Banish Misfortune

Chapter 17:

Without one valid form of identification
Say you lost your wallet, or the keys to your car—
You lost your orders, you lost your directions:
No-one knows who you are—do you know who you are?
                                                Jan Marra, "Who You Are"

It was amazingly, laughably easy. He'd read the book with careful attention, mentally walked through the process for assuming No-Shape—and it had happened. It had not even been necessary to say the words.

Another ten seconds' experimenting showed him that, while he had no shape, he still possessed substance: he could pick up and hold things; could not walk through solid objects. At the opening of the cave, he scraped his toe in the dirt: yes, he would leave footprints. He assumed that his voice could be heard, but he would pay a visit to Dumbledore to make sure of this.

He stepped out into the sunshine: Cool, no shadow. He walked down the mountain, to the stile, put a hand on the top rail and vaulted over. (He could see the rail right through his hand: Cool.) He walked up the lane toward the village, crossing through a muddy patch. He turned, looking back at his footprints, mingled with those of Padfoot and a few passing horses. Not good—a Concealing spell was in order here. His wand was back in the cave; could he do it without his wand? He glared at the footprints, thought 'Amicio'.  He was gratified to see them sinking down, the surrounding mud oozing slowly over them.

OK, he would go up to visit Dumbledore, as promised, but he wouldn't fly; he would walk. Like this. Into the village. Just the slight alteration in his point of view, from Padfoot's height to his human height, made things appear different, interesting. Up and down the same streets, paying attention, of course. Thinking through the spell every now and then, just to be sure it held.

 Around the corner from The Three Broomsticks, down to the end of the tiny street where a few Dark shops huddled together. Hag's Hole, not open yet. A place to meet people who didn't want to be met. He'd stop in on his way back. The surly owner of that pub was a fair shot with stones; Padfoot had never been allowed close. A few times he'd seen some very interesting people going in there. Next to Hag's Hole: an alchemist's shop, dealing in potions with unspecified powers and purposes. Across the way: Dragon's Lair, an inn. The door was tightly closed; apparently people at this end of town were not early risers.

He turned and made his way back up to the high street, watching the shopkeepers opening up, administering cleaning spells to pavements and shop windows, calling greetings to each other and to the first customers of the day. He recognised a few faces; owners of shops and regular passers-by. A click of heels on cobblestones: Madame Rosmerta, on her way to open the Three Broomsticks. He moved closer to the wall, to allow her plenty of room to pass. Her face, without its customary hostess's smile, was businesslike—older than he remembered. He felt a sudden urge to see her warm smile. A Cheering Charm, from this distance, even without a wand, shouldn't be difficult… there. She surely would put her surge of happiness down to the bright sunny morning. A kind lady, always pleasant to the hordes of unruly children who came into the pub. Even, as he recalled, when her patrons had had a bit too much of whatever they were drinking, she was unfailingly gracious.

Three dogs came trotting down the street, in search of entertainment: he was acquainted with them, or rather, Padfoot was. They had joined him companionably in his bumbling attempts at rat-chasing and begging for scraps, on several occasions. They sniffed the air uncertainly as he passed, wagging their tails, looking around for Padfoot.

He hadn't anticipated this. Should he run? Walk away slowly? Stop? He looked up and down the street. Nobody was paying any attention to the dogs. He stayed where he was; the dogs veered towards him. He bent down to pet the smallest, a beagle. It wagged its tail; he stretched his other hand to the black-and-tan mongrel alongside. It accepted a scratch behind the ears from the invisible hand, its tongue lolling out in doggy pleasure.

The tallest dog, a black poodle, was a bit more highly strung; it was not so sure of this situation. It backed a few steps, showed the whites of its eyes at the spot where Padfoot should be but wasn't, and began to bark. Padfoot suddenly took over the physical side of Sirius's brain; he jumped to his feet and bounded away.

He raced up the street as fast as he could run, the dogs at his heels, now all barking excitedly. He should have known better than to try this excursion. He did know better. But running up the middle of the street on such a fine morning was just FUN. He grinned happily to himself; people would think nothing of a trio of barking, running, playful dogs. He ran faster, all the way up the street, towards the castle. The dogs left off following him after passing the last of the village houses; Sirius kept on running for the fun of running.

The ground began to slope more steeply as he approached the castle grounds. An early-morning flying class could be seen on a level patch, just inside the outer wall: first-years, to judge by their size and the general level of awkwardness. They seemed to be following a trail of glowing powder laid out on the ground: a sort of aerial maze.

He remembered those: if one went too far astray from the path on the ground, one's broomstick began to turn a brilliant red or blue, and one's classmates jeered. He remembered Remus struggling with those exercises during first year: Remus's mind was usually in some book; he was not a natural flyer like Sirius or James, or even Peter, who had caught on handily after the first week or two.

That smallest kid at the end of the line had a 'Remus' look about him, reminding Sirius of the way Remus had approached flying: tense, gripping too tightly on the broom handle, not enjoying himself. His broomstick was glowing red just a couple of yards into the maze. Madame Hooch was barking instructions to the line as a whole, not singling out the kid; she was a good instructor, Sirius decided. If that kid could only focus on what she was telling them….

The apparent leader, flying higher than all the others, looked down on the struggling kid in some concern; obviously a friend of his. Other children, however, were not so solicitous. A yell from one of the other leaders, a girl, echoed off the stone walls, "Look at Robson! He's barely crawling, almost on the ground! His broomstick's already red! It probably turned red the minute he picked it up!" A few shouts of laughter followed this remark; young Robson hunched his thin shoulders even more tensely and did not look up.

Madame Hooch glared up into the group. "That's quite enough, Miss Pettigrew! Kindly give your attention to your own form. Your hands are completely out of position! Suppose you had to alter course suddenly, then where would you be?"

A youthful voice above the rest of the group suddenly shouted, "Consternatio!" and Miss Pettigrew's broom lurched sideways as she grabbed at the handle convulsively. Her broomstick suddenly glowed bright blue as she left the path. She slowed, lost altitude, bobbled to the ground, and continued at a snail's pace.

"Five points from Ravenclaw, Collier! You will leave the discipline in this class to me in future." But she didn't seem terribly angry, and she neglected to remove the spell.

Sirius watched in approval, not so much at Madame Hooch this time as for young Collier's use of the Strike-Fear spell. He hadn't discovered that one until his third year. Its opposite, of course, was the Take-Heart charm; he wondered if he could bestow it on little Robson from this distance.  He moved a bit closer; having no wand would make it more difficult to aim properly.

He stood right at the edge of the marked line; he waited until the child was barely twelve feet from him. "Fidem Facio," he thought, smiling at the boy. Sometimes a bit of confidence could do wonders. Robson's eyes widened slightly; he glanced up toward his friend and smiled—and steered into a fellow student. "Sorry," he grinned, and continued along the path, a bit faster, a bit higher. His broomstick's red glow faded. Sirius grinned along with him. He couldn't make the boy a good flyer, but he'd made him not mind so much—at least, not for this morning. He turned and walked up the slope to the castle.

The flying class stayed in his mind as he approached the great front doors. Odd, how things worked out: Remus was now the one with all the confidence, while he, Sirius, was the fumbling, uncertain one. He slowed, came to a stop, turned back to watch the class from a distance.

Back when Sirius was young Collier's age, and even before, he'd had no fear. None. He and Andie had been delighted with life, and each other, when they were very little. Running, yelling, and giggling were their first reactions to most situations, in their early childhood. Everything had been easy, and fun: he'd been able to turn anything into a challenge, or a game, or a puzzle to solve.

Coming to Hogwarts had been a continuation of a great adventure: he'd revelled in his studies, and the thousands of new ideas that popped into his head as a result of those studies. Most importantly, he'd found friends who could keep up; who could be his equals. Remus had never had Sirius's carefree lightheartedness, but he had brilliant ideas, and quick intelligence, and a sly, subtle sense of humour. Peter didn't have many good ideas, nor was he very skilful—but he had admiration for those who did, or could, and that made up for quite a bit, at least for James, at least at the age of eleven. So he had tolerated Peter because James did.

James had it all; was almost his twin.

Sirius had given his whole heart to these three, sharing everything, bouncing ideas off them, being inspired by their ideas. Looking out for them, knowing they were looking out for him in the same way. A guard dog, fearless in the face of any threat to his pack.

Family-dog like, he hadn't tolerated most other people. Other people moved so slowly; they always said "No" to the simplest things.… They were such fraidy-cats.

He was learning, he supposed. He was afraid of quite a few things now: no doubt that was progress. He grinned ruefully to himself: oh yes, he'd come a long way.

He felt the shove from behind before he'd even been aware of the footsteps. Sirius's heart nearly stopped: someone had walked right into him as he stood, like a fool, in the middle of the path.

There was a soft chuckle. "Sirius?"

He caught his breath, laughed softly in relief, and turned. Dumbledore. He didn't deserve it, but his luck had held. "Good morning, Headmaster. Forgive me; I should have moved off the path to do my meditating. I was watching Madame Hooch and her group, down there."

"The flying class? First-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, I believe. One doesn't see quite as many natural flyers among those youngsters. They tend to catch up with Gryffindors in the second or third years, however. Madame Hooch is a wonder at bringing out the talent other people might overlook."

"I've been watching her do just that. It took me back! I remember flying those mazes of hers; she used to make me and James go around twice for everyone else's once. It wasn't easy, but it certainly was fun."

"Yes; Madame Hooch was one of the instructors here who knew exactly how to deal with you. Other instructors were less… adaptable. You were brought to my notice fairly soon in your first year, I recall." He smiled benignly at the spot where Sirius probably was.

"I remember you very well when you first arrived: the tallest of your year, all eyes and elbows. And noise. You excelled at all your studies, and at making up rude rhymes about your instructors and classmates.

"I believe you were the only student ever to actually study the Goblin Rebellions with an eye to using their strategies in school pranks. Other students merely played tricks; you and your friends engaged in military campaigns! I was rather impressed. I gave you the detentions anyway, but I was impressed."

Dumbledore turned back towards the castle, chuckling. "I suggest we continue this conversation in my office; we are undoubtedly adding to my reputation as a mad old goat, as I stand here talking to the air. I take it that you found the No-Shape spell easy to master? Tell me about it."

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Dumbledore poured the tea and sat back in his huge chair, beaming at his now perfectly visible guest. "How long have you been working without a wand? It never even occurs to most people to try that, and it is quite difficult."

Sirius added milk to his tea, and frowned in thought. "I don't know; it began gradually, I think. I had to do without one for such a long time, and there were things I had to do. Then, it was Andie's idea for me to mix the Wolfsbane Potion with my hands instead of a wand: the contact with Moony would be more direct, she said, and it seemed best at the time. More recently, it's just been a matter of convenience: I'd forget my wand somewhere and want something done, like this morning. It never occurred to me not to do it."

"Ah… do you know, I believe you are nearly recovered from your ordeal in Azkaban. That is an answer I would have received from the young, 'invincible' Sirius. At the least, you seem to be regaining your old confidence. Your ease with the No-Shape spell, your willingness to take on any task requested of you, your decreasing dependence on a wand: this is all quite impressive, and certainly backs up Remus's report of you. Remus thinks that you are much more powerful now than you were before Azkaban; he is delighted with your progress. Your return to health has meant a great deal to him, you know."

Sirius said nothing; he felt a moment of uneasiness. Of course they would compare notes on his progress; they were both his friends. (Remus was, at any rate….) Now where did that come from? Of course Dumbledore was his friend. He always had been. How much, though, did Dumbledore know about him, that Remus had mentioned but he, Sirius, had not? And how would it matter? Would Dumbledore want him to be more candid, or would he want Sirius to do a certain amount of thinking for himself, and not tell him every little thing? Which would get him the best hearing when he asked to keep Harry?

He didn't know. He couldn't find out. He wouldn't worry about it. He had no secrets that he was actively hiding from Dumbledore, so it didn't matter, did it? His problem with the headmaster had nothing to do with secrets.

"How do you think Harry is shaping for the final task, Headmaster? It was grand, watching him rescue those children from the lake; I was proud of him." He didn't mention that he'd actually seen the whole task.

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When Sirius left the castle it was nearly noon. He had left Dumbledore's window in falcon form, soaring above the Forest and the lake. He was restless; his mornings were not usually spent sitting. He coasted above the open scrub on the far side of the Forest, searching idly. This didn't require thought; this was the way things were supposed to be. Automatically watching, knowing what to do—there—movement. he spied a small creature scampering through the grass.

With a shrill cry, he struck. He covered the prey with his wings, thwarting its struggles, slashing furiously with beak, clinging with talons.  Lunch. He continued his rounds, now as Padfoot. Running was a great joy. He ran the miles around the edge of the Forest, till he came to the path leading to Hogsmeade.

No-Shape: time to go back through the village. This late in the afternoon, there might be more activity around the Dark side of town. He strolled down the high street, watching, listening to snatches of conversation here and there, taking his time.

Hag's Hole was now open for business.  "Dissimulo," he whispered as he opened the door gently. Nobody even looked up.

The cramped room was smoky, malodorous, quiet; a few scattered patrons hunched over drinks at the bar and at three or four tables in corners. A few familiar faces: Karkaroff. He was speaking agitatedly to a man and a woman sitting with him at a table. Their faces were familiar: former Slytherins, he couldn't remember their names.

"Snape wouldn't give me the time of day; he brushed me off like dirt. But I know the Dark Lord is returning. I know it. And so does he." He took a long pull at his drink and signalled for another. Sirius backed against the wall as the waiter approached with a second glass.

"I know, Karkaroff; I have the Mark too, and you are correct: it is getting stronger." The other man clutched at his forearm, and Sirius thought back to what Harry had seen in Snape's classroom. 'Something on his arm.…' He moved closer.

The woman with them wriggled in her chair. "A mark? Oooh, let me see; I have heard that the Death Eaters were honoured with a mark. Please, may I have a look?" Sirius leaned forward.

"Of course, my dear; could I deny you that pleasure? It is encouraging to see it so strong; after the Potter disaster, it nearly vanished.  I had given up all hope of the Master's return, but this—this gives me great joy." The man lowered his arm until it was slightly below the tabletop, bared his arm, and they saw.

The Dark Mark—'after the Potter disaster'—Sirius froze as he stared at the man's arm. The last time he'd seen this sign, it was floating in the air above James's home. These bastards. These evil, poisonous bastards.

Karkaroff spoke: "Yes, of course, we should be pleased… but what will the Master want of us this time? Will he be angry that no-one came to his rescue? Will he be lenient with us, who had to survive in his absence? Of course I am glad of his renewed strength, but I fear…I fear.…"

And so you should, you cringing, lying bastard, Sirius thought. So should you all, fear. Oblige me by being afraid, right now. Consternatio. Karkaroff's hand made a sudden involuntary jerk, spilling his drink. The woman clutched at her friend's arm, and all three looked at each other in panic. Sirius left the pub, opening and closing the door without being noticed.

So, now he knew about the mark. He knew that Karkaroff, the man in the pub, and Snape, all had one. He knew the Mark was bestowed upon Death Eaters. All the Death Eaters knew Voldemort was getting stronger, and they were glad. Except the ones, like Karkaroff, who had reason to be afraid.

He walked back to the cave to find an owl waiting, with a parcel and a note from Harry. Two meat pies. Harry went to some little trouble to send these parcels; Sirius smiled as he read the note.

Dear Sirius,     Still no word about what the third task is to be. Ron and Hermione say Hello, and hope you're OK. Is there anything else you need? We could get you a sleeping bag if you're too cold at nights. I know how to Reduce things now, so an owl could carry it, no problem.  Look after yourself--   Harry 

               

Harry deserved the best; he'd see to it that whatever happened, Harry was protected. Back to the Song. A song, like the Sami gave each other, would keep Harry safe. Aslak had assured him that he could make one, and he'd been slowly acquiring the technique since his Yule visit to Folberg. The old man's lessons had given Sirius the steps to follow. They had worked together on acquiring the Attitude: the state of mind necessary for finding the song in Sirius's heart. So far, the song had not come to him, but he was getting better at inducing the Attitude.

He closed his eyes, gradually removing all thoughts of his day: the No-Shape, the talk with Dumbledore, the Hag's Hole encounter.  Nothing could be in his mind now, except his love for Harry, his wish to protect him. He was good at forming images in his mind; he'd found this ability useful in making many different kinds of spells. Aslak's method of songmaking was to gather the images and wait until words or nonsense syllables, and a tune, appeared with them. Sirius had the images, but no words. And no tune.

Pete should be home soon; he'd put the problem to him.

One memory drifted back to him from his day's work: running, as Padfoot, around the perimeter of the Forest. He altered that image to include Harry, running beside him, laughing at the fun of the two of them chasing each other through the wild landscape. Shouting, barking, because they could; because it didn't matter who heard them. Freedom: he'd have to put freedom into the song.