernon Dursley is dead."

Stillness. An unnatural, absolute thing, spreading from Snape outward, tightening the air in the room like a noose. Even the fire dimmed, the quiet swallowing the distant crackle of burning wood, leaving only the faint rasp of parchment as Kingsley shifted a report aside.

Then, the faintest incline of Snape's head, a movement precise as the edge of a blade poised at the throat. "Potter killed him?"

Sirius lunged forward, palm striking the table with enough force to send parchment fluttering. "Don't you dare suggest that—"

"It was the girl." Dumbledore interjected with the smoothness of a scalpel. "Arabella saw her. A young woman with blue hair. She and Harry left together in a car. We do not yet know where they are headed."

A slow, measured twitch of Snape's fingers against the armrest. No outward reaction, no wasted movement. But something behind his black eyes moved, gears shifting, the slow turning of a locked mechanism clicking into place. "And Potter—willingly—left with her?"

"Yes." Kingsley nodded.

"Of course he did."

Sirius bristled. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Snape's gaze cut to him, dark and pitiless as the bottom of a well. "It means, Black, that for all your posturing as a responsible godfather, you and Potter share the same reckless disregard for self-preservation."

Sirius reached for his wand. "You—"

Remus caught his hand. "Not now."

Sirius opened his mouth to tell Remus exactly what—

A rustle in the corridor pricked at the edges of his awareness. A damp, slithering movement, barely more than a whisper. The fine hairs along his arms lifted.

Kreacher.

The little wretch hovered in the doorway, hunched and misshapen, his yellowed eyes glinting like an animal watching from the depths of a burrow. He barely breached the threshold, fingers twisting in the threadbare folds of his filthy tunic, lips working around whatever filth he didn't yet dare to say.

Sirius frowned. "Get lost, Kreacher."

The elf twitched. His beady gaze slid across the room, lingering on Snape before he slunk back into the darkness, the whisper of his movements vanishing into the house's rotten silence. Sirius turned, setting his focus where it belonged. Snape had settled deeper into his chair, his posture relaxed in the way only a practiced liar could manage.

Sirius sat back down. "What were you doing tonight?"

"Something infinitely more important than coddling your godson's latest act of stupidity."

Sirius' fingers curled against the table's edge. "Try again."

Snape exhaled. His usual disdain lingered, but there was something off—something strained. Not just weariness, not just the bone-deep exhaustion of playing double agent. No, this dragged at him in a way Sirius had rarely seen.

"The Dark Lord is focused elsewhere." Snape's fingers tapped against the wooden armrest, once, twice, then stilled. "He has no interest in Potter. Yet. His attention is on securing old alliances. That is what tonight was about."

Dumbledore laced his pale fingers together. "Who was in attendance?"

"The usual. Malfoy. Nott. Avery. The Lestranges." Snape's mouth twisted. "Greyback."

The name struck the room like a hammer against stone. Remus' shoulders went rigid, his hand tightening against the table's surface, knuckles whitening with the pressure. A muscle in his jaw jumped, but he said nothing.

Dumbledore's voice dropped. "Was he called for any particular reason?"

"He was given orders." Snape's words clipped short. "Recruitment. Expansion. The Dark Lord wants more creatures in his ranks. He believes the werewolves will fall in line once the Ministry starts tightening its leash."

The air pressed inward.

They all knew the war was coming. Had been bracing for it, preparing for the inevitable. But hearing it laid bare—Greyback, recruitment, expansion—turned that knowledge into something heavier. More real.

Remus let out a slow, steadying breath. "I can see where this is going."

Snape barely spared him a glance. "If you plan on doing something, Lupin, you best hurry."

Sirius threw his glass of firewhiskey into the wall behind Snape. "Harry is still the priority!"

Snape glanced at the broken glass and liquid on the wall and then sneered at Sirius.

"Tell me you have something useful." Sirius trembled. "Any connection to this girl? Any mention of an outsider working with—"

"No." Snape shook his head. "Whoever she is, she has nothing to do with the Dark Lord."

Sirius' pulse thrummed against his throat, hammering with the sharp, restless demand for answers.

"Then who the hell is she?" Tonks crossed her arms. " You don't just show up and kill a man like it's an afterthought."

Sirius barely heard her. His focus stayed locked on Snape, tracking the small betrayals of tension in his posture, the way his fingers drummed once against his sleeve before stilling. A tell. Barely there, but there nonetheless. Something wasn't lining up.

"You're sure no one's mentioned her?" Sirius breathed heavily. "No talk of a mercenary, an assassin, anything?"

"If I had something, Black, I would have shared it already."

"Like hell you would."

"Believe what you want." Snape's dark eyes flickered with something colder than anger, something carved from ice and old grudges. "If the girl were tied to the Dark Lord, I would know. I would hear whispers. There has been nothing."

"That's great…" Tonks looked around. "Isn't it?"

Snape shook his head. "It is far more concerning than reassuring."

Sirius' chest ached as if someone had sunk a blade into his flesh.

No ties to Voldemort. No connections to the Death Eaters. No trace of her in the shadows they had spent years hunting through. Yet she had killed Vernon Dursley without hesitation. She had taken Harry. She had left behind a scene loud enough to set the entire Ministry on high alert.

Sirius ground his teeth. Untrained killers didn't move like that.

"But…" Tonks frowned. "But why?"

"She knew what she was doing." Kingsley's voice carried the weight of a conclusion no one liked. "Arabella said she moved like someone who expected a fight. If she had magic, she didn't use it. That means she's trained another way."

"Perhaps she's a muggle professional?" Arthur folded his hands on the table. "Someone Harry somehow encountered before and never told us?"

"No. No, that boy was open book with me." Sirius' stomach twisted. "This was someone new."

"I still think he didn't have a choice." Molly took a deep breath. "I think she forced him."

"He had his wand, Molly." Sirius clenched his jaw. "He was perfectly capable of defending himself."

"Then why did he leave?"

"There is a greater problem at hand." Dumbledore shifted, the movement slight, but enough to draw every eye. The candlelight guttered, auburn light flickering over the deep lines etched into his face. "One we cannot ignore."

Everyone looked at Dumbledore.

"Petunia said the girl called him Brilliant."

Sirius blinked. "What?"

"A nickname." Dumbledore's gaze slid over everyone. "Repeatedly. She did not call him Harry. Not once."

The words thumped into Sirius' chest. "She didn't know who he was…"

Tonks blinked. "Why… uh… Why does that matter?"

"Because…" The implications curled into Sirius' ribs like ice. "She hadn't gone after Harry Potter. She had gone after a boy in a house."

"So?"

"That means that not only was none of this planned, it likely has nothing to do with our world." Dumbledore shook his head. "I had hoped Severus would have information to prove this assumption wrong, but alas…"

Sirius swallowed down the sick taste rising in his throat, thick as smoke from a house already burning. His breath pressed hard against his ribs, coiled tight with nowhere to go. The chair scraped against the floor as he shoved himself upright again, the sound cutting through the stagnant air like steel on stone.

"I'm going after him."

Dumbledore's gaze bore into him. "You will do no such thing."

Sirius turned on him. "I'm not sitting here while he—"

"The Ministry is watching." Kingsley leaned back into his chair. "If you so much as step outside, someone will see you."

Sirius' hands curled into fists at his sides. "Then what? We just wait? Hope he doesn't get himself killed before we—"

"We will find him, Sirius." Dumbledore nodded at him. "I promise we will."

The words should have felt like reassurance, should have held some promise of control. But Sirius only tasted the raw bitterness of it, the unbearable slowness of waiting. His breath came hard through his nose, nostrils flaring. It wasn't enough. It was never enough.

A shape shifted in the shadows with barely a sound.

Sirius turned his head sharply.

Kreacher loomed just beyond the candlelight, a gnarled hand gripping the edge of the doorway. His bulbous eyes gleamed wetly, flicking between them, unreadable in the dim glow. The hunched frame of his body pressed close to the wood, as if the house itself might swallow him if he stepped too far inside.

Waiting. Listening.

Sirius barely spared him a glance.


That's a wrap for Chapter 8!

Let me know what you liked and disliked, I love and appreciate all constructive criticism, especially since I always keep editing and improving these chapters. I would love to hear all your thoughts!

Two more chapters, and the pace is going to pick up.

Check me out on p. a. t. r.e.o.n.. c.o.m. /TheStorySpinner (don't forget to remove the spaces and dots) for early releases of new chapters and bonus content.

The following chapters are already available there:

Chapter 9: My Sidekick Is Having a Breakdown

Chapter 10: That Is One Ugly Gremlin

Chapter 11: Snackquisition

Chapter 12: Ka-Ching! (Maybe?)

Chapter 13: Side Effects May Include: Warmth

Chapter 14: Creeps, Crooks, and Customer Service

See you in Chapter 9!