A Promise Worth Keeping

Chapter One

It was Halloween. But the man huddled in a heap in the corner of the grim cell didn't know it. He knew the year was crawling towards its conclusion, but he couldn't have said what month it was, or what year. The window of his cell was high up in the wall and it was simply by the quality of the light that he could tell the seasons were changing, by that and the slow increase and decrease in the length of night.

He didn't know how long he had been in this place. He tried to keep track by scratching on the wall, but sometimes he couldn't remember why he did that and was never sure in his more lucid moments that he hadn't missed days or counted twice. There were a lot of scratches. Occasionally he counted them, but didn't do it often as the total always made him howl with despair at how long it had been if the number was even half right. But he kept on making the scratches because some part of him needed to try and keep track, to measure the passing time, the draining away of his life.

Sometimes he could see the moon, and its light always seemed to help him to think more clearly. But here in this place, the sky was often cloud ridden, and it could be days or even weeks, he thought, between sightings. Those were bad times, when the night sky was heavy and dark. Then he became lost in the constant replay of his worst moments and only the fact that he had remembered, somehow, that he had a temporary refuge, prevented him from descending further into a black abyss it would be impossible to climb out of. That and the fact that above all else, he knew that he should not be here, that while he was guilty of much including stupidity and arrogance and trusting where he should have suspected and suspecting where he should have trusted (oh the wonder of hindsight), he was never guilty of what they had sent him here for. Never. But there would be no reprieve he knew that. Apart from the Rat (who didn't count) no one alive knew what had really happened, there was no one who could possibly care, so he had no hope. Not now. And when it came right down to it, there was a part of him that whispered in the depths of his mind, that he did deserve to be here. That stupidity and arrogance and the rest were sufficient reason. Because after all, if it hadn't been for him…

The man shifted position slightly on the cold flagstones of the cell floor. The last few days had not been good. But today he had been unable to seek his refuge because there were people about, and they mustn't see him then. His greatest terror now was that they would find out about his refuge and take steps to stop him transforming. Then he knew that eventually it wouldn't matter how guilty or innocent he was.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside his cell. And voices.

"… high security," someone was saying. "There's usually at least two Dementors outside every cell, you know, Hobson. You'd really know about it if they were still here." The footsteps paused. "All of them are on this corridor." He wasn't talking about the Dementors now.

"Merlin, isn't that Lestrange?" asked another voice.

The first voice sounded amused, the man thought. He could almost remember what that meant. "Hard to believe isn't it? He's been like that for a couple of years now. Irreversible. We don't think he'll last much longer."

The footsteps moved on. "Who's in here?" the second voice asked from outside the man's cell. He sounded young and keen to the man inside. It struck a chord in what passed for his memory these days, and he remembered that this happened sometimes. Eager young wizards and witches being shown the sights. He didn't know why, didn't care. But it made for a change, and change was good. Change helped him think more clearly, drew him out of the monotony of pain and despair. Perhaps this wasn't such a bad day after all.

They didn't often stop outside his cell though.

Again the first voice sounded amused. "Oh this is our most important prisoner."

Most important? Well fancy that. A flicker of something he couldn't name ran through the man's mind.

"Really? It's him?" There was a pause, and the light from the corridor dimmed as someone blocked it out and the man saw a silhouette framed in the doorway of his cell. "Are you sure? I can't see anything."

There was an exasperated tut, and the door was wrenched open with a shrieking protest from rusting hinges. Light streamed into the cell. "Look, there he is, at the back." The first voice said and the two of them walked inside.

The man watched them through his matted hair, and his eyes met those of the young wizard.

"Bloody hell!" the other responded. "It looks as if there's still somebody home."

"He's not like the others is he?"

"How can that be after all this time?" the young wizard turned to his companion. "Surely he should be dribbling and witless by now like Lestrange, he's been here longer."

"You would think so, but for some reason he's not." The man visibly shivered. "Come on, he gives me the creeps, the way he just stares at you like that."

The younger wizard grinned. "Aw, come on, what can he do? He's hardly going to walk out of here now is he?"

The man in the cell thought this warranted a response, so he sat up, ignoring the pain from his joints, stiff from lying in the same position all day.

The younger wizard immediately jumped, an alarmed expression on his face and he stumbled backwards.

The man thought this was… he didn't know, couldn't remember the word, but it felt different. Funny. That was it. That was funny. And he grinned.

"Bastard!" exclaimed the young wizard, then an unpleasant expression crossed his face and he said, "Hey, Black, Happy Halloween!"

Immediately all amusement fled, and the man collapsed forwards, clutching his head, seeing again the ruined house with the Dark Mark lazily floating in the sky above it. Oh no, James, Lily, what have I done? And he was sucked down into the endless replay of the events of another Halloween. Dimly he heard the cell door slam shut.

A little later he knew they were back, draining him dry of the brief amusement he had experienced earlier, until he could no longer remember how he had felt. He whimpered and then fled to his refuge, the shape of the dog replacing his own.

---

It was Halloween. Once again. The man stood at the window of his flat, staring out at the cityscape below. The landlord had been very proud of that view when he'd shown the man over the flat three months previously.

"Do you know how much Muggles would pay for a view like that?" he'd asked.

The man chose to ignore the fact that the view was the only redeeming feature the tiny attic flat on Dark Horse Close had, nine flights up in a rickety tenement that would have warranted an instant requirement for emergency repairs from the local Planning Department had they been aware of it. But he'd taken it. Beggars couldn't be choosers after all and it did have a box room that could be secured which was always a consideration. He had to admit though - the view was pretty spectacular.

Well, not today. Today it merely looked dismal, with the flat grey sky, and driving sheets of rain almost blocking out the buildings of Princes Street far below. And there was that dreadful smell of yeast again, from Muggle breweries on the west of the city. It was better than the decaying stench of bundimans that he had smelt when he first moved in. His success in clearing the building of the infestation had earned him six months rent free accommodation, which was probably the length of time it would take his neighbours and employer to notice his monthly 'problem'. Then he would have to move on again. Which would be a shame as he had grown to like Edinburgh. It never even crossed his mind that he would be able to stay. Not once they realised what he was.

He sighed, and stepped back from the window, glancing at the clock on the wall. Four o'clock. It would be getting dark soon. Plenty of time before he had to go out so he decided to have some tea. He filled the kettle and quickly boiled it, then hunted for the tea bags in the cupboard above the sink before he realised he'd left them on the side. He gave another sigh, this time of exasperation and made the tea. He was always like this at Halloween, he knew; preoccupied. It was the only time he really allowed himself to think about those he had lost, well all bar one. He had tried to excise him from his thoughts as far as he could. But how to do that when he was inextricably bound up with the happiest memories of his life? If he never remembered those, then he might as well have gone to Azkaban himself.

Dear God, had it really been nine years? Already? He took his tea and sank down into the battered armchair by the fireplace. And as the dusk slowly fell, he remembered his friends, as he did every year. James with his messy hair and the Quidditch obsession, Peter's earnest expression as he tried to convince McGonagall that it had been him who'd been responsible for whatever she was accusing them of doing. And failing miserably as he usually did. Yes, and even Sirius, as he had been then, before everything went so horribly wrong, eyes wickedly gleaming as he outlined another reckless scheme. And Remus Lupin put his head in his hands as he asked himself the question he knew he would never get answered. Why? Why had Sirius betrayed them, sold out to the enemy like that?

There was a tapping at the window, and he sat up, suddenly realising he'd been sitting in the dark for some time. He reached for his wand and muttered, "Lumos."

With the dim light from his wand tip he glanced at the clock and saw that it was now nearly six. He stood up, and flicked his wand at the lamp in the corner, lighting it.

The tapping at the window sounded again and he quickly pulled the sash up letting the owl hop onto the windowsill. It was a Hogwarts owl and he knew who the message was from. Automatically he reached into a jar that stood beside the window and gave the owl an owl treat then removed the message from its leg. The bird hooted once, softly then was gone into the night again.

Remus took the message and after staring at the seal on the creamy coloured parchment, opened it and read the contents. Dumbledore always wrote to him at Halloween, he did it at other times of the year too, of course, but the letters he wrote every October were always different, their concern deeper. Acknowledging that this was the worst time of year, and that although, with the passing of the years the pain might reduce, it would never go away entirely.

He folded the parchment and put it on the mantelpiece. Right, time to go. He grabbed his cloak and stepped out onto the landing. As he set the locking charms and the wards, water dripped from the skylight in the ceiling above him onto his head. He looked up and got a splat in one eye for his pains. The wood of the window frame was rotten and needed replacing. He'd already mentioned it to the landlord, but he didn't suppose anything would get done until the glass fell into the stairwell. Well, in two or three months time he wouldn't be living here any more so what did he care? On which bleak thought he took himself off to work.

---

It was Halloween. In the living room of number four Privet Drive, Uncle Vernon was sitting watching the news. As the bulletin progressed, he kept up a running commentary on everything the newsreader said. It wasn't terribly favourable. Aunt Petunia was sitting beside him, flicking through an Ikea catalogue. One of the neighbours had raved about them and not wanting to be behind the times, she was giving the Swedish designers her due consideration, and not listening to what her husband was saying at all.

In the kitchen, doing the dishes was ten-year-old Harry Potter. He scrubbed listlessly at a plate, listening with one ear to his Aunt and Uncle droning on not talking to one another. He took a deal of amusement from the way that neither of them was the least aware that the other often didn't listen to what they said. Eventually the point would come where one of them, usually Uncle Vernon would make a comment and say something like, "don't you think, Petunia?" and wait for a response. His aunt, who seemed to respond on some sort of automatic pilot would occasionally answer the wrong question, and say something like, "No, dear," when in fact she should have said the opposite. Like now, when Uncle Vernon had been remarking on an item about New Age Travellers and opining that the world would be a better place if they all made to get proper jobs.

Harry glanced at his reflection in the kitchen window and saw his eyes dancing with laughter, but he didn't dare laugh out loud. They'd kill him.

Uncle Vernon harrumphed, as Aunt Petunia quickly realised her mistake and corrected herself. He covered his irritation with his wife by shouting through to the kitchen, "Boy! Haven't you finished the dishes yet?"

"Not quite, Uncle Vernon," Harry replied rolling his eyes at his reflection.

"Well, hurry up!" his uncle snapped. "And when you've finished you can make some coffee."

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry said, making a face. He always seemed to make the coffee either too strong or too weak. They were never happy with it.

"Then I'd better go and pick Dudders up from his party," Harry's uncle said to Aunt Petunia.

Harry wondered what the rest of the people at the party had made of Dudley's fancy dress costume. His cousin was never allowed to dress up in anything that could suggest magic, for some reason, so he had gone as Wesley Crusher from Star Trek, currently one of his favourite programmes. Harry privately thought he looked more like an extremely overweight Ferengi, but he didn't think Dudley would appreciate the comparison, so had kept it to himself.

Harry finished the last of the plates, and rummaged around in the dirty dishwater to see if there was anything else, then pulled the plug out. When he brought the coffee through, the news had finished and the weatherman was making facetious comments about sightings of people on broomsticks. Uncle Vernon snorted. "Stuff and nonsense."

"Yes, dear," murmured Aunt Petunia.

They became aware that Harry was still standing there and looked at him.

"Can I watch television now?" Harry asked, but he'd left it too late, Uncle Vernon had taken a sip of his coffee.

He narrowed his eyes unpleasantly as he made a face. "No, now go to your cupboard," he said.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry responded and started to walk slowly out of the living room.

"Stop dragging your feet," Aunt Petunia snapped automatically.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry responded and shut the living room door behind him. On reflection he decided it was probably better if he were out of sight when Dudley came back from his party. He didn't think that his cousin would have won any prizes for his costume, which would probably put him in a foul temper. Harry knew, from long experience that Dudley in a foul temper was always to be avoided if at all possible.

There was just enough space in the cupboard under the stairs for a bed and nothing else. As Harry sat down on the bed, a spider dropped down from the ceiling beside him. He flicked it onto the floor and it scuttled under the bed. It wasn't nearly late enough to go to bed, so he pulled out the book he'd managed to borrow from Dudley's second bedroom. Not that Dudley knew he had it, of course. Dudley would never willingly lend anything to his cousin.

The front door slammed shut as Uncle Vernon headed off to pick up Dudley from his party. Harry hadn't wanted to go anyway - the rest of Dudley's gang were going to be there and they would have tried to beat him up. They would probably have succeeded, and then Aunt Petunia would accuse him of fighting again, which was unfair.

The book was good, but he was rationing himself to only a single chapter a night, as he didn't know when he'd be able to borrow another one. He was just finishing his chapter when he heard the sound of Uncle Vernon's car pull up.

"Oh don't worry, Dudders," Uncle Vernon was saying, "there's always next year."

"They said I looked like a Ferengi!" declared Dudley in a furious voice. In the depths of his cupboard, Harry sniggered.

"Oh, er, well," said Vernon, clearly unsure what a Ferengi was, but intelligent enough to realise that Dudley did not view it as a compliment. "How did Piers do?"

The voices grew louder as they walked into the hall. "I don't care, I should have won," responded Dudley and stomped upstairs. Inside the cupboard, another spider fell from the ceiling, this time on Harry's head.

Uncle Vernon thumped on the door of Harry's cupboard. "Boy! Come and clear up these coffee things." And he pulled open the door. This was unfortunate as Harry was sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall with the book propped open on his knees.

Harry looked up at Uncle Vernon. He looked annoyed. "What's that book?" he demanded.

"Um, just a book," responded Harry evasively, his stomach clenching in apprehension.

"I can see that, where did you get it?" As Harry hesitated, Vernon held out his hand. "Give it to me."

Harry made a face and handed the book over. His uncle barely glanced at the gushing inscription from Aunt Marge on the inside front cover. "You're just like your parents; a liar and a thief, and if they hadn't been killed they would have ended up in prison, just like you will," he told Harry, his face starting to turn purple as it always did when he was angry.

This slur on his parents made Harry see red. "My parents weren't thieves!" he yelled at Uncle Vernon.

"They were lazy, good-for-nothing, abnormal freaks!" Vernon yelled back, grabbing Harry by the wrist and dragging him out into the hall. He flung him into the living room where Harry stumbled and fell forward onto his knees.

He immediately jumped to his feet, a wave of white-hot rage surging through him and yelled, "They weren't freaks!" Then he kicked Uncle Vernon in the shins.

His Uncle's face was now completely purple, and his eyes had a murderous glint in them. He grabbed Harry's wrist with one hand and hit him on the side of the head with the other one. "Yes they were! Now clear up those coffee mugs!"

Harry staggered backwards, and fell onto his backside. The force of the blow had knocked his glasses half off his face and his ears were ringing. For a moment he saw stars. He was shocked because Uncle Vernon had never hit him like that before. He wasn't quite sure what happened then, but the next thing he knew, Uncle Vernon was flying over his head and fell against the fireplace wall, his head giving a great crack as it connected with the sharp edge of the mantelpiece.

Harry stared at his Uncle in horror. He didn't move.

"What's going on!" demanded Aunt Petunia coming downstairs. "What's all this noise? Vernon?" She came into the living room from the hall, her hair swathed in a pale pink towel that clashed horribly with her complexion. She looked at her husband lying motionless on the floor, blood oozing from his head, and screamed.