Another Faceless Author

A commotion tore his thoughts from the tragedy, if only for a moment. The doors clanged open, down a long hallway. Padfoot’s ears raised, alert, listening for clues. Prisoners whispered, someone new? No, a visitor. Hm? The Minister…

Sirius became himself again. Or, his human form, that is. He’d spent so much time as a dog, he couldn’t always recall which he’d been first.

His hearing was worse in this body, he couldn’t make out the minister’s footsteps until he was only a few cells away. And the dementor’s influence hit harder. With the full capacity of his human memory, the scenes played out behind his eyelids; James and Lily choosing him as their Secret Keeper, his suggestion that they use Peter, the betrayal.

Finding their bodies strewn about the broken house; James, wandless, Lily, collapsed beneath the cradle. Harry, wailing.

He wanted to tear his heart out through his chest and rip it to pieces, watch as the life drained from his skin. But Cornelius Fudge was coming.

The Minister of Magic strode down the dark, freezing hallway with an air of superiority and disgust, clear as day presented on his face. He hardly glanced at the tortured figures, shrieking and moaning around him—all except one. He looked down to see Sirius Black, the notorious mass murderer, sitting cross legged, lazing leaning against the bars of his cell. If it weren’t for how hauntingly thin and gaunt he was, Cornelius would have sworn Sirius hadn’t spent a day in Azkaban.

Fudge was even more astonished when the pale, sickly figure turned it’s head carelessly, opened its mouth, and spoke. There was still a hint of life in his eyes, a wonder to see when surrounded by a mass of soulless shells, wasting away in their cages. “Are you finished with your paper?” His voice was strong, if a bit crackled from misuse. So full of life in a way none of the other people—if he could even call them that anymore—in Azkaban were.

When Fudge didn’t move, Sirius gestured to the copy of The Daily Prophet he’d been carrying. He’d forgotten about it entirely in the mess of anguish and decay that was Azkaban.

Why would a convict, let alone this one—the raving lunatic, want to read the Prophet?

It appeared he didn’t have to ask, as Sirius supplied the answer willingly. “I like to do the crosswords.” And then he smiled. It was far from the same mischievous, charming smile of his youth, but it wasn’t a crooked sneer like the others prisoners.

Fudge didn’t know what to think. He tried to consider for a moment, but couldn’t come up with a single way handing over the paper was dangerous. So he did.

“Have a good day, sir.” The words echoed down the hall with him as he briskly walked away. A shudder ran down his back and he shook his head, trying to forget all about the encounter with one completely sane mass murderer.

Sirius Black, however, sat back, and unfolded the paper. Very few of the headlines interested him, though one picture did catch his attention. A bustling family smiled brightly and waved up at him, pyramids stretching out behind them. The parents looked vaguely familiar, in the same way his friend’s names floated in and out of his head, but he couldn’t put his finger on it until he read the article beside the image.

Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office at the Ministry of Magic has won the annual Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw.

Sirius smiled faintly, suddenly remembering the lanky, somewhat-awkward redhead and his kind wife. His eyes flickered back to the picture, their big, beautiful family (he counted nine of them) fussing with their belongings and waving again.

Then his eyes landed on the youngest boy. He couldn’t have been older than twelve, still shorter than most of his family, and there was an innocence in the wonder in his bright eyes. But Sirius was too focused on his outstretched hand and the creature that he held in front of him.

A rat. It was fat and grey and missing a toe.

Sirius’s heart dropped from his chest as he raced to finish the article.

The Weasley family will be spending a month in Egypt, returning for the start of the new school year at Hogwarts, which five of the Weasley children currently attend.

The boy must be one of the five.

Wormtail would be at Hogwarts.

Sirius wracked his brain as to why this information terrified him. Having discarded the paper, he transformed back into a dog and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate.

Hogwarts. The betrayal. James. Lily. Remus. Peter.

Harry.

Sirius' eyes snapped open.

He began to plan.

***

In the grand scheme of things, escaping Azkaban hadn’t been all that difficult.

He must’ve gotten away with significantly more difficult pranks in all his time at Hogwarts, Padfoot reckoned, as he paddled off the island. Even then, just off the rocky shores, as a dog in the freezing cold waters, his memories were coming back to him. Not fast, and not well, but he could remember his purpose.

He felt the dementors’ grip on him slowly fading, the terrible reminders of the past that had plagued his every waking moment finally relenting to the better, though not exactly happy, thoughts. He was out. He was free.

Wormtail was at Hogwarts.

Padfoot kept swimming.

***

The pram, still kept hopefully by the door, was tossed aside as Voldemort entered the Potter’s safehouse with a thunderous clatter.

“Lily!” James cried, voice straining in the effort to make sure she heard him. In an instant she knew something was wrong. “Take Harry and go! It’s him!” Her heart rate accelerated, pounding in her ears as she immediately dropped the laundry, springing to action. “Go! Run! I’ll hold him off!”

His words seemed to echo throughout the small house. Every nerve in her body set aflame with adrenaline as Lily rushed into the nursery. Then she heard the terrible curse, the words confirming her worst nightmares, “ Avada Kedavra! ”

The faint thud that followed was barely registered by Lily’s senses as a blood-curdling shriek escaped her throat, pouring her soul out into the cold, still night. It only then occurred to her that she was wandless. Trapped, stuck on the top floor with no way out. No escape.

She shoved a chair under the door handle, a desperate last attempt to barricade herself in, and pressed a final kiss to her son’s forehead. “I love you sweetheart,” she whispered.

Voldemort cast the furniture aside effortlessly and entered the room.

Lily had seen him before, face to face. After all, he had thrice asked her personally to join his legion of Death Eaters. She had always refused. Holding fast to that same determination, Lily swallowed, dropping Harry in his crib and throwing her arms wide to shield him. She was not scared. No harm would come to her son. Of this, she was certain.

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!” She knew he would not listen. The words were a last instinct, more for herself than the foul murderer who stood in front of her, draped in a dark cloak, wand outstretched.

“Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside now.” He commanded her with force in his tone. Lily recognized the familiar sensation of the Imperious curse and fought against it.

“Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—” She would do anything, anything to protect her son.

“This is my last warning—” His voice was cold, cruel, and calculating.

“Not Harry! Please… have mercy… have mercy… Not Harry! Not Harry!” she repeated the words over and over again as if saying them one more time was the key to changing the course of time. “Please—I’ll do anything—”

“Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!”

In the fleeting moments that followed, Harry Potter became the Boy who Lived.

***

It was in some of the final moments of October 31st, 1981 that Hagrid arrived at the decimated house in Godric's Hollow. He’d gotten his orders from Dumbledore the moment the fated curse had rebounded, thanks to a number of surveillance spells, which rang sharp and loud like sirens throughout the Headmaster’s study that night. Hagrid had heard them, even from far off in his hut on the grounds. His blood had turned cold.

The instinct to collapse on the pavement at the sight very nearly overwhelmed him. James and Lily. But above all the devastation he could hear the baby’s cries and he remembered just why he had come.

He dug through the ruins, trying and failing to bite back tears in the chill of the late October night. Just as he found Harry, the tiny infant with a new lightning scar cut jagged across his small forehead, wriggling around and sobbing, a faint rumbling came from down the street. No—from above.

Sirius Black descended upon the scene carefully, landing his magical motorcycle on the street just outside what had been the Potter’s front gate. He was shaking slightly and out of breath, his famously sleek hair now messy and knotted from the wind, his cheeks flushed a bright shade of pink from the chill.

“No!” The shout tore through the too-still air like a shotgun blast. Sirius discarded his bike, letting it fall to the pavement carelessly. He climbed through the wreckage, falling to his knees when he discovered James’ limp body, collapsed over the stairs. His glasses were askew across his face and his mouth was open, gaping lifelessly.

“Where is he…” Sirius muttered to himself. “That son of a bitch where is he—I’ll kill him myself—”

“Hol’ on there Sirius,” Hagrid placed a heavy hand on his shoulder as the tears began to flow. Sirius couldn’t bear it, the tidal waves of emotion, crashing into his body and drawing him under one by one. “It’s a tragedy, but we can’t go doin’ anything reckless, now. It’s not what they would’a wanted.”

Sirius looked up, blinking away the unrelenting stream of sadness pouring down his face. His eyes locked on the baby.

Harry.

His godson.

Harry had fallen back asleep, settled by the soothing rocking and warmth of Hagrid’s arms. He looked so peaceful, so serene, so unaware of the horrors that surrounded him. It broke Sirius’ heart.

“I’ll take him.” His voice broke and he coughed, clearing his throat. “Harry. He’s my godson after all. It’s my responsibility to make sure he’s okay.”

Hagrid looked down on him with an expression of pity. “Oh… I got strict orders from Dumbledore ‘imself. Gonna bring ‘Arry ‘ere to his aunt and uncle in Little Whinging.”

The information washed over Sirius. He swallowed. “Okay,” he agreed hesitantly. Who was he to be a father? He was young, he was reckless, he—“Dumbledore’s usually right in these instances.” His eyes flashed over to the street. He straightened up. “Take my bike.”

Hagrid paused in his rocking of Harry for a moment, shocked. “You sure ‘bout that? Ya love that thing.”

Sirius nodded. He had never been more sure of anything else in his life. “I won’t be needing it, and it’ll get you there quickly. Probably a day, day and a half trip but it’s faster than any Muggle transportation.” He eyed the pink umbrella by Hagrid’s side, “And safer than any experimental magic.”

Hagrid’s cheeks turned a tinge pink. “Right, yer right o’course.”

Sirius helped him get settled, tucking Harry in with a final, tight hug. “I’ll come to visit, all the time,” he promised, pressing a kiss to Harry’s temple, where the lightning scar graced his soft skin. He watched as the pair drove away into the night, keeping his eyes steady on the headlights until they faded in with the blackness and the stars.

He arranged the bodies of his best friends carefully, placing them together, side by side. He closed their eyes and lay their hands on top of one another. If it weren’t for the devastation surrounding them, the fading Dark Mark illuminating the sky, he could’ve convinced himself they had simply fallen asleep.

As muggle sirens wailed in the distance, red and white flashing lights turning just around the corner, Sirius Black disapparated.

***

November 1st, 1981

Sirius Black appeared on the streets of London just as the sun was rising over the tall buildings. He was raving, blistering rage driving him to mutter to himself nonstop “I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna kill him.”

And that was the extent of his plan.

He was going to trace down Peter Pettigrew, the murderer, the spy , and kill him, if it was the last thing Sirius ever did.

Peter found him first.

Sirius was stalking the streets around Peter’s flat, desperately thinking of a way to find him. Workers had only just started their days, but Sirius had been up all night. The bags under his eyes were dark and heavy, and the grief had set on his face. If any of his friends could have seen him, they would have said he’d aged a decade overnight.

Peter very nearly didn’t recognise him, but he saw the wand hanging by his side, gripped with tight, white knuckles. He knew what he had to do.

“Sirius,” Peter cried, putting on a mask of grief and desperation, “how could you?”

Sirius growled as he turned around. He wanted to tear Wormtail limb from limb, chop off his fingers one by one, anything to make him feel the excruciating pain that he’d forced on Sirius. Feel the weight of his actions, feel the death he had caused.

“We were your friends, Sirius!” Peter let his voice raise higher, attracting the attention of the people passing by. Commuters stopped in their walking, exchanging confused and worried glances, a few eyeing the phone booth on the corner.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sirius grumbled, confused but no less angry.

“James and Lily—”

“HOW DARE YOU SPEAK THEIR NAMES!” Sirius couldn’t wait another moment longer. He lunged, pointing his wand forward, but an explosion drew him back. He covered his eyes instinctively as the dust and rubble blew into his face.

He lowered his arm just in time to see a rat scuttering down the drainpipe into the sewers.

And Sirius Black laughed.

He threw his head back as maniacal, uncontrollable laughter overtook his senses. There was nothing more he could do.

The street was in full panic now; a dozen or so muggle bodies lay across the street, heads cracked on the pavement, oozing blood. Sirens sounded, but they were far off. The Aurors apparated in with a crack .

Sirius Black was still laughing hysterically as they took his arms and roughly dragged him off, all the way to Azkaban.

There was no trial.

***

Remus had thought he’d known pain. He’d broken virtually every bone in his body—twice—from his smallest finger to his spine and skull. He’d woken up with gruesome wounds, scarred skin torn and still gushing blood. He’d dislocated and contorted his joints and was plagued by never ending aches now that he was older. His knee, his hip, his shoulder. He’d experienced the agony of his entire body stretching and extending unnaturally once a month for nearly all his life. He’d taken curse after Unforgivable curse from Death Eaters and still stood to tell the tale. He’d felt everything from the dull throbbing of a sprained ankle to the all-over torture of being bitten by a werewolf. He’d even dealt with heartbreak—earth-shattering anger and gut-wrenching confusion and pure pure sadness.

None of it even remotely compared to how he felt when he heard the news.

Dumbledore had sent a patronus.

James and Lily. Dead.

Peter. Dead.

Sirius. The love of his life. His fiance. A murderer. The spy.

And Remus was left all alone.

He threw up.

Just as he was starting to come to, gasping for air, hunched over the toilet lid, arms shaking with the effort to keep himself up, face splayed with hot, salty tears, thoughts frantically drowning in his mind, he remembered the baby.

Harry .

His stomach twisted. He retched again.

***

November 2nd, 1981

Molly Weasley didn’t know what to think when a sudden knock came at her door in the earliest hours of November 2nd, 1981. The knock itself shook the Burrow, jolting her awake from the half-sleep she’d been catching in the old armchair sat in the corner of Ginny and Ron’s nursery. She’d checked that the babies were still sleeping and rushed down the stairs at once.

When she swung open the door, her heart dropped.

“Hagrid,” she gasped, beckoning him in “Oh, come in. What brings you here at this time of night?” Her pulse raced, silently

He was standing beside Sirius Black’s bike, Molly recognized it from all the times her husband had asked to take a poke around. His bushy hair hung over his eyes and his shoulders were shaking. “I’s… jus’ terrible. I got ‘im and ‘e started cryin’ an’ I’m okay wi’ kids but…” Hagrid blubbered on, tears streaming down his face. He interrupted himself to blow his nose as Molly struggled to follow his story.

“Hagrid, how about I make you a spot of tea and we can—” then she spotted him.

Harry. The Potter’s son.

He was bundled in a small cloth that had come loose and unraveled on the flight over. His mouth was open wide and it was only once Hagrid’s voice died down that Molly heard that he was, indeed, crying.

She reached down immediately and wrapped the baby in her arms, soothing him, even as her own stomach dropped. Hagrid wouldn’t have the Potter’s child unless…

Her husband came down the stairs at that point, still in his nightclothes. “Molly, what’s the matter—” his eyes landed on Hagrid, who’d settled himself down on their couch, which creaked and bent worryingly under his weight. He raised his wand. “Have you asked the questions?”

Molly snapped, “Oh, Arthur, is that really necessary—”

“No, no, it’s right,” Hagrid said, still sniffling. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and nodded. “Go on Arthur.”

Mr. Weasley glanced between his wife and the half-giant sitting in his living room. “What did Molly and I serve after dinner last time we hosted the Order?” he asked, voice strong, still unsure of the situation.

“Treacle pudding, an’ a mighty fine one if I do say so m’self,” Hagrid chuckled sadly.

Arthur lowered his wand. “Sorry, Hagrid. You understand, don’t you?”

Hagrid bowed his head. It was only then that Arthur caught sight of the baby in his wife’s hands. It didn’t have the telltale ginger hair of a Weasley. “Molly…”

She looked up and her face was streaked with silent tears. “It’s Harry.” She couldn’t say any more.

Hagrid filled in what he knew, though there wasn’t much. He spared them the details of the broken house, the strewn bodies, the Dark Mark radiating menacingly above them. Even still, the knowledge was haunting.

The Potters. Gone.

None of the three of them slept that night. Molly made a cup of tea—she’d offered a warm meal but none of them had much of an appetite—and they talked themselves silly, sitting in the living room, reliving their best memories of the young couple. When the eldest Weasleys thundered down the stairs early that morning, they found their parents with heavy bags beneath their eyes, cheeks still stained with the dried reminders of their grief.

Harry, who’d fallen asleep shortly after being placed in Mrs. Weasley’s arms, awoke with a bit of a startled gurgle. Seeing him awake made Hagrid remember his responsibilities. He cleared his throat and placed his hands on his thighs, beginning to stand, “Well, I bes’ be off. Got a long journey ahead of us, don’t we ‘Arry?”

“Oh Hagrid, don’t be silly,” Molly retorted. “You’ll fall out of the air in your current state!” She gave him the friendliest smile she could manage, “Take a rest. You can sleep in the guest room—at least a few hours. I insist.”

When Hagrid came down a short while later, feeling slightly refreshed, if not exactly well rested, he shook Mrs. Weasley’s hand. “Can’t thank you enough, Molly.” She wrapped him in a tight embrace and just stood there, breathing in the hug for a moment. It was moments like these, in between all the death and destruction and despair, that she wanted to cherish.

***