Revengeful Beginnings

The day was dark, cold, and rainy. Harry held his head down, feeling the pitter-patter on the drops on his hair. He shivered, and wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, never thinking to pull the hood up. It didn't matter--he liked the feel of the rain running down his skull, then dripping down his neck. He shifted his shirt near his neck to catch those running drops, and finally, stared up into the sky.

He searched the gray, cloudy expanse for a long time. Where is he? Harry thought intensely. His bright green eyes had lost their shine, and now a dull cast had overtaken them. His raven black hair flickered in the howling wind, but he paid no attention to the strands that got in the way of his sight. The scar that graced his forehead was barely visible beneath those strands of hair, but it was there.

"Come on, Ron!" Harry shouted furiously into the wind. For a long while now, Ron had been living with Sirius, on the run. Harry hated it--he felt he should be with Sirius, as his godson. Nevertheless, it was safer for Ron. Sirius had been injured in a duel with Pettigrew two months ago. His own magic hadn't been enough, for he was too weak. He managed to write Dumbledore for help. Dumbledore's idea of help had been sending someone out to live with him. Harry didn't know about it until he woke up one morning, and Ron had been gone. He leaned against the tree behind him, remembering that day vividly.

He woke up just with enough time to dress, eat, and make it to Transfiguration. He looked over at Ron's bed, and saw an odd and gut-wrenching sight.

The bed had no inhabitants, it wasn't made, it wasn't even messed--it was bare. The sheets and coverlet had been taken somewhere, and all that remained was a floppy mattress and limp pillow. At the foot of the bed, where Ron's truck would usually be, stood empty space. There was nothing to tell where Ron or his things had gone.

Confusion furrowing Harry's brow, he got up, and pulled a sweater over his pajamas, not bothering to fully dress. Stumbling slightly from his speed as he ran down the stairs, he ran headlong into Hermione. She was bowled over, and answered his rushed "Sorry!" with a yell.

Stopping to help her up, he asked hurriedly, "Do you know what happened to Ron?"

Her eyes lowered, but not before Harry saw the tears welling up in them. "What's wrong? Where is he?"

Hermione couldn't tell him, only point to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, where another strange, blow-to-the-gut was. For the first time in Harry's knowledge of the past six years at Hogwarts, Dumbledore had entered a dormitory. He stood, tall and strong in the doorway to the Common Room, but his face showed concern and sadness.

"Sir?" Harry said, approaching him carefully. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer to his question. "What's going on? Where's Ron?"

Dumbledore heaved a heavy sigh.

"Mr. Ronald Weasley is doing me, and you, a grand favor. You know Sirius is back in the country, I take it?" Dumbledore's eyes were missing their usual twinkle, and had a dull cast to them. Harry nodded cautiously. What did Ron have to do with Sirius?

"Sirius was hiding in a small mountain cavern, when his position was giving away by a returning owl. My owl, I'm sad to say. I'll never..." He trailed off, and then started up again. "Wormtail was the one who confronted our Mr. Black. The duel left him in great pain, and his need for help was great. He only just got an owl to me, pleading for help."

Harry was beginning to work out what was going on in his brain. Never, in his sixteen years of life, had he heard something so heavy on the heart. Many things had happened since Voldemort's uprising, but none so close to Harry's personal cares, none so devastating to his mind, soul, and heart. "So," Harry said slowly, "You sent Ron out to help him."

Dumbledore nodded. "Mr. Weasley was the ideal person. He is one of the only ones that knows Sirius' real past, and believes it. You must stay here under supervision, and Ms. Granger didn't have time to volunteer herself."

Fury welled up in Harry. "He's my godfather! Why can't I help him? Who cares about my being under 'supervision'?" He was yelling, even as hot tears of frustration and angry formed in his eyes. News of Sirius so bad, and Ron gone to help him...it was a problem so confound, and it hit so hard on Harry, that he didn't know how to react.

A hand appeared on Harry shoulder, whirling him around. Hermione comforted and hugged him, and they cried together.

Harry grimaced, remembering the day two months ago. Now he stood, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, waiting for Ron, who was due back. Harry really didn't know how he'd be coming, be it through the skies or through the forest. He counted on the skies, really--couldn't he take Buckbeak? Harry was just starting to feel worry and dread on top of his impatience when, a ways down from where he was standing, a figure stumbled out of the Forest with a barely audible "Oof!"

Harry started towards the figure. It picked itself up, and began walking for the castle with a very pronounced limp. But even with that limp, the walk was unmistakable.

"Ron!" Harry cried out. "Ron!"

He stopped walking, and turned. Harry's feet were running--there was no mistake. Only a Weasley could have hair that fiery red. The hair was their main characteristic, other than the fact that they all had freckles and hazel eyes. And there was no mistaking the hair and eyes that now turned and limped towards Harry.

"Ron!" Harry yelled out again. Now he was close enough to see his features--the long nose, lightly set hazel eyes, freckles. There was a new one as well--a cut on his cheek. Harry expected it was relatively old as he could make out a sort of scab over it. His own face couldn't have been smiling harder, but Ron's was set in a sort of grim determination. Harry's smile faded as he got closer and closer, noticing the lines etched between his eyes. What they were from, he didn't know.

Finally they were close enough that Harry could have reached out and touched him with his fingertips. "Ron..." He got no reply. They stood in silence for a moment, each looking the other over to see how they'd faired physically in the past two months. A small smile appeared on Ron's face, and suddenly they were hugging like brothers.

When they broke apart, Ron's face was back in his previous expression of grimness.

"Harry...it's been a long time. Seems like forever." His voice was a little deeper, and he spoke slower.

"Only two months," Harry answered, a sense of foreboding building in his gut. "Sirius...?" Harry set his tongue hard behind his top teeth and gritted them. His hands clenched into fists as he prepared for the worst.

Ron bowed his head in a gesture of defeat. "I'm sorry, Harry."

Harry wasn't quite sure what to think. He'd known, of course, when Ron had written him with a request to see him again. But now he felt worse than he ever had, that he fears were confirmed. His heart had been wrenched out and tossed carelessly aside. A single tear escaped his eye, burning his cheek like acid. He blinked the rest of the building drops away. A block of stone and lead had taken the place of his heart.

"Harry?" Ron's voice came. "Harry?" He sounded far away. When his left hand came up to Harry's shoulder, it was like watching it happen from outside his body.

The only family he had, his beloved godfather, was gone. After two months of hopefulness and agony, he was gone.

Peter Pettigrew had done it--Pettigrew, who had escaped capture. He'd put Sirius in Azkaban for twelve long years, taking him away from Harry, and now he'd killed him in a duel, leaving Harry more an orphan than he ever was before.

Revenge would be sweet.