All Debts Must be Paid

Chapter Seven: Sirius

The second he heard the Hit Wizards leaving, Sirius transformed back and rushed into the cottage. What could they possibly want to speak to Remus about? He almost felt sick as a wave of guilt swept through him. This was because of him: it had to be. There was no other possible reason they could want to question Remus, surely.

Too many people that he'd cared about had suffered because of him, or because of what he'd done. Well not any more. He'd get Moony out of wherever they'd taken him if it was the last thing he did. He thought briefly about enlisting Dumbledore's help. However, after Fudge's refusal to believe that Voldemort had returned, the headmaster was hardly likely to be on very good terms with that idiot and he didn't want to provoke more antagonism. And Sirius remembered with a shiver, there were some things the headmaster was powerless to stop. No this was something he had to do on his own.

He paced around the wrecked room, running his hands through his hair, racking his brains. Come on Padfoot, you stupid bastard, think! Where would they take him? He stopped as he realised the obvious place, the logical place had to be MLES headquarters at the Ministry in London. Did he honestly think that by himself he could get Remus out of there? But he knew he didn't really have any option. He'd walk through the gates of Hell itself for his friends.

He looked around the cottage, in the vague hope that they had perhaps left Remus' wand behind, but no such luck. Instead, he grabbed one of Remus' jumpers and pulled it on over his t-shirt. It was too big, but it hid just how thin he was. Muggle transport would be quickest, he thought. All he had to do was get the fifteen miles or so to Glastonbury and he'd be able to hitch a lift into London. Probably. He glanced in the hall mirror, daring it to comment on his appearance, just to check how he looked compared with that picture they'd given to the Muggle police. Remus had insisted he cut his hair and he wasn't quite as skinny, no, Padfoot he told himself, the word was emaciated, as he had been then. And it had been two years ago after all. He'd be all right.

When he got to Glastonbury, it took longer than he expected to get a lift, and for a while, he wondered if it would have been better to try and get to London as Padfoot, before he told himself not to be ridiculous. However some people stopped for him eventually; but then they dropped him off miles from the Ministry of Magic offices. As soon as he was out of sight, he transformed and made his way there as quickly as he could. Even so, it was early evening before he got anywhere near them. Once there, he sat on his haunches in the doorway of an empty office block opposite the entrance staring thoughtfully at the building. For a moment, he really doubted that he could pull it off, that all he was doing was a complicated form of suicide. He'd never been troubled by such doubts before, years ago. Old age, Padfoot he told himself, or Azkaban. However, he would have to wait though, it was too early, there were still too many people about, so he settled down, head on his front paws and despite the worry that gnawed at the back of his mind was soon dozing.

He was startled out his sleep into a stuffy, warm night by a sharp kick, and a drunken voice slurring, "Gerrout, fecking bastard dog!" and a dark shape lurched into the doorway.

Oh wonderful, he thought as he skittered out onto the pavement, he'd been sleeping in someone's home. He needed to move now anyway, staring at the front of the building wasn't going to get him inside. Not unless he transformed back and walked up to the night porter and said Okay, I give up, arrest me. That wasn't even mildly funny, Padfoot he told himself. He wanted the back of the building. That was the way in for him.

The traffic had died away now as much as it ever did and he darted across the road. A narrow street ran down one side of the building and he followed it. His nose told him he was going in a promising direction - he could smell the dustbins, which meant there was a back entrance he could probably get in by. He found them in a small yard off the alley. It was clearly nearly time for them to be emptied as they were overflowing, filling the air with the smell of decomposing refuse. That meant there might be rats. Reluctantly he stifled his hunger. He didn't have time to chase rodents not now; he had to get inside. He had just taken a step towards the doorway, and was standing beside an overturned dustbin, when the door opened, and light streamed out, throwing the shape of a house elf carrying a heavy bucket into sharp relief. It saw him and put the bucket down. Marching over to where he was standing, it said severely, hands on hips, "You is a bad dog! Look what you is doing!" and it pointed at the rubbish spilling onto the paving stones.

Sirius tried to look contrite, milking the puppy dog eyes look for all he was worth. To back up the point he was trying to make, his stomach growled.

The house elf nodded in comprehension, "Ah, you is hungry." It looked at him more closely, and for once Sirius was thankful that he didn't have to fake looking a mess. "And you is being hungry for a long time, I think." It reached out and patted his nose, then turned and retrieved its bucket. It poured the thick sludgy contents down a drain in the middle of the yard, and walked back towards the door. Sirius stood and watched it. As it got to the door, it turned and beckoned, "Is you coming?"

He wagged his tail and followed the small creature into the building.

The corridor was dimly lit. For once, he was glad of his canine vision, as he suspected the colour of the linoleum floor must be quite nauseous. There was an all-pervasive smell of industrial strength magical mess remover, and under it the smell of that day's lunches. Then he caught a stray whiff of something else; a smell of parchment and wolf that screamed Remus at him. He knew he was on the right track and padded after the house elf, claws clicking on the surface until they came to a set of double swing doors. "Everyone is busy cleaning," it told him in a conspiratorial whisper, "but I is finding you something to eat."

The kitchen was large, although at this time of the evening most things had been cleared away for the day. There must be a canteen upstairs somewhere. A trolley was laid out with plates and mugs, simply awaiting piles of sandwiches to serve as a late night snack trolley to those working the night shift. The house elf pushed its way through another door, motioning him to stay where he was. The smell of food that came wafting out of the larder made him salivate immediately. He was drooling onto the floor by the time the house elf pushed the door open again and returned with a plate laden with cold sausages and half a joint of ham. It put the plate down in front of him and he almost vacuumed the food off it.

Just then, a high-pitched voice yelled outside in the corridor, "Widget!"

The house elf gave a guilty start. Quickly it put down a large marrowbone on the floor beside the plate and whispered at Sirius. "You is being very good if Widget leaves you here?"

Sirius wagged his tail and the house elf seemed satisfied. It hurried over to the swing doors and stepped outside. Sirius heard the high-pitched voice start to berate the creature. "Widget! What is you doing in there? You is supposed to be cleaning third floor gents! Get back to work!" The voice faded as the house elves walked up the corridor.

Sirius gave the marrowbone a regretful look, and padded over to the doors himself. He nosed them open a little, so he could see outside. The corridor was empty, in both directions.

Before venturing out, he thought about what to do next. If he remembered correctly the MLES offices were on the second floor, but that wasn't where the holding cells were. They were in the basement. He shuddered briefly and shied away from the memories that thinking about this place brought. Keep focussed, he told himself. He needed to find the stairs. But still he paused, thinking that they might still be questioning Remus upstairs. Then he gave himself a shake. He realised he just didn't want to go down to the basement.

His claws clicked on the linoleum again as he made his way out of the kitchen and along the corridor, away from the back entrance, looking for a doorway, or something that might be the stairs. He came to an intersection and stared in either direction at the corridor, thinking Merlin but the place was huge! He'd forgotten that.

Unbidden, he remembered being frogmarched along a corridor like this one, surrounded by angry voices, the light had been brighter, but the green floor had been the same (he presumed), with the same smell of disinfectant. As he left the kitchen area, the underlying smell of food faded to be replaced by something else. It was a smell that made him shiver, and the hackles rise on his neck. Fear.

He tried to push back the memories that kept welling up and focus on his task. There must be stairs near then. He forced himself to walk in the direction the smell was coming from. Sure enough, he turned another corner and there was a staircase. He walked towards the first step that lead down into darkness and stopped, a soft whine coming from his throat. He remembered falling, as they'd pushed him down one flight of stairs, then hauled him to his feet and flung him down the next, cursing him. He hadn't been able to stop himself falling because they'd manacled his hands behind his back. The manacles had cut into his wrists they'd been so tight, leaving pale thin scars. Not that he'd cared at the time, particularly. Reflexively he rubbed his wrists.

Whoa! He'd transformed without realising it. Flicking a glance around he transformed back and thought, get a grip Padfoot! He was growling now, without realising it. They hadn't needed to take him this way, they could have used a portkey, but it was more symbolic to do it like this. It let everyone see that the traitor had been caught, and it was a bit of ritual humiliation for him. There had been a lot of that.

He tried to stop shivering, aware yet again, that the dog's emotions could be a liability sometimes. Stop it! He ordered himself. He had to find Remus. That was what he was here for.

Quickly before he could think about it any more, he skittered down the stairs, until he came to the basement. At the foot of the stairwell, the way was barred by double doors. He didn't really need to try them to tell they were locked, but just in case, he walked up to them and sniffed. There was that metallic smell of magic, and although he couldn't see anything, he knew there must be wards as well as locks. He could probably have got through with a wand, but without one… He needed to think.

The space under the stairs was full of old filing cabinets, but it was dark, and he would hear anyone coming. He walked back into the shadows where he lay down, back against the cold metal of one of the cabinets. What would guards need to come out for? And then he remembered the kitchen. Food. The house elves would be bringing a trolley round at some point for the night shift. So, he curled up to wait.