Black as Sin

Chapter Two: Knife-blades and Broomsticks

He had only been in the room a few moments, but already, the scents were overpowering Padfoot's tender nose, and he was forced to assume his human form.

If anything, the transformation made matters worse.

As Padfoot, he had smelled his friends, as keenly as if they had been here yesterday, memory and sense combining, jarring him into an eternal moment where images of the past lived again in his mind. As a man, however, Sirius was more susceptible to the emotional impact of his location. Here he was, after a decade and a half, in the very place they had once shared conspiratorial suffering and joy. Although it had been the only logical choice, he had not stopped to think about how he would feel, standing in the main room of the Shrieking Shack again. It was almost too much.

The room was a mess, of course. Gnawed and broken furniture lay in tumbled heaps, covered in a thick layer of dust. Sirius, mouth bleeding from where Padfoot had chewed and clawed his way through the back door, stood with his back to the sunset-lit kitchen and surveyed the familiar layout. To his left was the doorway that led to the hallway and the stairs. If he remembered right, there were a couple of small rooms upstairs that he could use. Directly in front of him was the fireplace--unused in years--a gaping hole before it, through which he could access the tunnel to the Whomping Willow. Flanking the fireplace were two boarded-up windows; a large window dominated the wall to his right. The windows. Sirius approached the south window and ran his hand over the boards, wincing at the pain in his chipped and bleeding fingernails. Yes, there they were, about halfway up the window, high enough that a rampaging werewolf could not scratch or bite.

Four names, etched into the soft wood.

Prongs was the topmost name, his "O" artistically framing a knot in the wood. Sirius traced the letters with one finger, biting back a stab of emotion. He shook his head, and let his hand slide down the smooth board. His fingers fit comfortably into the double circles of Moony's name, carved just below Prongs. And there were the other names underneath that. His and Wormtail's. Their proximity made his stomach turn over.

He remembered when they had carved them.

It had been their last full moon together, and they lounged in the shack that sunny morning after, laughing at the shenanigans of the night before. James, looking like he'd been holding back all night, finally burst out, interrupting Peter mid-sentence.

"I asked her." He was grinning wide enough to split his face in half.

Sirius's head jerked around so fast he was sure he heard vertebrae snap. Peter froze, mouth open, and Remus, tired though he was, lifted his head from his palms to gaze at James.

Sirius was, as usual, first to speak. "No way! Lily?"

"I assume from your demeanor, Mister Prongs, that she said yes," Remus said calmly, a sarcastic smile quirking his thin lips.

Peter seemed confused. "She's going to marry you? For real?"

James grinned wider and nodded vigorously.

Sirius felt his smile start to rival James's despite himself. "Wow. I mean, congratulations, Prongs!"

"Yeah, well, not right away," James demurred. "I mean, her parents are Muggles, and we're not quite sure how they'll all react--or how it will work, but sometime. You'll all have to be there." He glanced fleetingly at Sirius and raised an eyebrow.

"I guess this means we're really leaving, then," Remus said with a mournful air.

"But not going anywhere!" Peter had piped up defiantly.

And so, as if refusing to leave the Shack entirely, they had carved their nicknames into the soft crossboards with the switchblade knife--

The knife.

Sirius stretched and felt along the top rim of the window frame with tender fingers. It was there, long and thin. He drew back his hand, cradling the prize. Brushing thick dust from the worn casing, he pulled at the blade; it opened smoothly. Tentatively, he ran a finger along the edge, drawing a scratch of blood. The silver was still sharp. Like a portkey, the feel of it transported him instantly, snapping him farther back beyond his control.

Remus had insisted that they keep the knife in the shack. That first time in their fifth year, after they had all mastered the Animagus spell, and prepared to stay with him during the full moon. He had brandished it with great severity, and made them all swear to him.

James had widened his eyes and shook his head in mute refusal.

"We wouldn't do it, Moony." Sirius's voice was hard, resolute.

Peter was silent.

Was he in Voldemort's pocket even then?

Sirius felt sick at the thought.

Remus had fixed his eyes on each of his friends in turn. "Just in case. If you are going to stay here with me, you need to protect yourselves."

James found his voice. "Absolutely not. Remus, this is out of the question."

Peter squeaked and nodded.

"Look at me. All of you. I would rather die than bite someone else. I wouldn't wish this--this--curse on anyone, especially not you three."

Remus's brows were drawn, and his jaw set. Sirius had read no emotion there; as always, Moony had wiped his face of all expression. "I'll feel better knowing it's here."

"But we would never--" Sirius began.

"No. Promise me you would. Swear to me that you would kill me to keep me from--from..."

There was a long silence.

James went first. He took the folded knife from Remus's hands. "I swear it, Moony."

Peter went next, his thin voice barely audible.

But Sirius sat for a long time, looking into Remus's face, the lump in his throat obstructing the vow.

"Padfoot." Remus's voice was low, his face a chiseled mask. "There are some things worse than death. If I were responsible for killing any one of you..." He trailed off as panic crept into his eyes. "Please."

Sirius swallowed hard, forcing down the bile he tasted.

"Remus, I will never let you harm another human being. Never. I will do whatever it takes to stop you." He took the knife from Peter, turning it over in his fingers. "I swear I will use this if you need me to."

Yes, Sirius decided, smiling into darkening fall evening, yes.

Ah, Wormtail, I will kill you with the knife meant for Remus. I will kill you because you did what he always feared he'd do.

***

He'd been able to wait just over a month, plotting, fuming, biding his time. But that evening as he was in the Forbidden Forest, looking for something more substantial than a rat to assuage his hunger, he'd realized that it was Halloween night.

The Anniversary.

He could wait no longer.

Padfoot's black body melted into the shadow on the edge of the forest, behind the groundskeeper's cabin, along the back of the greenhouses. Here he paused, muscles tense and alert, surveying the grounds for any hint of movement. The sky, filled with roiling clouds like thick smoke, helpfully obscured the near-full moon. Confident in his olfactory sense that the grounds were deserted, Padfoot dashed as quickly as he dared from the shadow of the greenhouse, around the perimeter of the lawn, and approached the front doors from the side.

Here he paused. Convicted murderers, even convicted murderers disguised as overlarge black dogs, did not simply walk in the front door of Albus Dumbledore's school. He tried to reason for a moment, but it was difficult in the canine mind. He knew of other passages into Hogwarts, but using them would mean going back to Hogsmeade and losing precious time. And suppose the Hogwarts end of a particular passage was blocked off? Padfoot huffed, felt the hairs on his back and neck rising at the thought of missing his opportunity. The whole castle was at the Halloween Feast; if he did not act now, he might not have another chance at so empty a castle.

What he wouldn't give for James's cloak right about now.

There was nothing for it. Lifting himself onto his two hind legs, Padfoot wrapped his paws around the great handle and heaved, throwing his full weight backward.

Apparently his full weight wasn't very impressive. It took him several attempts to make the door budge even a crack. Finally, he was able to wriggle his snout in and glance around the Entrance Hall.

It was empty. Moreover, the doors to the Great Hall were all but sealed, only the thinnest sliver of flickering golden light reaching the open hall. Padfoot squeezed the rest of his body through the door, crossed the hall on silent paws and bounded up the curved staircase.

He weaved his way easily through the familiar hallways, his body steering him almost automatically toward Gryffindor tower. Halfway along the sixth floor corridor, Padfoot ducked into a corner, out of sight of the more alert paintings, and transformed.

Rage. Revenge. Anticipation. Justification.

Sirius stood for a moment, arms spread wide, head tipped back, and let the waves of human emotion wash over him.

He felt giddy.

He took the last set of stairs two at a time, and fumbled inside his robes for the knife. He drew it and flipped it open, feeling the weight of it in his hands.

"Password, please."

Oh, right. The password. Damn.

"Don't you remember me, my sweet thing?" he cooed, slipping the knife behind his back. "I just left something here. I've come to set things straight. I won't be but a minute."

"Don't waste my time, sir," the Fat Lady said in clipped tones. "Either you have the password, or you are a ruffian attempting to break into my tower. And," she ran her eyes over his robes, his ragged hair, his rough beard, "I am forced to assume the latter."

"But I am a former Gryffindor. How about a favor for an old friend?"

She said nothing; she simply pursed her lips and smoothed her pink satin skirt with pudgy fingers.

Sirius switched tactic. "You don't understand," he pleaded. "One of your students is in danger. There's a murderer on the loose. I'm here to save him--the student, that is. You have to let me in!"

She puffed up her already intimidating chest. "Not without the password."

"I don't think you get it," Sirius snarled. "This is matter of life and death." He brought the knife out from behind his back, holding it up where she could see. He had not expected this resistance and he was angry, angry at himself for forgetting the simplest defensive measures of Hogwarts. Angry with the circumstances of fate that forced him to beg entry into a school dormitory from an impassive painting. Angry at her, at her stupid fat hands, folded calmly in her lap, her stupid puckered lips, set in her immovable stupid face. "I will get in, if I have to rip you from the wall to do it!"

The Fat Lady was unmoved. "Password, please," she repeated.

"How's this for a password?" Sirius yelled, waving the knife more menacingly.

He meant only to threaten. But the next thing he knew, he was slashing, his shouts drowning out the wails of his victim. Forgetting that he was human, he tried to slash at her with his free hand as well, clawing at the canvas, tearing it from the frame. The cries searing his throat were half in English, half in the wordless, senseless screams of rage.

"Let me in! Damn you, let me in!" He finally threw himself against the wall, his heartbeat reverberating in his ears.

But the Fat Lady was gone; her mangled canvas drooped lifelessly before him. Sirius let out a last howl of rage, closed and stowed the knife, and reverted to dog form. Adrenaline pumping, Padfoot picked up more scents than he would have liked. Paint and canvas. People. Harry. An oddly familiar--and there it was, unmistakable. Oozing through the portrait hole like liquid through a leaky vessel.

He smelled a rat.

***

Padfoot was awakened the next morning by heavy footsteps as the proprietor of Honeydukes Candy Shop clumped down from his upstairs flat, responding to the rather insistent tapping of a screech owl on the door window.

Unwilling to go back to the Entrance Hall after the scene at the portrait hole, Padfoot had managed to find an open passageway to Hogsmeade. Inside, he waited for what he judged to be several hours, emerging from the trapdoor in the candy shop basement in the dead of the night. One look at the front door, however, and he knew he would never get out without a wand. So he curled up in a corner of the shop, drifting into sleep in the early morning hours.

The proprietor crossed the shop floor with the ragged steps of sleep, his nightcap cocked sideways and his slippers scuffing the floor. He was a rotund man, with thinning hair and a thick white beard, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a groggy Father Christmas. He mumbled to himself as he traversed the shop. "Comin', I'm coming already," he cried, as the owl's tapping grew more frenzied.

Reaching the door, he muttered a few counter spells and threw the door open to the brisk morning. A cold rush of air swept into the shop as he closed the door again, the morning Prophet in his hand. "November first, love!" he called up the stairs. "Yeh know what that means?"

"Time to put out the Christmas candies?" came a woman's voice from somewhere above.

"That too, that too. I was thinkin' o' Quidditch. We always get a crowd when the Hogwarts students play. We'd better stock up on the--hullo, what's this?" He had seen Padfoot at last. "How did you get in here, eh? Git on now, git!" He flapped his wide hands in front of him, as if fanning the large canine would somehow make him disappear. Padfoot was more than happy to oblige. Shooed toward the door and out into the free air, he yipped in what he hoped sounded like a playful manner.

"Git on home now," the proprietor yelled, "I bet they're lookin' fer yeh." But Padfoot was already halfway up the empty street, his tail pumping at thoughts of Hogwarts Quidditch flooded his mind.

***

When Padfoot emerged from beneath the Willow that Saturday, he encountered two problems. The first was that it was raining heavily. The game would still be on. He knew from long experience that Quidditch was never cancelled for something as inconsequential as the weather. But it would make the viewing uncomfortable. His thin coat was already damp and the thought of hours in the rain with the poor visibility did not excite him. Still, his dogged determination to see Harry would not be shaken.

The second problem was the cat.

It was sitting just outside the reach of the Willow's limbs, as if waiting for someone to emerge from the hole at the roots. Padfoot's paw was already on the knot, freezing the branches, when he caught sight of the feline. The glassy eyes followed the movement of the Padfoot's giant paw, and traveled down the length of his body to the tail, just in front of the tunnel's mouth. Padfoot huffed. His secret was out; he'd have to kill the creature, that was all.

He whirled on the cat, hackles raised, a deep growl rumbling in his throat. But the feline simply cocked his head to the side, and nonchalantly bathed a ginger paw. He seemed thoroughly unperturbed.

Padfoot drew nearer, caught the creature's scent, and froze mid-step. This was no ordinary cat. Under the smell of wet fur there was something... different about the animal. Not an Animagus. Definitely not. He knew that scent too well, the mix of human and animal. This feline had no human aroma. But there was something he was smelling that was definitely not cat.

Padfoot took a closer look at his companion.

It was definitely male. The scent had revealed that much. His deep yellow-orange fur was soggy, but otherwise well-groomed and smooth. The tail was spiky and appeared wider at the tip than it was at the base. But the surprising part was the face. It was the wrong shape, the snout too flattened, the ears a bit rounded, and the eyes--set a little wider than normal, the eyes belied an intelligence unbefitting a pet cat. Padfoot knew, as surely as he knew anything, that this cat did not fear him--because it didn't for one second buy the disguise.

Padfoot let his tongue loll, trying to look at bit more the part. But his companion arched his back, and backed up, a slight hiss escaping his jowls. Seconds later, Padfoot yelped as the reactivated willow bough caught him sharply on the left side. He scampered out from under the tree, tail between his legs, and could have sworn that the feline was laughing at him. But his companion simply flipped his tail, stretched, and then set off across the grounds in the direction of the Quidditch Pitch. Padfoot could just make out a teeming crowd of students heading for the stands, braced against the wind and rain, half of them dressed in the unmistakable Gryffindor Red.

They were playing. Harry was playing. He had to be.

Sirius's mind might have contemplated danger, consequence. He might have feared exposure, or weighed the risk of capture against his desire to see his godson play. Or perhaps not. He might at least have paused to consider. But there was no hesitation for Padfoot. Tail wagging like a wet towel, he was dashing off, forgetting the feline, loping across the squashy field and under the stands. Arriving while the stadium was still relatively empty, he was able to creep up to a top seat where he could see without drawing too much attention. Huddled against the rain, he waited.

The doors on either end of the pitch burst open and fourteen students poured out, sloshing their way to positions in the center of the field as the announcer began to speak. At the back of the crimson line was the Gryffindor Seeker, shorter and slimmer than the rest, but holding his shoulders back, his chin up. Rain had plastered his jet-black hair down over his famous forehead. Padfoot's belly clenched into painful knots, squeezing his insides until he wanted to whine. Soon. Soon it would be safe to really see him. Soon the boy would know the truth. He wouldn't have to be alone.

The announcer, barely audible over the roar of wind and rain, was introducing the Gryffindor team. "Wood, Bell, Spinnet, Johnson, Weasley, Weasley and... POTTER!"

Harry took to the air, and Padfoot watched, transfixed. Everything. Every movement. His speed, his agility, the way he shook his damp hair back from his face. His bright eyes, squinting through the rain, darting around the pitch. The boy looked alive, at home, more confident than he had appeared months ago on Magnolia Crescent. He was wild, free from restraint. He was beautiful.

He was James's son.

A different day, long ago, the weather a polar opposite, and Sirius was again in the top row of the stands. To his left, Peter was leaning forward, barely touching the seat, his fingernails between his teeth. Sirius exhaled and spread his arms across the railing behind him, bumping Remus, hunched on his right.

"Sorry, Moony."

Remus didn't reply.

"Hey, Moony. You okay?" He chanced a glimpse away from the game.

Remus nodded noncommittally. His face was very pale.

"You don't look good at all, mate!" Sirius exclaimed, pulling his attention entirely away from James, who was speeding across the pitch with the Quaffle under his arm.

Remus shrugged, his shoulders grazing Sirius's arm. "I'll be fine. It's just... you know."

"You look a bit peaky."

He shrugged again. "Full moon last night. Watch the game, will you?"

But it was several moments before Sirius took his eyes from Remus's face, several moments before the progress of the match filtered through the concern for his friend's health. Only when the stands around him erupted in cheers did Sirius turn back to the pitch to catch the action.

It was the first time he had ever missed one of James's goals.

Someone had called a timeout, but through the wind and rain it was hard to tell which team captain had signaled. As the players took to the air again, Padfoot's eyes sought out the blurred spot that was Harry, circling high above. Lightning flashed, followed closely by a rumble of thunder. Harry was ducking under another player, turning his broom in an unsteady arc. As the next bolt of lightning struck, Padfoot was sure he saw the boy's face turned toward him, the light reflecting off his glasses. Harry's body twitched, and his broom dipped wildly. He'd been seen. Padfoot ducked and scurried sideways along the row. He peered out again to see the Hufflepuff Seeker diving, Harry close on his tail, gaining ever so slightly. Padfoot was about to yip in excitement, when he felt a sudden, unmistakable chill.

Cold, cold.

He could smell their awful scent; he didn't need to look down at the field to know they were there. He didn't need to ponder very long to know why they had come.

He was trapped.

He pressed his belly lower into the stadium floorboards, seeking shelter. But as he did so, eyes rolling madly in his head, he caught sight of a more immediate danger. Harry was slowing in midair, his limbs trembling, his head lolling to the side.

Fifty feet from the ground, the boy's body went entirely limp. For an instant he floated, suspended perfectly in midair. Then he slid sideways off the broom handle and fell, a streaking mass of Red and Gold, plummeting toward the caped figures below.

Padfoot was paralyzed, conflicting instinct holding him in powerless indecision. One half of his body needed to flee the dementors, who he knew had come for him. The other, equally powerful half needed to reach Harry. For an instant he was rooted to the stair, and then without knowing how, he found himself bounding down the steps and out to the edge of the pitch.

Dumbledore was standing in the center of the field, his raised hands trembling with effort or rage or both. His hat had flown off and his sodden beard and hair were whipping wildly in the wind. Harry's body slowed in its decent before hitting the earth with a moist thud.

He didn't move.

Dumbledore whirled on the dementors, sent his silvery phoenix-patronus swooping around them, driving them from the field. Students were everywhere, flooding the pitch. The teams were landing, the Canary-robed Seeker arguing with the referee, the Gryffindor Keeper pacing madly behind Dumbledore, as the rest of the team formed a huddle around Harry's body. The stands were empting, and a pair of Gryffindors came running like they had stampeding dragons on their heels, pushing their way desperately through the circle of people.

Padfoot swayed on the edge of the field, not knowing how to draw closer. It was silly, really, but he needed to protect the boy, even though there was nothing here that he could have protected him from. He lost sight of Harry for a few moments as the sea of students thickened, then Harry was lifted up, borne on some sort of stretcher. Dumbledore began to steer the stretcher and its cargo toward the castle, the parade of students behind him.

The headmaster had done it, then. He had saved Harry. He probably did that every time Harry needed someone. Tail between his legs, Padfoot retreated from the Pitch, weaving his way to the Whomping Willow. The ground was strewn with splinters of wood, and it was a long moment before he recognized the mess as the remains of Harry's Nimbus. He nosed the twigs, smelling the oiled wood, the scent of Harry's palms on the handle, so tantalizingly James and yet not. The hairs on his back began to prickle: someone was coming. Through the gloom he could barely make out the cat returning, leading a small wizard in a pointed hat toward the Willow. He couldn't stay here.

Broom, he thought as he slunk under the branches to press the knot at the base of the trunk. The poor kid'll need a new broom.