True Grey

Sirius stopped running only when he could no longer hear the shouted taunts of the murderous throng in heaven. He paused at last in a dark, unfamiliar street. Panting, he leaned against the brick wall of a random house; it was refreshingly cold against his sweaty back, but he took no comfort in it.

He barely registered the irony of his situation--that he sought safety and rest in the deepest parts of hell, and that heaven was now a place to be feared. He was, however, much more acutely aware of each breath that rose in a swift cloud through the chilly November air--breaths that must be so conspicuously absent from Caradoc Dearborn's own mouth.

Sirius slumped to the ground, sat among sparse weeds and odd bits of rubbish strewn through the dirt. This was not the first time he had felt so intensely grateful to be alive--after he escaped Azkaban, to see Remus again and to meet his godson had seemed nothing short of a miracle. But now, he had all the same feelings of faint good fortune, but with none of the accompanying joy--Dearborn, an old schoolmate and a new friend, was dead. He might even be worse than dead, stuck in some unknown realm. Or was he simply wiped from existence, never to be spoken to or heard from again, even in an afterlife?

The prospect was terrifying, and he knew that it just as easily could have been he, Sirius, who was killed in the melee. Perhaps it ought to have been he; Dearborn had been the better fighter, Dearborn hadn't deserved to die, Dearborn had never asked to be so involved in Sirius's quest. And surely, if Sirius hadn't been so reckless, if Lily hadn't had to come to his own aid, she could have continued to protect Dearborn from her neighbours.

He felt transported back in time, sixteen years ago to the day, when he had chased down Peter Pettigrew, maddened by guilt and grief...

Sirius sprang back to his feet; the memory had goaded him to action, had set a sort of restless anger coursing through him. It was too much to hope that James and Lily could find and help him here. No, he knew he must complete his journey alone. He knew he must orchestrate another escape from scratch, must trust to his own strength and cleverness as he had done once before. So what if he must do so from the bowels of hell? He had done it once from the very heart of Azkaban...

Separated from his friends, he decided to seek out his enemies. Brushing off his robes, he set off for the Death Eaters' house, now more familiar to him than he would have liked.

He found Wilkes back in his seat at the kitchen table, looking supremely bored as he watched Wyman scrub fruitlessly at a patch of mildew on the counter. Both of them looked up, shocked, when Sirius knocked and entered.

"Back so soon?" asked Wilkes. "Well done!"

"Don't be an idiot, he can't possibly have done it in just a few hours," said Wyman.

"Well, then what are you doing here?" Wilkes demanded.

Sirius hesitated. "We've got to think of some other plan. I couldn't get to the Prewetts' place, nor to Fenwick's--a full-scale riot broke out in heaven as soon as I arrived. Rosier must have caused some real trouble there, they're not too pleased that I freed him," he added, glancing at their mutinous faces and deeming it wise to place as much blame as possible on Rosier.

"And what do you suggest we do?" said Wyman icily.

"I don't know," Sirius replied, irritated. "Wait a week or so for their tempers to cool down, I suppose. And in the meantime, you two can start racking your brains for a way to help me, once I've done you this favour."

"We paid you in advance when we let you walk free this morning," Wilkes said, an ugly look on his face.

"I reckon that's about worth the effort I made to get into heaven, plus Caradoc Dearborn's life. I'd say we're quits."

At this, the Death Eaters' blank stares gave way to raised eyebrows; they failed miserably to hide their liking of this news. Anger flared up in Sirius as he watched them exchange an excited glance.

"I'm going to have a look around Rosier's room," he said coldly, and turned his back on them.

"Second door on the left," Wilkes called after him. Sirius imagined the grins plastered on their faces now that he wasn't watching them.

Rosier's bedroom was, like every other room in the dilapidated house, tiny and filthy. A bare mattress lay on the floor in a corner, a moth-eaten blanket piled at its foot. A few rays of dim light managed to pass through a small, grimy double-hung window. A crude, hand-painted copy of the Rosier family crest adorned one grubby wall; Sirius couldn't resist taking out a knife and scratching at it, marring it with long, thin stripes of white.

While he chipped away at the paint, he looked around--for what, he did not know. As the room was hardly larger than the average Azkaban cell, he doubted that it held any secrets that might help him to his goal. There were no books, no rolls of parchment, no symbols nor written words of any kind...

Sirius froze, looking up at the coat of arms he had been defacing. Could there be a clue hidden within it? Some secret knowledge, perhaps, passed down through generations of Rosiers? He thought it much more likely that Evan Rosier had been baldly lying when he had said he knew how to get back through the veil; nevertheless, he studied what remained of the crest, praying for an unexpected revelation.

But he was soon distracted; in the relative quiet that had ensued when Sirius stopped hammering on the wall with his knife, he detected a pair of low voices floating down the corridor from the kitchen.

"...Needs to be out of the picture," Wilkes was saying.

"Well, we don't need to worry about retribution now Dearborn's gone."

"True enough. My only concern is that without him, we stand little chance of ever getting out of this shithole--"

"If you ask me, those chances are slim even with him. Let's face it--he's not in control of his own situation. He couldn't do it even if he wanted to, and it's clear as crystal that we're not his top priority."

"You're right." A pause. "D'you think we could take him?"

"Oh, yes. Especially now that we know for sure... If Dearborn died, so can Black. So it's a matter of two against one, immortal against mortal."

"He's quite a fighter, though. Still reckon it's worth starting an altercation?"

"Worth starting one, and worth finishing it." Wyman laughed softly. "And didn't I tell you? He doesn't know it, but he's already out of ammo. I emptied his cartridges before he woke up..."

Their quiet laughter rang in Sirius's ears. He fished his Glock out from under his robes; in his haste to leave that morning, he hadn't noticed that it was indeed lighter than it should have been. Cursing under his breath, he crossed the room to the tiny window and forced it open. He thought he heard soft footsteps approaching as he hoisted himself up on the sill, squeezed through the opening, and dashed away from the house.

The evening sky was overcast, and it soon began to leak fat drops of cold water. The dripping rain crescendoed into a steady downpour as Sirius ran, and he shivered violently as soon as he paused in his flight to catch his breath.

"We will find you, Sirius Black!" bellowed a voice. Sirius looked around wildly, but he couldn't see more than a few yards in any direction, his vision obscured by sheets of driving rain. Blindly he pressed on, making random turns at will, taking shortcuts over chain-link fences and through narrow alleyways, his long, wet hair flying behind him; he had no destination in mind, but merely hoped to shake off his pursuers and win himself a moment to rest, some time to think of a better plan.

At last he came to a dead end; the back of a tall, ugly concrete building rose before him, barring his way forward. Heart pounding, Sirius looked around and spotted a rickety fire escape rising out of the fog; he trotted carefully up the stairs, slipping a bit on the wet metal. Once he reached the roof he was relieved to find a crumbling chimney large enough to hide him entirely from view; panting, he crawled behind it.

He huddled against the bricks, soaked to the core and freezing; the wind was feistier so high up. He listened vigilantly for footsteps clanging on the fire escape, trying to calm himself enough to think properly... but his mind was a jumbled mess of doubts and disappointment, lingering shock and terror over Dearborn's fate, hopelessness at his own predicament. He wanted to give up, to collapse. If only that bastard hadn't stolen my wand, he thought vaguely, hiding would be no problem at all.

Wait--hiding?

The word jarred in his mind and he reflexively jumped to his feet. Was he to wait for his enemies to find him, like a man marooned on some god-forsaken island might wait for death? Was he to remain for ever in this rooftop refuge, only wasting his time dreading the inevitable?

No. Sirius Black doesn't hide.

And suddenly the cold November wind was really the rushing of happiness into the greedy mouths of dementors, and the sound of the splashing rain was really the ocean crashing into the prison's rock foundation, and Sirius was a great black dog bounding toward the perimeter of the building, toward his destiny...

He clambered back down the escape and barrelled across the lane. His range of vision was even worse than before, but his sense of smell was greatly enhanced. He caught the Death Eaters' scents within minutes and followed them to a decrepit old town square dotted with overflowing rubbish bins. Two dark figures were moving rapidly about, looking behind bins and under benches. They didn't give Sirius a second glance as he approached them, pretending to dig through a particularly rancid pile of rubbish; Sirius guessed that his fur was shaggy enough to make him a convincing stray.

Sirius loitered for a while, shook the water from his coat, and then crept to the centre of the square to conceal himself behind the raised dais of a crumbling stone statue. The Death Eaters did not notice that he had gone; his tail wagged briefly. He needed to begin with the upper hand, to be able to strike without warning; so he crouched in the shadows, listening, smelling, waiting...

And at last, the pair of Death Eaters crossed to the other half of the square to complete their search. Just as they passed the old statue, Sirius leapt forward with a snarl and bit Wyman's right hand as hard as he could.

Sirius felt the flesh tear in his teeth; he heard a scream, felt Wyman's left hand pummelling him on the nose, felt Wilkes kick him. He released Wyman and darted past him, out of harm's way.

"Bloody mutt," Wyman was saying, panting and cradling his ravaged hand. "Get him, won't you?"

"Not worth a bullet," Wilkes muttered, and drew a knife from beneath his coat. He lunged at Sirius, who rolled sideways through a puddle to avoid him. Wilkes stabbed again, and this time the dagger pierced the dog's rear leg. Sirius yelped, but clamped his jaws around Wilkes's Dark Mark when he attempted to tug his knife free. As the Death Eater joined his colleague in a litany of swears, Sirius scrambled to safety and transformed back into a man.

"Am I worth a bullet?" he asked haughtily. He drew his sword, trying to ignore the exquisite pain in his thigh. The Death Eaters, looking momentarily floored, did not respond at once.

"Well?"

"You are worth whatever it takes to kill you," growled Wyman. He had managed to sever the sleeve of his coat and wrap his bitten hand in it; now, he held a pistol loosely in his left hand.

"Why so intent on killing me?" said Sirius, brandishing his sword as a warning. "I know you think I've got little to no chance of getting your Keys, but why kill me rather than let me try? It makes no sense."

"It makes perfect sense," Wyman snapped. "Consider: there is indeed a slim chance that you could free us from hell. However, we feel there is a greater chance that you will not help us escape, but instead abandon us and get back through the veil."

"What difference does it make to you?"

Wilkes replied, "We have heard rumours that the Dark Lord has regained a tremendous amount of power. His victory is forthcoming. The last thing he needs is for you to return to his enemies, to give them hope and aid--"

"How admirably loyal of you," Sirius said through gritted teeth.

"No, you misunderstand us," said Wyman. Fear was evident in his voice. "Wars of living people are none of our concern. However, in this case, the Dark Lord's defeat remains a threat to us; as long as he survives, we remain free from him. But if he is killed, he will come here; he will find us here."

"How very Slytherin. Forgive me if your plight doesn't move me to tears--"

Wyman aimed and fired, but Sirius was ready--he dropped to the ground and the bullet sailed over his head. A second shot missed by inches, and Wilkes was running at him wielding a dagger in his left hand; Sirius fought him off with his sword just as Wyman fired again straight at his chest, forcing him to dive behind the ancient statue.

"Never noticed I'm left handed, eh, Black?" Wyman taunted.

By way of reply, Sirius whirled out from behind the statue and swung his sword in a great arc; it sent the pistol flying across the square and left a long gash in Wyman's palm. Pain shot through Sirius's leg as he took a hurried step toward the gun; he dropped his sword and collapsed before he could reach it. Wilkes fumbled with his own pistol, but his mangled hand couldn't seem to grasp it; Wyman seized it from him and trained it on Sirius.

Sirius kicked out with his good leg, and caught Wyman behind the knees; the diverted bullet grazed Sirius's neck. As Wyman hit the ground with a thud, the gun clattered away across the wet pavement. Sirius groped in his robes for a knife; finding one, he drove it into Wyman's side once, twice--

An excruciating pain ripped through his stomach; Wilkes had managed to pick up a gun and hit his target. Sirius roared in agony, but grinding his teeth against the pain, he hurled the bloody knife as hard as he could. It buried itself in Wilkes's chest; the Death Eater doubled over and fell.

Sirius's surroundings were starting to spin before his eyes, but still his enemies stirred, feeling the sting of cold metal blades, but not of mortality. Gasping in pain, he struggled to his feet. With a bloody hand, he brushed his long, wet hair out of his eyes as he staggered toward Wilkes...

A brief scramble, a few forceful punches, and Sirius wrested the pistol from Wilkes's grasp. He did not--he could not--hesitate; two bullets found two Death Eaters' heads.

In the ensuing calm, Sirius took the time to examine his wounds; both were bleeding profusely. He knew that, unlike the immortal Death Eaters he had just subdued, he could die before his body repaired itself. But he had no wand for healing spells, no friends nearby to help him, nothing except the steadily falling rain to wash the blood away...

It occurred to him suddenly that he had never been so cold. It struck him as cruelly ironic that he could be so thirsty, when water was pouring from the skies. He opened his mouth lazily, trying to catch some...

"There you are!"

Sirius heard swift footsteps on one of the many streets that led away from the square. He struggled to lift his head as they grew louder and louder. With a great effort, he cried out, "Who's there?" just as a dark figure came into view.

The shape swore loudly and broke into a run; as it came closer, Sirius identified it as a man. The man crouched down at Sirius's side, drew out a wand, and began muttering a series of incantations. The gaping wounds healed over, and Sirius felt his mind begin to clear again.

But one look at the man's face nearly gave Sirius heart failure--familiar dark eyes stared back at him, under familiar dark hair...

"Who--what are you?" shouted Sirius, and he scrambled backwards onto the dais to get away. "Are you an Inferius?"

"It's me, you bloody idiot, didn't I just heal you? Lily could have done better, of course--"

"What the hell d'you think you're doing?"

Dearborn had withdrawn a revolver from his robes and pointed it at Sirius.

"Trust me, Black. You have no idea... you were so close, so many times. Fear was the only thing holding you back."

But fear could not hold Sirius back any longer; marshalling his returning strength, he ran at Dearborn, hand outstretched, reaching for the gun--

"Don't worry--the fatal blow will be undone." Dearborn cocked the gun and continued, as calm as ever, "Safe passage through the veil."

Sirius's fingers were a foot away from the mouth of the revolver when it discharged. He fell forwards onto wet concrete, dropped like a stone, as though he were weighed down by the bullet lodged between his eyes.