Black as Sin

Chapter One: On the Run

It was amazing how simple it was, when he had the focus.

Padfoot's scrawny body slipped easily through the half-open cell door and his paws were silent on the cold stone. Dodging in and out of shadow, he made his way to the front gate, where no less than one hundred Dementors were clustered, barring his way to freedom.

Although he knew he had no joy they could take from him, the fear penetrated his body, making him tremble from nose to tail. As quickly as he could, Sirius assumed his human form, and called to mind his greatest moment of despair.

The lifeless body of James Potter swam before him, eyes wide, mouth agape, limbs tangled with the boards and mortar of his home. Sirius knelt beside him, and pulled his hand over the dead man's face, closing the eyelids. A sickness flooded his chest, closed in around his heart.

Like dangling raw meat in front of a hell hound.

The Dementors came on, drawn to the naked emotion. But as the swarm thickened, Padfoot was already slipping between swirling capes, his clearer mind shutting out the pain, shielding him as James' invisibility cloak never could. He dared one glance back at the writhing mass of guards trying to relocate their quarry.

Padfoot only needed to dig a shallow scrape below the bars, and he would be able to squeeze through beneath the claws of the portcullis. He worked as quickly as he could, scratching with claws and teeth.

But in Azkaban, in that dark place where past and present become fused into a single moment of horror, even the dog's mind was not free. Like a skipping Muggle record, the scene returned, though Padfoot perceived only images and senses.

Hands on eyes, pull them shut.

Hands on eyes, pull them shut.

Pain. Wrenching pain.

He whimpered.

It may have been the sound, or the anguish of the vision, but Padfoot heard the rush of disturbed air as the score of Dementors whirled on him, perceiving him once again. In panic, he flung his body into the ditch, eyes wild, claws scraping, pushing, pulling. He felt the iron above him rake his spine and yelped in agony. Bony hands snatched at his tail, his hind legs. He kicked savagely backward and at the same moment, pulled as hard as he could with his forelegs. His haunches came free, grazing the metal, and he was out, panting and dashing through the reedy grass down to the shoreline.

He had chosen a night heavy with fog in case there happened to be anyone around with the capacity to see. He splashed quietly into the water, and paddled hard until the outline of the island fortress began to fold itself back into the mist.

Fear drove the first part of his journey--fear of the Dementors, he had to admit, and the greater, pounding fear for Harry's safety. Padfoot felt the sickening push of urgency forming a knot in his abdomen. Any hint that Voldemort was stirring, and the traitor would be in place to complete the job--to hand Harry over to face the fate of his parents.

Hands on eyes...

I will not fail them again.

Determined anger swelled next, pushing Padfoot's feet through the black water with greater ferocity. How had he missed all the signs? How had he allowed twelve years to pass without realizing that the danger stalked Harry as closely as it ever had? How had he let the rat outwit him again?

That ends now.

Pettigrew. Pettigrew on the street corner, his voice shrill, his left hand open in supplication, his right behind his back. An explosion. Wormtail on the boy's shoulder, his nose crinkling with nervousness, his mangled front paw twitching.

He would find him. Catch him. Kill him.

Pettigrew in the subterranean chamber beneath the Ministry's office, manacled to the chair. Sirius, his old wand back somehow, pointing, poking, muttering. Pettigrew whimpering, screaming until his open mouth spilled confessions to the satisfied faces. Pettigrew bloodied. Dead. Hands on eyes with grim pleasure this time.

But when the cold set in, his scheming was not sufficient. Malnourished and exhausted, Padfoot's body was no match for the frigid water. His thin and ragged coat held little heat under the best conditions, and soaked through it became a source of further cold. His back was raw and bloodied from the prison gate, the cold water numbing the wound so that it prickled. The spreading bruise on his right hip made the whole leg ache and he had lost feeling in his right hind paw. Deprived of proper food for so long, his ribs poked out in sharp relief; he lacked any warming body fat.

Daydreams of vengeance were simply not enough.

So he thought about Harry, imagined how he must look, what his life must be like. But picturing the boy whose name was muttered by his fellow prisoners with a mixture of fear, awe, and hatred was not easy. The only images Sirius had of Harry were of the child as he had known him--before Hogwarts, before walking and talking, before the scar that would now be a defining feature. The Harry he had known was just a baby. A cheerful, fearless baby who giggled freely and clung to his mother's legs and romped with his father and slept in his godfather's arms.

He conjured that memory, feeling again the warmth of the small body, gazing down at the pale skin and the shock of dark hair. In his periphery, Lily and James watched, arms wrapped around each other, smiling encouragement as he held his godson for the first time. The baby sighed, his fists clenching and unclenching around Sirius' fingers, and then lay still. Sirius felt the corners of his mouth lift in what could only be a stupid grin, and at the same time tasted the salt of his own tears, coursing over his scruffy cheeks and lips.

The image shifted, and instead of sleeping peacefully, his godson was squirming and whimpering. Thicker hair was plastered to his forehead, and the smooth skin was smeared with ash and freckled with blood. Hagrid's enormous hands were lifting him, prying him away. Sirius felt again the twang, a bowstring snapped, the death of everything he had lived for.

Why did I ever let him go?

Having lost the warm memory, Padfoot felt the chill become, if possible, even deeper. He tried again to summon a memory of young Harry, but the thought kept slipping to James and Lily and their death.

Twisted limbs. Hands on eyes...

His nose sunk below water and he kicked violently, pushing his head upward and struggling to cling to consciousness. Desperate for a sustaining thought, he conjured the memory of his friends. Not huddled and nervous as they had been their last night together, but happy as they had been in their youth, traipsing about Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. James, Peter, and Remus. The only ones who cared for him, who ever would have welcomed him home. James, who he had killed, Peter, who he went to kill now, and Remus.

Remus. He knew now that he had betrayed his friend beyond imagination. Convinced that Remus could not suppress his dark nature, and desperate to discover the traitor, Sirius had assumed that Voldemort's spy was Moony. That last night, after Remus had left Godric's Hollow, he had approached James and Lily with his plan.

He hadn't dared to tell them who he suspected, or why. Some part of him knew, even then, that it was his fear talking. Lily would have been appalled with him.

Are you somewhere watching me now? Do I disgust you still?

"We have to switch." His voice had been low and urgent, the words haunting him so that even Padfoot could imagine the conversation.

James removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

Always rational, Lily searched his face. "No," she said. "It's too late."

"It isn't. We haven't cast the spell yet. There's a spy--there has to be. We don't know who we can trust, and I'm too obvious a Secret Keeper. I was your best man, for God's sake!"

"And there's no one we trust more," Lily said calmly.

"Everyone knows that! That's why it can't be me. It's too dangerous. Please. Lily, James. For Harry's sake."

James' head snapped up, and he glanced wildly at the staircase as if the child might have appeared there.

Lily's vibrant green eyes snapped. The next time he saw her, those same eyes would be empty, lifeless. "I will not let anything happen to my son." Her tone was icy, defiant.

But James laid a pale hand on her arm. "He's right, Lil. We need to do this." He paused a moment. "Who then? Remus?"

"No!" Sirius' urgency made both Potters jump. "He's--er--also too obvious." There was a long pause, then: "How about Peter?"

Lily's face brightened somewhat. "Yes. He would do it if we asked. And no one would suspect him."

Indeed.

James let out a labored sigh. "We're agreed then?"

Sirius nodded curtly. "And no one can know. Not even Dumbledore--or Remus--or, or anyone else. They could be tortured for information," he finished lamely.

"So could you." Lily's voice was soft this time.

"Let them," Sirius had challenged. "I'll die before I give you up."

But he had never been tested. The Potters had switched to Peter. They had taken his advice, and it had cost them their lives. They had played directly into the Dark Lord's hands.

Voldemort had needed no trickery, no illusion to foster distrust and to destroy the Potters. Sirius knew now that his own prejudice had provided all the opportunity the Evil One needed.

For the sake of fear. Prejudice. Suspicion. These were Voldemort's chief weapons.

And yet Remus had forgiven him once. And he was really all Sirius had left now.

Could he forgive me again? Would he open his arms to me?

He played the scene in his mind, a reunion between old friends. He would bring his proof--the body--before the Ministry and request a new trial. His name would be cleared. And Remus would be there, would embrace him as if not a day had passed. They would be friends once more, the two surviving Marauders. Together, they would atone for the damage that Pettigrew had done.

Somehow, that hope was warm enough.

Padfoot was barely conscious when his paws scraped the dirt shallow of the mainland. Too exhausted to think of anything else, he dragged his body up the bank, found a patch of shrub that would provide some cover, and slept.

***

The journey north had been frustratingly slow, but driven by new hope and by the small amounts of food he was able to glean from the roadside, Padfoot had reached Surrey, the home of Lily's Muggle sister. The black dog was slinking through the streets toward Privet Drive when he saw a figure approaching him. A young boy, dragging a cumbersome trunk and--what may have appeared strange to anyone else--an owl cage.

Even with the rounded features of a toddler, Harry had resembled his father, with the exception of Lily's dazzling green eyes. It should have come as no surprise that as a young teenager, Harry Potter looked very much like James had at Hogwarts, all those years ago. But nothing had prepared Padfoot for this. The dark of Magnolia Crescent could not obscure the boy's silhouette, the way he held his shoulders, the rumple of his hair.

It was like James lived again.

Harry stopped on the curb, panting for breath and glancing wildly about. Padfoot could smell his fear--and something else. Anger? He peered at the boy more closely. Yes, he was trembling, his breathing ragged as if terrified. But that wasn't terror he smelled. It was rage.

James never smelled like that.

Harry took a deep breath, and the shaking subsided. The odor of anger faded slightly as the boy gripped his wand tighter. He suddenly looked scared and lonely, and was recognizable as the struggling, squirming toddler Sirius had pulled out of the rubble nearly twelve years ago.

He needs me.

Moved by a pack leader's instinct to protect the lone pup, Padfoot dared a step closer, his dark body catching the light of a streetlamp.

Harry gasped and stumbled backward off the curbside. There was a crack and a blinding flash, and Padfoot ducked for cover among the trash bins.

He waited, snout poking from behind the bins, as Harry boarded the Knight Bus and disappeared with another deafening crack. Then he emerged and studied the surroundings, nose alert for a sign of his godson. No scent. Just as well, really. It wouldn't do to go stalking Harry across northern Europe until he reached Hogwarts. No, Padfoot needed protection. He needed a place to stay. A place that was isolated, yet near enough that he could listen for news of Voldemort stirring. A place no one would think to look for him, but where he would be in striking distance when the need arose.

He knew that place.