Destruction Where You Stand

Chapter Three: Auguries of Innocence

"For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,

Seem here no painful inch to gain,

Far back, through creeks and inlets making,

Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only

When daylight comes, comes in the light;

In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,

But westward, look, the land is bright!

-Arthur Hugh Clough

La Ruelle Volante is for all intents and purposes the Parisian equivalent of Knockturn Alley. Most of the witches and wizards who shop there are no better than they should be, and it is more than a little stupid to wander there after dark without a thorough grounding in defensive magic. Two days after Voldemort's defeat, it is one of the few places lacking the wildly celabratory air ringing through the rest of wizarding Europe. Nevertheless, Sirius takes the precaution of altering his features with a simple oris abeus charm, and adds a despecto charm as well, to prevent anyone from paying him too much attention. He will still be visible; he just won't strike anyone as particularly important. Fortunately, his French is as flawless as a native's. Foreigners attract attention on la Ruelle Volante.

Despite his precautions, Sirius is almost unbearably nervous as he makes his way down the unevenly cobbled street. He receives only the briefest of glances from passers-by, and no one looks at him twice; still, his own face is scowling at him from every newsstand he passes, and from newly-tacked up posters on the walls and lamp-posts, the caption underneath reading "MAGICIEN FORTEMENT DANGEREUX - NE PAS APPROCHER!!!" in emphatic capitals. He recognizes the photograph as the one from his Auror badge, and with recognition comes a fresh torrent of grief at the memory of having that picture taken. He had been trying so hard to keep a straight face, and James had been standing behind the photographer the entire time pulling faces as though they'd been first years sitting for House portraits.

He's been down la Ruelle before, of course. He's been twice with his mother, and he and James had been once during their sixth year, mainly for the sake of telling Remus and Peter that they had, in fact, been. James had drunk some dodgy beer at an even dodgier tavern, and had been violently ill immediately upon their Portkey'd return to Hogwarts. Sirius, who'd known better than to drink anything in a tavern called Le Fois Malheureux, had ended with vomit on his boots and a horrible smell in his hair from one of the herb shops that had taken days to wash out. That day, the street had seemed dark with the promise of adventures in nasty places rather than with the double threat of memory and the Aurors, both lying in wait to grab him by the throat and render him useless for vengeance. In a sudden stalling tactic, Sirius picks up a paper from the nearest newsstand, frowning back at himself as he hands over the galleon it costs to buy the Prophet in Paris.

By the time he finishes reading, his hands are shaking, and his face is so white that he is certain he will betray himself, oris abeus or no.

They've loosed the Dementors after him. They've loosed the Dementors with permission to Kiss him, and Dementors are creatures that cannot be fooled by charms or potions, or even by the Darker concealment spells. The French Minister has not yet given them permission to cross the Channel, but after one sighting of Sirius Black he will no doubt change his mind. In that eventuality - well, the wards on Sirius' house in Cologne will keep out even Dementors, though not forever - not even for as long as they will hold off a group of Aurors - and the Dementors can track a fugitive better than even Alastor Moody. Padfoot might confuse them, but that is far from certain. They will catch him - they will Kiss him - and Pettigrew will go unpunished, and James and Lily will go unavenged, and Harry will grow up with at least one enemy able to get to his side unknown and unnoticed. Sirius realizes that he is crumpling the Prophet into so much wastepaper, and flings it angrily into the gutter. His photograph scowls reproachfully up at him as he steps over it.

The preponderance of frowns and furrowed brows down la Rue is not surprising, though Sirius is surprised to see one or two knots of people whispering together with expressions of excitement rather than disappointed rage. They are all looking rather sharply over their shoulders, but Sirius manages to overhear a few snatches of conversation as he passes.

"...a trahi son meilleur ami..."

"...il a défait le seigneur foncé..."

"...treize mort..."

"...seulement un bébé..."

"...personne ne sait il l'a fait..."

He rather suspects that the other conversations taking place around him sound much the same, no matter whose side the speakers had been on yesterday. Voldemort had not yet been active in France, but he had definitely been the subject of heated debates between the same sorts of factions that had taken active part in the conflict in England, and several of the old French wizarding families had donated heavily to his cause. There won't be many other topics of conversation in the wizarding world today.

Sirius pauses outside the door of L'Apothicaire d'Arnaud. He can when he wishes remember the way his father used to stand, to move, every line of his body filled with the arrogance and power of his bloodline. Sirius lets those memories suffuse him, lets his father's sneer creep over his own altered features, and when he strides into L'Apothicaire, he, too, moves full with the supremacy of the blood in his his veins. It is not, perhaps, the best way to avoid notice, but Sirius is incapable of the sneaking, deferential behavior that he associates with lower-level Dark wizards.

The arrogance he can summon all too easily, and while it will attract attention, it will not attract the wrong sort of attention. His altered features are similar enough to his own that he will most likely be assumed a Black by-blow, several generations removed. There are dozens of bastard Blacks all over Europe, and most of them are distinguishable from the legitimate family only by last name. The dark hair, the grey eyes, the arrogance and predisposition to the Dark Arts - these seem to be dominant traits in most members of his bloodline, and since the camouflage is available, Sirius sees every reason to use it. He enters the shop like he owns it, giving its contents a scornful once-over and the owner a stiff, chilly nod. When the man's face slumps into the familiar lines of servile resentment, Sirius knows he's got it right.

"J'ai besoin de cette liste remplie," he says, the French coming easily back to him, though he hasn't spoken it in nearly three months. "Immédiatement."

"Oui, monsieur," the man says, picking up the list. He glances over it, then swallows once, his adam's apple bobbing hard in his throat. "Monsieur," he says softly, "some of the items on this list are strictly controlled."

Sirius knows damn well that Arnaud has every last item on the list in stock. He wants to hex the conniving bastard into oblivion, and manages to rein in his temper with no small amount of difficulty. Instead, he narrows his eyes, letting some of his lingering fury show there, and looks coldly down his nose at the shopkeeper with every ounce of the disdain he wants so badly to pour into the hexes running through his mind.

"Do you think that concerns me?" he asks, keeping his voice low and even. "I know very well that you carry these things, André, and I think that if you do not allow me to purchase what I wish, the Ministry, too, will know that you carry them. After all, I very much doubt that your license is up to date." It is a smooth, vicious bit of blackmail worthy of Lucius Malfoy, or of Sirius' own father, and he feels both elated and sickened with himself as the man's face changes to reluctant assent.

"Oui, monsieur," Arnaud says grudgingly. He fills Sirius' order quickly enough, though, and with none of the disgruntled muttering for which he is slightly infamous for employing in full hearing of his customers. A brief memory surfaces, of Sirius' father at some dinner party, telling a group of listeners that he'd never had any trouble of that sort out of the man, and Sirius represses it brutally. He makes certain to thank the man as he pays, and the curt, semi-polite tones he'd heard from his father's mouth all his life seem almost to scald his tongue.

Sirius stuffs the package deep into the pocket of his robes as he leaves the shop, where its bulk will be slightly less noticeable. He wishes that he could shrink it, as he had his money, but he's not certain what direct magic will do to the delicate spell components. He has one more stop to make before he can leave, because some things cannot be purchased even at L'Apothicaire.

The last shop is not really a shop at all, as a building cannot be packed up on a moment's notice and removed before the authorities arrive. It is instead a small, dark tent that has most emphatically not been enchanted to provide the users more space, and the interior of it reeks of the inevitable sickly-sweet herbs. The underlay of old blood to the scent is more than slightly nauseating.

Sirius has never been here before; his knowledge of the place comes from Auror reports and witness testimony, most of the latter given unwillingly, and it is enough to increase the nervous tension in his stomach. Still, the squat, huddled figure behind the makeshift counter makes no threatening gestures, and Sirius approaches it with one eyebrow raised, playing the supercilious aristocrat for all he is worth. None of the reports he'd read had mentioned much about the owner, but Sirius can feel the frisson of power coming off of what is for all appearances a bundle of rags with a pair of gleaming eyes, even if the lack of information alone had not been warning enough against relaxing his guard.

"J'ai besoin du sang d'un innocent," he says quietly, with none of the abrasive superiority he'd used with Arnaud. Instead, he keeps his tone respectful, one equal to another.

"Une demande foncée, appropriée pendant ces périodes soudainement préoccupées," the figure says, its tones muffled and indeterminate. "Still, all things are possible, where there is gold to smooth the path."

"There is gold in plenty, once you deliver what I have asked of you," Sirius tells it, letting the edge of cold warning show in his voice.

"I have it here, impatient one." A surprisingly clean hand emerges from the pile of rags, and dips briefly into what Sirius had taken for an actual pile of rags but is apparently a bag of some sort. The hand emerges holding a crystal vial that gleams darkly crimson in the candlelit tent.

Sirius puts the sack of Galleons on the table; the vial is pressed firmly into his hand. He cannot completely prevent the shudder that ripples through him; he imagines that he can almost feel the taint of the spells used to draw the blood in his hand, to give it the magical potency he needs if he is to find Pettigrew.

Sirius puts the vial even deeper in his pocket than he had the package from Arnaud, not entirely ready to contemplate the nature of what he is about to undertake. Reading about it is one thing. Walking through a Parisian street with what is most likely the blood of a child in his pocket is entirely another, and his skin crawls as he pushes his way through the tent flaps and back into the street, which seems suddenly brighter than it had before. He walks the length of la Ruelle and around the corner before he Apparates, trying to shake the growing feeling of unease that now seems to be emanating from the left pocket of his robes.

***

Translations from the French:

-'the flying alley'

-'the unhappy (miserable) liver'

-'very dangerous wizard - do not approach'

-'he betrayed his best friend'

-'he defeated the dark lord'

-'thirteen dead'

-'only a baby'

-'no one knows how he did it'

-'i need this list filled. immediately.'

-'i require the blood of an innocent.'

-'a dark request, suitable for these suddenly troubled times.'

***

The Potters' funeral reception is probably not the most tactful place to approach Remus Lupin, but Alastor has never been tactful, and he is counting on the presence of others to keep Lupin's reaction in check. It will do none of them any good if the man breaks down; less if he refuses to listen, and takes what he knows about Black's Animagus form to the Ministry. He is, with the exceptions of Pettigrew - who can't tell anyone - and Phineas - who won't tell anyone, even Dumbledore -the only one who knows what shape Black takes when he transforms. If Alastor is going to get to Black first, he will have to get to Lupin, as well.

Lupin's expression, when Alastor pulls him aside, is for an instant a vivid reminder that he is confronting a grieving werewolf. There is a savagery to Lupin's despair that is entirely at odds with the calm, even-tempered young man he usually seems to be, but that Alastor has seen sometimes in his spellwork when tensions are high.

"They didn't bring Harry," are the first words out of his mouth, his eyes scanning the crowd restlessly. "Lily's sister and that bloody husband of hers, they didn't bring Harry."

"There's a chance that Black is innocent," Alastor tells him flatly, and watches as the raging sorrow drains from Lupin's eyes, leaving them flat and unreadable and focused on Alastor's face with a desperate, hard-edged intensity that leaves no room for anything else.

"If this is some sort of trick..." he says quietly. He doesn't need to finish his sentence. The promise in his voice is unmistakable.

"No trick," Alastor says, just as quietly. "You and I need to have a chat, lad, and not here. Too many people watching, and both of us are known to have been close to him."

"Give me ten minutes," Lupin tells him. "There's a gazebo at the far end of the cemetery."

"Don't be late," Alastor growls.

Lupin nods wordlessly and walks off, making his way through the crowd like a man running a gauntlet, shoulders bracing with every sympathetic pair of eyes he encounters.

Alastor gives him five minutes, and makes his way down to the gazebo. Lupin joins him a minute later, and though he's made an effort to compose his features, his eyes are still dangerously intense.

"Explain," he says, that one word loaded with impatience and the sort of half-buried threat that would ordinarily make Alastor damned uneasy. Given what the lad's been through in the past two days, he lets it slide.

"That bloody portrait of Dumbledore's - old Phineas Nigellus, you know the one?" Lupin nods. "He's got free range of Hogwarts, as well as most of the Black ancestral homes, and apparently he ran across our fugitive in one of the latter." Alastor pushes on, ignoring Lupin's sudden intake of breath. "He came to Dumbledore the day before yesterday, with some story about Black and Pettigrew switching as Secret Keeper at the last minute and without telling anyone. He says that Pettigrew escaped the massacre in Swindon, and that Black - wherever he's hiding - is hot on his tail." Alastor emphasizes the last word, but gets no reaction from Lupin. The man is still looking at him, but all of that frightening intensity is directed - not inward, but...elsewhere. After a long moment, he shakes himself slightly, eyes sharpening again.

"You believe this?" he demands.

"No," Alastor says bluntly, "but I don't disbelieve it, either." He will not admit to Lupin just how badly he wants Black to be innocent. Aside from the damage it will do his career to have mentored a traitor, he genuinely likes Black. "It doesn't matter one way or the other, though. You know what Crouch has planned for him."

"We have to find him first," Lupin says. "If there's the slightest chance he might be innocent, we have to find him first."

"Why do you think I tracked you down? A little light conversation?" Alastor shakes his head. "I thought you had more brains than that, Lupin. Think. We're sneaking about for a reason. I need your help."

"Mine?" Lupin's voice is startled, and Alastor remembers that the lad's spent the past three months under suspicion as a traitor.

"You're the only one who knows what Black's Animagus form is," Alastor says, and this time the barb strikes home. Lupin's eyes widen.

"Who - " he starts to ask, then presses his lips together, face pale in the weak fall sunlight.

"Phineas," Alastor answers him anyway. "though the old bugger won't tell us what form Black takes. Doesn't entirely trust us with the last of his precious House. I understand that Pettigrew is a rat."

"He's a dog," Lupin says, closing his eyes briefly. "A big black dog."