The Hardest Thing

Alison Kendall closed the door of the vet's office and locked it behind her. It had been a long, tiring day, and Alison wanted nothing more than to go home, sink into a tub full of hot, lavender-scented water, and soak for a long, long time, until the aching muscles in her shoulders, back, and legs had been eased. She'd been the vet here in Grimmauld Place in London for six months, and she loved her work, but Alison was beginning to think she should have chosen a less vigorous profession.

A car screeched around the corner, and Alison instinctively ducked into the shelter of the doorway, narrowly avoiding being hit. The dog that ambled lazily along the other end of the street was not so lucky. The driver tried to stop, but was still going relatively fast when it made contact with the dog, which was knocked back onto the sidewalk, bleeding. Alison expected the driver to at least get out and make sure the car was alright, even if he cared nothing about the dog, but the car sped up instead, and screeched around the corner once more. Cursing under her breath, Alison ran down the street to where the dog lay, wishing once more that she'd hired an assistant before taking over the vet practice from old Dr. Morgan.

The dog was large, black, and shaggy, and was bleeding profusely from it's leg, which appeared to be broken. It whimpered when she tried to lift it, and Alison realized she would never be able to carry it all the way down the street. It had to weigh at least as much as she did, and was probably as tall as her when it stood on its hind legs. His hind legs, she corrected herself. Patting the dog's shaggy head, Alison ran back down the street to her office, unlocked the door, and pulled a stretcher out from the closet behind the secretary's desk. At least on the stretcher she could drag the dog back here, rather than trying to carry him. When she reached the corner where the dog lay, he opened his eyes, and Alison gasped. This dog had the strangest eyes she'd ever seen-not the usual golden that you found in dogs this color and type, his eyes were light gray, and looked almost-intelligent, she would have said, almost human even. "It's alright, boy, I'm going to help you," Alison said, and the dog sighed and closed his eyes as if he understood that now he could relax.

Somehow Alison managed to haul the dog onto the stretcher without hurting him further, and somehow she managed to drag him back to the office. She had no idea how she was going to get him on the examining table without help, so she ended up kneeling next to him on the floor while she set his leg and stitched up the cut on his shoulder where something cut him when he landed on the sidewalk. When she finished, Alison gave him an injection of a sedative that would keep him sleeping long enough for the wounds to heal a little before he woke up and hurt himself worse. Sighing, exhausted, she cleaned up the bloody mess she'd made on the floor, and took off the smock she'd pulled over her tee shirt to keep herself clean. "No bath tonight, thanks to you," she said wryly to the dog on the floor. "I'll be sleeping on the couch in here, I guess. Can't leave you alone." Alison splashed water on her face, combed her fingers through her hair, and collapsed onto the deep leathery couch in the waiting room. The dog's snuffling breaths, almost like snores, filtered through the door of her examining room into the waiting room where she lay, but Alison was already asleep.

The next morning Alison was awake by five, the sun peeking through her windows probably having something to do with that. She sat up and stretched. Her secretary, Jules, would be here in an hour, and Alison knew she could count on Jules to watch the dog while she ran up the street to her apartment for a quick shower and change of clothes. Sure enough, Jules arrived precisely at six, carrying two large styrofoam cups of spiced tea and a bag holding four doughnuts. She was Alison's cousin, only a year younger, and they had grown up together, so that they were more like sisters than cousins. Jules was the pretty one, according to everyone else, though it was difficult to tell them apart sometimes, with their long brown hair, big blue eyes, and dimpled smiles. Jules was more than happy to watch the dog in the examining room, and when Alison left, Jules was sitting next to the dog, who she'd christened Snuffles, stroking the soft fur on his face and ears.

In thirty minutes, Alison, feeling much better after a hot shower and a change of clothes, came back in to find Jules watching the small TV she'd brought in for her desk. The morning news was on, and there was some sort of alert-the same one that had been shown periodically for the past year-about the murderer Sirius Black who had escaped from prison the previous summer. Apparently he'd been sighted in Cornwall, and the public was being asked for any information about him. A picture was put on the screen, then another-one recent, one taken just before Black had been arrested. In the first, the man in the picture had hollow eyes, tangled black hair to his elbows, and a gaunt, unhealthy look, but when the second picture was shown, Jules squealed. Alison could see why-Sirius Black, before he'd gone to prison for twelve years, had been quite handsome. In this picture, Black was short-haired, his eyes were laughing, and the smile on his face was that of a man who knew he was attractive to women, and thoroughly enjoyed it.

"The public is warned that Black is armed and dangerous, and should not be approached. Do not under any circumstances attempt to detain this man. If you see him, please call the number on your screen immediately and give your name, location, and the time and place of the sighting. Repeat, do not approach this man." The announcer on the news gave the last warning in a grave voice, stared briefly at the camera with a serious expression, and then, quick as a wink, his face became serene and friendly as ever. "In other news, Sheffield United won their latest match against West Ham..." Jules turned to Alison.

"Quite the looker, wasn't he, that Sirius Black?"

"I s'pose," Alison said, shrugging. "If you like the type. Seemed a bit too arrogant to me. Besides, you're the one who goes for the mass murdering type. I prefer my men a bit less deranged." Jules threw the last bit of doughnut at her cousin, who ducked out of the way, laughing.

"Just because my last boyfriend turned out to be an outpatient at a mental institution does NOT mean that I like mass murderers. Besides, I only said he used to be attractive-if I saw him now I'd probably think I'd met a vampire or something. Twelve years in prison, did they say? Looks more like twenty, at least. Did they never give him a chance to shave or cut his hair?"

"Dunno. Doesn't look like it. Anyway, we've got more to worry about than escaped murderers who'll most likely never come our way. How's Snuffles doing?"

"Oh, he's fine. I think he was starting to wake up-maybe you should go check on him."

"Yeah, I think I'll do that. Let me know if anyone comes in early. We shouldn't have any appointments before nine today."

Alison stepped into the exam room, and stopped cold. Snuffles was gone-or at least, he was no longer lying on the stretcher on the floor where she'd left him with Jules. She started to turn around, to ask Jules if she knew where he'd gone, when a hand clamped itself over her mouth, and the door shut behind her with a small click, seconds before another hand slid around her wrist and held her in place.

"Where am I?" The voice was hoarse and harsh in her ear, unmistakeably masculine, and even in the hoarse whisper there was some deep note that sent shivers down Alison's spine, not of fear but of something else she couldn't define. "If I take my hand away, will you promise not to scream?" Alison nodded. The hand slowly slipped away from her mouth, but stayed against her cheek, ready to silence her again if it needed to. "Where am I? Who are you? And what is this thing on my leg?"

Alison, shaking with fear, answered haltingly, "You're in my office-I'm Alison Kendall, the vet here. What have you done with the dog? Who are you?"

The hand on her wrist tightened. "What do you mean, what have I done with the dog? There was no dog, do you hear me? No dog. And who I am is no concern of yours. What have you done to my leg?"

"I haven't done anything to your leg, seeing how we just met two seconds ago. What are you talking about?"

"This great bloody thing, on my leg! What is it? Why can't I walk properly?"

Confused, Alison tried to turn, but the hand on her arm changed to an arm around her waist, and she was pulled back against a lean, muscular body. The arm around her middle was like a steel band, nearly cutting off her breath, and Alison wondered if the man planned to murder her. His voice rasped in her ear again, "Don't try to turn around. Look down. What is this on my leg?"

Alison looked. A splint and a large bandage were wrapped around his leg, looking curiously similar to the bandage she'd put on the dog last night. "It's a splint. You must have had some sort of leg injury, not serious enough to require a cast, but serious enough to need to be kept immobile."

The man sighed-in relief, she would have said, if she wasn't so terrified, and relaxed his hold on her waist. Alison spun around, taking advantage of his momentary lapse in control, and looked up to face him. She nearly fainted. It was the man from the TV-Sirius Black.