Destruction Where You Stand

Chapter One: This Clearing In The Trees

"Where did he weep? Where did he sit him down
And sorrow, with his head between his knees?
Where said the Race of Man, "Here let me drown"?
"Here let me die of hunger"? -- "let me freeze"?
By nightfall he has built another town:
This boiling pot, this clearing in the trees."
-Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sirius' mother's house in Cologne is Unplottable, and he's fairly certain that the Ministry has no idea it exists. It belonged to his grandfather Pollux, and as far as Sirius knows, none of the family has used it since his death. It looks abandoned enough; the dust is nearly an inch thick, and no hint of sunlight intrudes through the drawn curtains.

The house is six and a half centuries old, warded in the old way, and Sirius can feel the blood magic tracing over his skin and through his veins, poised like a thousand little knives to slice their way through his body. He has a few tense moments in which to hope that the wards have not gone feral, as blood-wards sometimes do if left to their own devices; then the knives turn to silk, and he feels the caress of welcome beneath his skin as the house acknowledges his right to be there, and the wards re-weave themselves around his presence.

Lights spring up in the sconces along the wall, pale flames hovering over the empty containers, and there is a rush of heat and light as a fireplace in the far wall begins to burn. From the walls, portraits of witches and wizards stare curiously down at him with eyes as gray as his own, and he hears a soft, murmuring whisper go up. Ignoring the paintings, he flings himself down on the sofa nearest to the fireplace and closes his eyes.

He will be safe here indefinitely, should he choose to stay. The wards that welcomed him so readily will tear anyone but a pureblooded Black into a thousand messy pieces, and are easily altered to exclude even his family. Avoiding them has become a matter of urgency, rather than preference. Once the wards are changed, it will take hours for anyone to get through them, and he will have plenty of time to get away. He isn't planning on staying here indefinitely, but if he has to come back in a hurry, he doesn't want to be followed - and he doesn't want to be trapped.

He's under no illusions that he will eventually be proven innocent. He knows that no one will try. It's Pettigrew he's after now, with the hot, mad taste of fury and regret dark in his throat. There are a thousand curses he should have thrown, a thousand ways he could have stopped Pettigrew's flight, his transformation. He should have known it was Peter all along. He should have let Dumbledore be Secret Keeper. He should never have trusted anyone else with James' life.

Sirius wipes angrily at his face, standing up and pushing away looming memories along with his tears. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his robes and encounters both the still fairly large sack containing his shrunken fortune and what he realizes after a blank, surprised moment is Pettigrew's finger. He barely remembers picking it up, though he remembers now why he did it.

Bone, blood, and flesh. It is a line from one of the few nursery rhymes Sirius remembers learning as a child. Spirit, heart, and body. There are other things that Sirius learned from his mother that are less innocuous. Pettigrew's own finger will point Sirius directly to him, and his blood and bone will put Sirius' fist around his heart.

He puts the finger back in his pocket for the moment, wrapping it in a handkerchief and casting a Preservus Charm first. Fresh blood is far more magically potent than dried, and he's not about to lose his only link to Pettigrew through carelessness. The snarl of reproach in the back of his head - the way you lost James and Lily? - sounds a great deal like Remus, but Sirius ignores it, just as he ignores the clutching pull of loss and misery. He has always been better at vengeance than at grief, and he turns his attention to the wards with the strictly enforced numbness that is the only mourning he will allow himself. He will take the sharp, tearing sorrow in his chest and turn it loose on Pettigrew instead.

Let Remus bury James and Lily; let Remus have Harry to fill the aching James-shaped empty spaces; let them mourn and cling to each other and heal. Let Remus forgive himself.

The words fill Sirius' head as he works, over and over, fervent and desperate. This is how he imagines it must feel to pray.

***

Altering the wards to his satisfaction proves fairly easy, and after a final check, Sirius heals his bleeding arm and cleans up the mess. He doesn't think anyone will be able to get past the wards, but there's no sense in leaving behind anything that can be used against him. He removes the layers of dust from everything next, resetting the charm to trigger once a month, because Moody can do things with a man's footprint that Sirius wouldn't have believed if he hadn't seen them himself. After that he finds himself looking for blankets, and that ends with him rummaging through the house for anything and everything that might prove even remotely useful. The pale flames are already burning in their holders as he moves through the house, and he pauses to alter the charm so that they go out when he leaves the room, and to lower the flames themselves. This house lacks the visual protection charms of the Grimmauld Place residence, and, despite the heavy curtains, Sirius has no wish to chance a report of lights blazing where there should be none.

His search turns up surprisingly little, given the rumors he grew up hearing about his maternal grandfather, just a few potions ingredients and some protective amulets. His uncle Cygnus - or his mother - must have stripped the place of all the truly Dark artifacts after his grandfather's death. Still, the real treasure is the library, which is untouched and contains thousands of volumes, their leather bindings emanating the faint chill of darkest magic. Most, if not all, of the books that he will need to find Pettigrew are here in this room. He fetches all of his things up from the sitting room, including everything he's salvaged from the house, and deposits them on the large oak table at the center of the room.

Sirius can see the traceries of more wards overlaying the bookshelves, layers of protective spells woven into and over one another. He runs a hand just over the surface of the wards, checking their restrictions and penalties as they flare slightly in response to his proximity. There are several to keep anyone but wizards from touching the books, followed by a series to keep away anyone but purebloods; after that are spells that limit access to the books to family members alone, and finally one directed at anyone under seventeen. There are none that will deny him access to these shelves, which is fortunate, because the layers were added years apart and have since interwoven, making them nearly impossible to untangle, and the results of violating them would be incredibly nasty. As there is no other way to be sure, he selects a book at random, and when his blood fails to boil in his veins, or his hand to wither and fall off, he knows he was right.

"Who the devil are you?"

Sirius spins around, wand in his hand before he finishes turning, but it's only a portrait, Phineas Nigellus, glaring fiercely at him from across the room. He's never gotten on well with old Phineas, even before his Sorting, and he pities any one unlucky enough to have been at Hogwarts under him.

"You look like family," Phineas says.

"I'm Sirius," he answers. "Orion's son." Phineas' eyes narrow shrewdly.

"I thought you'd been disinherited," he says.

"That's the least of my worries at the moment," Sirius tells him.

"You are in trouble, aren't you, boy?" Phineas asks sharply. "What's gone wrong?" Sirius hesitates. Still, it's not as though the portrait can betray his location to anyone, and he so desperately wants to tell the story to someone who will believe it.

By the time he's finished talking, his voice is hoarse and his eyes are red, and Phineas Nigellus is looking at him intently.

"You mastered the Animagus transformation at fifteen?" he asks. Sirius stares at him.

"That's your question?" he asks, incredulous. "I tell you I'm wanted for the murders of my two best friends, and stand a good chance of spending my life in Azkaban for something I didn't do, and that's your bloody question?"

"Your story is self-explanatory," Phineas says, voice as dry as dust. "Though I am intensely curious as to why you didn't tell anyone when you decided to switch Secret Keepers. Surely you could have trusted Dumbledore not to run to the Dark Lord with your friends' location?"

A steady flush is mounting on Sirius' face. Despite his grief and fury, Phineas has managed to make him feel like a chastised schoolboy, and he isn't certain whether he resents the man for it or is grateful for the distraction.

"The Animagus transformation, however," Phineas continues, "is difficult enough that I have trouble believing a fifteen year old boy could manage it, much less three of them." A thousand retorts fly through Sirius' mind, but the best one is the simplest, and he transforms into Padfoot and back again with the fluid ease that has always been inherent to his transformations.

The gleam of satisfaction on Phineas' face makes Sirius uneasy. His heritage has made him better than most Gryffindors at seeing hidden undercurrents, but he is still a Gryffindor and cannot help feeling slightly out of his depth when confronted with Phineas, to whom plots and subterfuge come as naturally as breathing once did. There's no way that the portrait can be planning anything, but Sirius cannot shake the irrational certainty that there is more going on beneath Phineas' oil-paint surface than there should be. He glares at his great-great-grandfather.

"I think," Phineas Nigellus says, thoughtfully, "that you should work on catching that rat of yours."

Sirius doesn't shout at him. He already knows it will do no good. Instead, he turns on his heel and begins perusing the bookshelves, ignoring Phineas' critical stare. He finds the section he is looking for quickly enough, but there are nearly a hundred books that could contain pertinent information. The enormity of his self-assigned task suddenly rises up to confront him. Sirius knows the theories behind blood-magic and enough of the practice to do simple spells, such as adjusting the wards, without putting himself at risk, but what he is proposing to do now goes far beyond anything he's ever done.

Blood is one of the oldest spell components known to man, and one of the most powerful, with far-reaching applications in both light and dark magic. It is also severely unstable, and the side-effects of blood-magic gone wrong can be devastating to not only the caster, but anyone in the immediate vicinity. Pettigrew is a pureblood, which means his blood will be more potent - and more unstable - than a half-blood's or a Muggle's. He is also an enemy, which adds a further element of danger into his undertaking. Enemy's blood is notoriously unreliable, eager to twist any spell it is used in, sometimes turning on the caster, and Pettigrew's traitorous nature will make his blood doubly so.

The first chapter of the first book he draws from the shelf makes it clear that this will call for darker magic than he has ever practiced. It also makes it clear that Sirius will have to go out, because the list of components needed for even the most basic spells in this discipline is one of the most detailed and complex that he has ever seen. Unless his grandfather Pollux has a hidden compartment somewhere in his house that was missed at his death - doubtful - Sirius is going to have to risk being seen in public.

"Old Pollux didn't keep a hidden store of supplies for this sort of magic, I suppose?" he asks Phineas, without raising his head from the open book on the table in front of him. There is no answer. Sirius glances up, but the portrait is empty. He shrugs, and goes back to his reading. No doubt the old boy has gone to gossip with one of the many other portraits scattered about the house. The house has been shut up for nearly ten years, and Sirius has no doubt that it's been dreadfully boring for a wizard of Phineas' formidable intelligence. Sirius is fairly sure that he'd go stark raving mad if he were locked up in a place like this for any prolonged amount of time.

***

"I've found him," Phineas says, stepping into his frame in the Headmaster's office. Dumbledore is sitting alone at his desk, staring at his hands, but he looks up as Phineas speaks. There is a deep, abiding sorrow in his face that almost make Phineas feel sorry for the man, but as he is a portrait and has no glands, the near-emotion is fleeting. Still, Dumbledore pushes the distress from his features and sits up straight when Phineas speaks, his eyes suddenly cold and alert in a way that few people ever see.

"Where?" he demands, but Phineas shakes his head. He's never liked Sirius. The boy is too headstrong, too impetuous, too Gryffindor, but he himself was convinced of Sirius' innocence within three sentences, and more importantly, the boy is family, tapestry or no. He's the last of the family. Not that Phineas is about to tell Dumbledore all of that. Now that Phineas is dead, he handles Dumbledore better than he ever did while alive - which irks him no end - but that twinkling blue gaze still manages to make him feel as though there are vital sub-plots going on that he is unable to figure out, and manages to win confidences from him that he had managed to take with him to the grave.

Those blue eyes are not twinkling now. Still, as frightening as Dumbledore can be when he chooses, Phineas prefers this version. Sheathed power is always more ominous than power bared, and at least this Dumbledore doesn't seem about to absent-mindedly offer him some sort of Muggle treat.

"There are only so many places your portrait is hung."

"And most of them are Unplottable, and warded in such unpleasant ways against intruders," Phineas drawls.

"I can force you to tell me," Dumbledore reminds him evenly. "You are bound to serve the Headmaster, if you recall."

Phineas, who dislikes being bound to serve anyone, glares at him.

"If I thought you were in possession of all the facts, I might - might - consider telling you where the last of my House is. As for forcing me - " He raises his chin imperiously. "We both know you can. We both also know that I will fight you, and what, exactly, that will force you to do."

If Phineas were still alive, he would be sweating. Dumbledore can, indeed, force him to reveal Sirius' location, but not without causing him the sort of pain that a living wizard experiences only while in the grips of the Cruciatus curse. Phineas has no doubt that Dumbledore has the stomach to torture him. He is betting the continued existence of his House, however, that the man's conscience will stay his hand.

After a long moment, he is proven right. Glad that he has no lungs to betray him with a sigh of relief, Phineas watches as Dumbledore closes his eyes, the sorrow reasserting itself on his face for a moment.

"What did you mean by 'all of the facts?'" he asks, opening his eyes.

"Simply, that my great-grandson was not the Secret Keeper for his blood traitor friend. Due, I presume, to the sort of monumental stupidity that only Gryffindors are capable of, he persuaded Potter to choose another, without informing anyone of the switch, thereby ensuring that he would not only be actively pursued, but totally unable to bargain if caught."

Phineas snorts in disgust. If he does manage to get Sirius out of this alive, the ungrateful brat had better have children, and they'd better be Slytherins.

"The idiot also neglected," he continues, "to consider what would happen should the new Secret Keeper prove loyal to the Dark Lord, as indeed he did."

"Whom did Sirius switch with?" Dumbledore asks, his eyes intent.

"One of that group of Muggle-lovers he was always hanging about with in school. Not the werewolf; the other one. The blond, fat one."

"Peter Pettigrew?" Dumbledore asks incredulously. "I'm not certain what lies he told you, Phineas, but your great-great-grandson killed Peter Pettigrew, and a dozen Muggle witnesses as well. They're calling it the worst massacre of the war, and Voldemort wasn't involved. There was nothing left of Pettigrew but some torn robes."

"And a finger," Phineas says. "Sirius has it in his pocket. Apparently, the little rat meant to leave it behind as evidence, but Sirius got to it first."

"A finger?"

"Sirius says that Pettigrew cut it off just before he transformed." At Dumbledore's stunned expression, Phineas arches one perfectly painted eyebrow. "Oh, did I neglect to mention that? Pettigrew's an Animagus. A rat Animagus."

"He's not registered," Dumbledore says, his eyes the carefully neutral blue that indicates true surprise on his part.

"Neither was James Potter," Phineas tells him. Sirius' Animagus form could prove the difference between capture and freedom, so he refrains from mentioning his great-great-grandson. "Both of them managed it in their fifth year. Some typically Gryffindor idiocy having to do with that werewolf friend of theirs and keeping him company during the full moon." He hides a smirk. It's not easy to rattle Albus Dumbledore as thoroughly as Phineas has just managed to do.

"If this is true," Dumbledore says softly, almost to himself, "if this is true, then an innocent man is in grave danger." He looks up at Phineas, his eyes troubled. "Crouch has authorized the Dementors to perform the Kiss on sight."

***

a/n: title borrowed from edna st. vincent millay. thank you to konishi_zen and phoenix for beta services.