Of Western Stars

“‘T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die…
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”
-Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson


which seemed to reflect Sirius’ goal quite well, his desire to succeed, his impatience, and the injustice against him.



Story dedicated to Moppet Poppet, Cheating Death’s 500th reviewer!


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Of Western Stars
By neutral

Chapter one - of blurry pictures

It was cold.

An icy cold that creped under your skin and snapped your veins one by one. It twisted the very flesh in your body and froze bones stiff. It exuded from every inch of the walls, and one by one, gripped the minds of its prisoners and dragged them into oblivion.

But one man was different. He was silent, watching the others with clouded blue eyes with something akin to boredom. Ever now and then, his face would contort in anger and rage like the others, but he would always calm down again and return to his watching. But then, one day, he just stopped.

Sirius had been deaf and blind to the world around him for the past few days; he hadn’t eaten, he hadn’t slept. He stared at a crumpled page of newspaper, only a few days old, but frequent handling had worn it into a dull, faded brown. He gripped it so tightly that his fingers were white and trembling, clutching it as if it were a lifeline.

A faded picture was barely discernable. It was an image of a boy, only six years of age but looking years younger, with untamed hair and brilliant green eyes. He was short and thin for his age, looking smaller than he really was in oversized clothes. He sat on a secluded park bench, face away from the camera as if he was looking for someone. Then, slowly, he turned around to stare back at the man, eyes wide but oddly shy.

Sirius smiled, running his fingers lightly over the blurred picture.

“Harry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and raw with disuse. “Do you still remember me?”

Harry didn’t respond, only continuing to stare back at him innocently. But Sirius only smiled wider. It was a rare luck that such a picture came to him. The Minister, during his tour of the prison grounds, offered the stack of newspaper to him at his request. It was only when he was flipping through it, did he notice a small article on the second page with a fuzzy image. Someone had taken a picture, and belatedly discovered a small boy in the background.


The Boy Who Lived spotted in a Muggle park


The article had captured him immediately, and Sirius read it so many times that he could recite it in his sleep. Harry had been sighted, despite all the effort that Dumbledore took to keep him hidden from the magical community. His exact whereabouts where unknown, but Sirius knew exactly where he was. How could he forget, after all the times Lily had pointed out her sister’s house on the map with a slightly hurt smile?

Now, Sirius wanted nothing more than to be there, with the little boy in the deserted park. He would give everything he still had just to sit beside him for a few short minutes. Sirius smiled, running his fingers over the picture again.

A new person suddenly burst into the frame, a fat man with an overflowing stomach. He stomped over the grass with a demeanor that exuded impatience, disgust, and arrogance. Sirius blinked in surprise; over the past few hours that he stared at it, he had never seen the man. Harry instantly froze with fear, and the man clamped a round hand harshly over the boy’s frail arm. He tugged him off the bench, walking so quickly that Harry fell and dragged across the grass, the two disappearing from the picture.

Sirius growled, an angry boiling inside him hotter than anything he could remember. His grasp tightened over the picture, straining it so hard that it ripped in half. Sirius flung the remains on the ground, turning towards the window of his cell. He shook the unyielding bars with a mad desperation.

“Let me out!” he shouted. But his voice was lost with the others. “Let me out. Let me out! Let me out!!”

*

Sirius took several unsteady steps forward, the entire world swaying in his vision. The water from the river still clung to his fur, and no matter how hard he shook himself, he could still feel the dampness against his skin. Strange, even in Azkaban, he never felt this cold.

But the moment he stepped onto the dry shore, Sirius felt a burst of euphoria flood his senses. It was like the first time he rode on a broom. He drew a deep breath, the air clean and fresh for the first time in six years. Sirius laughed, a strange sound for a dog to produce, but he laughed nevertheless. He was free!

Sirius made a small leap of joy, but instantly his weak limbs trembled under the weight. He tired to stay standing, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle. The strain of swimming across the river was hitting him harder than ever. But Sirius forced his legs to move, the canine paws tingling with the strange sensation of finally moving after years of lethargy.

He wasn’t sure how long he walked, his mind was a smudge of muffled thoughts and his vision was growing darker by the minute. But the next time he dragged himself into perception, he was nearing a patch of black where the grass abruptly stopped. Large boxes on wheels were lined side by side. On closer inspection, Sirius realized they were trucks, still in the process of loading with their back compartments open.

“Where’s this one to?”

Sirius snapped around, instinctively pulling back in the shadows. A man drifted into view, reeking so strongly of cigarettes that Sirius’ acute senses made him sneeze.

“Little Whinging,” said another gruffly. “And you better not get lost this time. That was the most pathetic thing I ever…”

… Little Whinging …

Sirius smiled.

*

A little boy too small to be six and a half years of age sat in the middle of a deserted park, his legs dangling some distance from the ground from his position on the bench. His eyes were an unusual emerald green, his hair stood in every direction imaginable. His clothes were tattered and worn and looked like they belonged someone as wide as he was tall, but certainly not to the thin child.

Most children would be chattering nosily or swinging their legs impatiently as they sat, but Harry was perfectly still. He fingered the bag of cat food sitting beside him, trying to debate whether or not he should go back to Mrs. Figg. The Dursleys were out that day, and they left him with the senile old woman. She had sent him out with some money for supplies the moment he arrived, but now, he was hesitant to return. Mrs. Figg was not very comfortable company.

The wind rustled the leaves gently, ruffling his hair as it brushed past.

Abruptly, Harry stood. There was something drawing him to the bushes behind the bench; invisible hands guiding him. Harry pushed past a tall row of shrubs, and stilled.

A large dog, probably as large as himself, with dirty and tangled coal black fur, laid in a patch of grass secluded from sight. Even through the long, thick fur, Harry could make out the ridges of the animal’s ribs and the skinniness of its frame. Instinct told him that he should be afraid of large, unfamiliar dogs, but somehow, Harry couldn’t ignore a strange sense of familiarity that exuded from it. He knew it somehow. The dog wouldn’t hurt him.

“Umm… hello?” Harry said softly, feeling a bit foolish. But he hadn’t met many dogs before, and he really didn’t know what else to say. He approached it tentatively, laying a small hand on its muzzle.

The dog flinched under his touch, jolting awake and lips drawn back in growl. Harry scrambled to his feet, suddenly feeling very much afraid. But the dog froze when it caught sight of him, eyes widening with something akin to surprise. For a long time, it never stirred, examining Harry’s face with human-like fascination. But to a little boy faced with a dog almost his height, it was unnerving. All the calm familiarity of the animal vanished the instant the dog awoke.

It’s going to eat me! Harry thought desperately as he took a step back.

Cautiously, the dog took a step forward. With a burst of fear and desperation, Harry spun around, scuttling for the safety of the park. But a brusque force knocked into him, throwing him against the ground. Harry’s already fragile glasses dislodged from his face and everything blurred into a wild smear of black. Harry made a strangled noise, groping blindly for his glasses.

But he almost cried out when the world came back into focus. The dog was right above him, one of his paws against his shoulder pinned him the grass. Its face breathing heavily near his, razor sharp teeth flashing in the light. He trashed weakly, but the dog was too strong. It lowered it’s head and Harry tensed.

It was going to eat him! He was going to die!

Harry whimpered, bringing his hands over his face defensively.

Any normal seven year old would be screaming, but the years of confinement and neglect trained him never to cry out. Harry shut his eyes tightly, anticipating the pain.

A soft pressure against his forehead. The touch was warm and gentle, oddly reminiscent of the affectionate touch of a parent.

Harry’s eyes snapped open. The dog stared down at him, lips pulled back in what looked suspiciously like a smile. It nudged his cheek and whined.

Harry watched it in bewilderment. “You’re not going to kill me?” he asked shakily.

The dog made a low growl in his throat, and Harry impulsively drew himself into a tight ball. But he was surprised when the weight on his shoulder disappeared, the dog backing away. Harry pulled himself into a sitting position, scooting against the trunk of a tree, eyes wide. The animal whined again and wagged his tail, trying hard to look harmless. Timidly, it moved forward, resting its shaggy head against Harry’s shoulder and turning its strange blue eyes to him.

Harry was stiff, the recent shock still running through his mind. He flinched when the dog pressed its moist muzzle against his cheek. Gritting his teeth, Harry mentally braced himself for the familiar pain that came all too often.

“No! Stay away!” Harry choked out desperately, covering his face with his hands.

The dog drew back as if burned. Harry scrambled to his feet, and without looking back, fled.

Chapter two - of comings and goings

Just then, Sirius wanted nothing more than to transform back into a human and run after the retreating child. But discretion caught up with him just in time; what would Harry think? Wouldn’t he be horrified to find a strange man who looked like he had been through hell and back, suddenly rush at him?

Sirius was in a daze after Harry left, eyes unfocused and unseeing. He watched the place where last stood, feeling his stomach sink and twist with desperation. The urge was too strong, to run after his godson and spill his entire story. But Harry was so innocent, so naïve. Would he accept it? Would he believe it?

Sirius cringed inwardly, remembering the image of his godson, eyes squeezed tight and hands raised defensively over him was burned into his eyelids. He had been so frightened…

Harry ran from him. Harry was afraid of him.

He had never expected, never dreamed, that his godson would fear him.

Sirius shut his eyes, trying to block the childish voice, clouded with fear and confusion. Harry had crumpled under his glare almost as if he had been anticipating pain. Most children would have wailed and protested, but Harry was disturbingly silent, almost… accepting. And with the bones that protruded from his shoulder and the cheekbones that stood out, Sirius couldn’t help but wonder about the kind of treatment he received from the Dursleys. Harry was nothing like the outgoing and energetic James that he had expected seeing, but did he really expect such a child after seeing his picture on the newspaper? With that pale and sickly frame, he just seemed to scream neglect.

Sirius growled, low in his throat. If those Muggles touched one hair on his godson’s head, he would shred them all to pieces. Forget about another life sentence, it would be worth it. Bitterly, Sirius grinded his paws against the earth.

Harry wasn’t happy…

Somehow, just seeing his godson opened rather than healed wounds. Harry’s wild hair and round rimmed glasses was just too reminiscent of James. His best friend’s face seemed to accuse him of all the promises he fell short of fulfilling.

Look what happened to my son, James seemed to say. Look what happened to him when you condemned his parents to an early grave.

With a rueful whine, Sirius laid back down. It was his fault James and Lily died. It was his fault that Harry suffered. It was all his fault! And Harry was the one person he had a chance to redeem himself. Sirius sighed, hoping beyond hope that he would be able to find Harry again.

Just seeing Harry wasn’t enough, Sirius needed to speak to him. He had to.

*

Harry shuddered when he approached the park bench, nervously searching for the dog. He shot forward hurriedly, retrieved the bag of forgotten cat food, and rushed back to the sidewalk as fast as he could. He had been hopelessly embarrassed when he rushed back to Mrs. Figg without her groceries. He would never hear the end of it if she told the Dursleys. Mrs. Figg didn’t seem to mind all that much, but Harry tortured himself over it. Still, it was several hours before he even found the courage to return.

The memory of the dog still haunted him. The odd, pale blue eyes framed with long, coal black fur. Its razor sharp teeth grazing his shoulder as it sniffed at his face. But there was a nagging doubt in the back of his mind. The dog, was it really evil? It didn’t hurt him. It licked his face. It liked him!

But it was large. It looked like it was going to eat him… Harry protested silently in his mind.

Yes, but it didn’t do anything. Harry brushed his hand against his cheek where the dog had nudged him. He couldn’t help but feel drawn to the large black dog somehow. It was as if they had met before. There was the comforting familiarity of it; Harry couldn’t help but pocket a few slices of left over pie, belatedly realizing that he had saved it for the starved dog.

Shouldn’t I be afraid of it? Harry wondered.

But perhaps it was really, really hungry. Maybe it would be nicer after it ate.

Unconsciously, Harry scanned the deserted park for the large shaggy animal. He walked quietly to the dreaded line of shrubs, but it was dragging him like a moth to a flame. Harry pushed the branches aside.

It was empty.

Harry’s heart sank. He wasn’t sure why he felt so disappointed, its absence was just painful. Harry examined the large paw prints the dog left in its wake, trailing away. Chewing his lip in disappointment, Harry pulled the pie from his oversized pocket, wrapped in cloth. He placed it in the most obvious place he could find. Shoulders slumped in defeat, Harry picked his way back to the park, throwing one last glance at the shroud of bushes.

*

“He what?!” Remus stood up sharply, knocking his tattered chair to the floor.

Dumbledore sighed, closing his eyes wearily. He seemed out of place in Remus’ small living room, his flawless blue robes contrasting against the pieces of ill-used furniture. The remains of a couch were scattered near his feet and a coffee table laid on its side.

“Sirius escaped,” he repeated.

“But how? Isn’t that impossible?” Remus choked out. The recent full moon had taken its toll on him; his skin was ghastly pale and his entire frame shook with exhaustion. But this news was rapidly draining whatever energy he had left.

“Obviously it isn’t,” Dumbledore said, voice deceptively calm. His mouth was set in a grim line, and his blue eyes burned with cold fury.

“But with the dementors, he should be insane,” Remus continued desperately. But his voice betrayed how much it cost him even admitting to those words. He took several unsteady steps back when the floor seemed to sway dangerously.

“Sirius was unaffected.” Dumbledore said slowly, looking just as tired as the werewolf for the briefest of moments. “He had escaped four days ago, with this found in his cell.”

Dumbledore held out a faded newsprint picture, shredded ruthlessly in half, but Remus recognized it instantly. His eyes widened, and would have fallen on the floor if Dumbledore hadn’t caught his arm and guided him to a chair.

“Harry’s picture…,” Remus whispered hoarsely. “How did he get it?”

“Nobody is sure, but they say he’s memorized the news article. Harry’s safety is now our top concern. Fudge is still trying to scavenge his reputation; he’s trying to hush up Sirius’ escape as much as possible,” Dumbledore’s eyes flashed dangerously. “The security around him isn’t going to increase. Fudge is trying to tell everyone that it is perfectly adequate. With luck, Sirius is still another week's walk to Little Whinging. Since he is without a wand, we still have some time.”

“Sirius wants to kill Harry? His own godson… it’s still hard to believe,” Remus trailed off, sinking into the chair weakly. The mention of those years reopened barely healed scars that sent flashes of raw pain. Remus ran a tired hand over his face. He had spent so many years trying to run and hide from the past…

Dumbledore looked to his former student sympathetically for a moment. “Remus, I know this will be hard.”

Remus snapped back into focus. His face darkened, “Dumbledore, are you planning something?”

“The protection around Harry will need to be raised, and as you know, the wards may not have an affect on Sirius since he does not have a wand. We need to send someone…”

Remus was silent, his eyes fixed unblinkingly in front of him. His expression was restrained, years of discrimination had beaten that into him.

“I have already set up arrangements with Arabella. We need to place another person there, with her posing as an old lady isn’t going to be enough. We need someone who understands Sirius and someone who Harry will be able to trust,” Dumbledore said as he carefully gauged Remus for a reaction.

“You want me to go,” Remus said simply.

“Both Arabella and I think it is the best. The final decision is your own.”

Remus swallowed uneasily. Going to Harry would mean facing the pain that he tried to forget for five years, but it was James son…

Remus’ eyes narrowed in determination. “I’ll do it.”

Dumbledore smiled sadly.

But the resolve in the younger man’s grey eyes darkened into doubt. Remus chewed his lip, looking up at the headmaster uneasily. “Dumbledore, but what about my…”

“There’s really nothing we can do about that,” Dumbledore murmured with a sigh. “We’ve arranged it so that Severus will be able to prepare some Wolfsbane for you each month and you can spend each full moon by apparating back to Hogwarts. We can spare you a room.”

Uncertainty was obvious in Remus’ face, but he nodded slightly, eyes downcast.

“Arabella’s going to take you in as her nephew. You’re going to pose as a teacher,” Dumbledore explained.

Remus frowned. “Teacher? But the muggle elementary schools already ended for the summer.”

Dumbledore smiled, eyes twinkling for the first time. “Have you ever played football, Remus?”

Chapter three - of cold baths

A dog sat with his head on his paws, gazing at the park bench eagerly. Footsteps alerted him, and Sirius jumped to his feet, lips pulled back in a human-like smile.

A little boy walked quickly down the sidewalk; his face brightened the moment it caught sight of him and bounded over in long strides.

“You’re still here?” Harry asked breathlessly, giving the dog a fond pat of the head. Harry loved scratching his ears even though he had to practically stand on his toes to reach.

Sirius whined, licking his hand affectionately. That was the first question Harry always asked every time he came; that seemed to be his greatest nightmare. He fought the urge to transform back and spill his whole story. But Sirius couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if Harry fled again. He couldn’t risk losing his godson forever.

It was a tremendous relief when Sirius came back from his unsuccessful search five days ago to find three slices of apple pie waiting for him in the shroud of bushes. Harry’s scent, a strange mix of wet grass and old cupboards, was still fresh in the air. Even though the pie tasted suspiciously like Hagrid’s rock cakes, Sirius couldn’t help the bubbling feeling of warmth in the back of his mind. Since then, Harry visited daily, always with a bag of food at his side.

“I have cookies,” Harry said as he pulled a crumpled bundle from his pocket. “The baker lady gave it to me when I was picking up food for Dudley.”

He placed the sheet of tissue, decorated with broken crumbs of chocolate chip cookies, in front of Sirius and watched him expectantly. Sirius inwardly sighed, Harry probably had no idea chocolate was poisonous to dogs. Luckily, Harry was attempting to feed an animagus, otherwise the results would be disastrous.

“Oh wait!” Harry dug around in his oversized pockets again, fishing out another oily bag. “I have a piece of toast I saved from breakfast. Sorry it’s a bit burnt, but it was the only thing I could get.”

He held it out, and Sirius stared mutely in amazement. No matter how many times Harry brought him food, he was still stunned by the selflessness of the six and a half year-old. It was obviously hard for the boy to even eat enough, but every day, he brought at least something. A thick slice of cheese one day, ten strips of overcooked bacon another; once Harry even brought a whole twelve inch long subway sandwich that made Sirius seriously wonder about the boy’s morals (did he steal that thing?!). But no matter how much he brought, Harry himself never ate. Sirius swallowed past a constricted throat; soon, he was going to be like Hagrid, blubbering at every little thing.

“You don’t like toast?” Harry asked, noticing his hesitation with some disappointment.

Sirius quickly took a bite of the hardened bread.

Harry looked at him doubtfully. “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it. I can get you something from Mrs. Figg’s.”

Sirius froze.

Figg? Arabella Figg?! What was his old potion’s teacher doing here? No doubt to watch over Harry.

Sirius shook his head and began devouring the toast as fast as he could without choking before starting on the cookies.

“No, don’t worry, she won’t see you! Mrs. Figg is at the train station meeting someone today, so her house is empty. The Dursleys didn’t know that when they dropped me off though…,” Harry trailed off when Sirius shot him a reproving glare. “Is something wrong?”

Sirius’ parental instincts were kicking in; that was dangerous for a six year-old to stay in a house alone. What was he thinking? He gave Harry a light nip on the hand to show his disapprovement.

Harry missed his thoughts by a mile. “You need a bath,” he said, fingering Sirius’ long fur when it brushed against his arm. He’s face suddenly brightened. “We can use Mrs. Figg’s hose in her backyard!”

Sirius grunted and instantly began backing away as far as possible. As inviting as a bath may sound, going to Arabella’s was the last thing he wanted.

“Hey, no! You have to! You really smell, come on!” Harry gripped a handful of fur and began tugging as hard as he could. “No one will see you, I swear! She won’t be back until late. Please?”

Harry looked at him pleadingly with wide green eyes, his childish face heart-wrenchingly innocent. Sirius paused; who could resist that? He could feel his resolve rapidly dissertating. To risk getting caught, or to risk disappointing his godson? Sirius sighed defeatedly.

*

Several blocks and several strange looks later, Sirius found himself trotting after a tiny six year-old that was the same height as he. Harry seemed extremely self conscious about the expressions of others; he hid his face in his fur every time someone threw an inquiring glare their way. It was amusing in a way, although he never imagined James’ son to be shy. But it was still rewarding to know that Harry found his presence comforting.

Sirius followed the younger child to a nondescript house that reeked of cats and cabbages. Sirius wrinkled his nose. But Harry either didn’t notice or didn’t care; he pushed the yard door open and hauled Sirius in behind him.

“I hope you don’t mind cold water or cat shampoo,” Harry said as he reached for the hose.

Sirius shifted uneasily, throwing suspicious glances at the house. It was obviously empty, as was the poorly maintained garden, but he couldn’t relax knowing that the risk of being taken away stood stronger than ever.

A sudden douse of icy water tore him from his thoughts. Canine senses kicking in, Sirius shook his fur hard.

“Hey!”

Sirius paused when he realized Harry was probably right beside him. Turning around, he gave the boy a sheepish grin. Harry blinked back in mute surprise, glasses plastered with grimy water and clothes splattered with mud. The hose was laying on the floor, flooding a dried flowerbed.

Sirius whined, wagging his tail.

Harry pouted. “No, bad boy! Don’t do that!”

Sirius’ jaw dropped.

Bad boy?! He was his godfather!

He glared at the younger boy indignantly, but all protests were dashed from his mind when Harry lifted the running hose directly over his head. The long thick fur stuck to his face and completely screened his eyes. Sirius fought the urge to shake the water out of his fur, mentally wondering if he should be furious or grateful at the boy.

“Stay still, okay?” Harry’s voice came somewhere off to the right.

The constant stream of water was gone, replaced by a clump of something cold and sticky. He found feel a small hand rubbing his head, and the distinct aroma of shampoo reached his nose.

Flowers?!

Sirius sneezed, scowling in distaste. Of all the fragrances that Harry could have found, he chooses flowers?

Sirius shook his fur furiously, sending plops of foam and water flying through the air. Harry made a muffled noise of protest, shielding his face with his hands.

“Hey, no!”

Harry caught on to Sirius’ neck tightly, dumping half a bottle of soap on his back in the process. His glasses askew, his shirt completely soaked, he began scrubbing the dog’s fur with a vengeance. Sirius made a face, trying to escape, but the child had a surprisingly strong grip. Nevertheless, Harry’s expression was amusing, but frighteningly reminiscent of James through the times whenever Sirius had teased him. Perhaps it was the memories of his childhood returning, or perhaps it was just the relief of finally being able to be with his godson; without thinking, Sirius clamped his teeth over the hose at his feet and sprayed Harry’s face with ice cold water.

“What…?”

Harry’s next words were lost in a muffled splutter when he caught a mouth full of water. He jumped away, but the wet grass was slippery beneath his feet; he fell, nearly dragging Sirius with him. Sirius dropped the hose immediately, a bit worried that Harry was hurt. He nudged the boy’s shoulder gently, but was completely caught off guard when Harry spun around and threw a handful of shampoo right at his head.

Sirius gaped.

Harry laughed. His face was lit, his eyes brightened, his smile was positively contagious. The first laugh Sirius heard since he met him three days ago, and sounded so much like James that Sirius had to catch and remind himself.

“Bad dog!” Harry reprimanded lightly, sitting up and reaching for the hose again.

Sirius whined, wiping his soapy fur against the boy’s messy hair. Harry groaned, wiping his thickly fogged glasses against his shirt but only managed to smudge it more with mud. Sirius grinned triumphantly.

It became war within minutes, with Harry scrambling for safety as Sirius splattered mud and soap over the boy’s shirt. He trapped his godson at a corner and discovered, quite by accident, that Harry was hopelessly ticklish. All he needed to do was nudge his neck or ribs for the boy to squirm and burst into laughter. He mercilessly tortured Harry for the better part of half a hour.

“Stop! Stop. St…” Harry broke into another fit of laughter.

Sirius stopped, graciously waiting for him to catch his breath. Harry, taking the opportunity to scramble for safety, twisted around to try to get up. But when Sirius jabbed him lightly in the ribs, he went down again almost choking with mirth.

“Padfoot!” Harry chided weakly.

Sirius froze.

Padfoot? That’s… impossible.

Harry drew several deep breaths when the game seemed to have ended with the dog’s hesitation. He blinked in confusion. “Where did that come from? I don’t know why I called you that, you just seem…” he glanced at Sirius questioningly. “familiar somehow. Can I call you that?”

Sirius stared at Harry in disbelief. His godson remembered him! It was too much to hope for. Sirius sat down beside the boy, resting his head on his shoulder with lips pulled back in a grin.

Harry smiled widely, but it dropped when he raised his eyes to examine the state of the yard.

“Oh no…”

Sirius sat up quickly, stomach plummeting. Arabella’s garden was, in short, a disaster. Globs of soap and foam littered the grass, the soil completely flooded. The flowers were crushed, the windows were muddy. Sirius swallowed back guilt, mentally hitting himself; Harry was going to be in trouble because of him…

He looked at Harry for a reaction, who had gone still and silent beside him. Harry visibly paled. He stood up quickly, entire back and a good portion of his face spotted with mud, and instantly began to bring as much order back to the garden as possible.

“Mrs. Figg is going to kill me,” he whispered, chewing his lip. “Here, I’ll rise the rest of the soap off you. Can you go back to the park by yourself?”

Sirius waited patiently for Harry to douse him in water again, watching him apologetically. It was obvious Harry was extremely tired especially after the hour long chase through the yard. The boy’s hand shook slightly with weariness, and his eyes were fighting to stay open.

He let Harry push himself back outside, and ducked behind a bush the instant Harry returned to Arabella’s backyard. Sirius mentally timed himself, planning to march back if his godson still hadn’t left in ten minutes, but all his thoughts were dashed from his mind the instant a car pulled up in the driveway.

The outline of the senile old lady was distinct in the passenger seat, shielding another person from his view. All the hopes of seeing his godson again that day crushed, Sirius drew himself deeper into the shadows, tracing his way back to the park.

Chapter four - of familiar strangers

Remus hesitated when he stepped out of the car. His heightened scenes especially after the full moon made him especially alert. Instinctively, his eyes traveled to the tall row of bushes at the side of the house.

“What is it?” Arabella asked.

Remus frowned. Had he imagined it? The shadow of a coal black dog…

“Nothing. Let’s go inside.”

Arabella nodded, probably dismissing his actions as paranoia. Remus followed her to the house, careful to keep his expression stoic.

All his efforts at composure went to waste, however, the moment he set foot in her living room. Leaning against the bay windows, eyes closed in a fitful sleep, was a boy with messy dark hair and round glasses. For the briefest of moments, the image of his childhood friend flashed in his mind, lying dead in the rubble of his house. Remus drew a sharp breath, taking a set back.

Arabella didn’t seem to notice his reaction. “What happened to my garden?” she grumbled, scanning her eyes over the flooded flowerbeds in distaste. But the windows were sparkling clean, looking as if they had been furiously scrubbed. “And what’s Harry doing here?” she asked, frowning.

“That’s Harry?” Remus asked softly.

“Yes, and I specifically told Petunia that I would not be home to watch Harry today. That woman does anything to keep Harry outside,” Arabella grumbled as she pulled open the patio doors, drying the grass with a wave of her wand.

But Remus wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on Harry’s face, trying to fix every detail into his memory. The hair, the face, even the glasses were the exact replica of James.

“Let him sleep,” Remus whispered. “I’ll take him.”

Arabella smiled knowingly. Remus found himself beside the boy, carefully lifting him. He was a bit baffled by the distinct smell of soap from Harry. He was soaked to the skin and caked from head to foot in mud as if he had been trying to wash something uncooperative.

“His clothes are wet. Do you have something dry that Harry could borrow? Harry‘s going to catch a cold in these things,” Remus said distractedly.

Arabella nodded, the smile wider on her face, “I’ll call Petunia and tell them Harry’s staying here tonight.”

“Is that alright? Won’t they be suspicious?”

Arabella grunted, her voice bitter. “Trust me. Petunia will practically dance with joy.”

*

Harry blinked awake groggily, feeling more rested then he did for months. The bed was soft beneath him, and the blankets warm and comforting. It was nothing like the cheap old cupboard that came close to freezing him to death every winter.

The cupboard…

Harry sat up with a jerk. What would the Dursleys say if they found out he just ruined Mrs. Figg’s yard? Harry shuddered at the thought.

He hurriedly retrieved his glasses, but paused in shock when he recognized his surroundings. He was in a bed, not very big but colossal in his eyes, one of the few guestrooms of the old lady’s that did not smell like cats and cabbage. Harry’s heart sank when he realized he must have fallen asleep in her yard. She must be furious!

Harry scrambled out of bed and opened the door silently, wondering if he could sneak out without her noticing.

“…should I tell him?” came a man’s voice. Harry frowned. He didn’t recognize it.

“Don’t. Harry is too young to understand,” Mrs. Figg’s came across the room.

They were talking about him. Harry knew it was wrong to eavesdrop, but his curiosity was too overwhelming. He opened the door wider, pressing his ear against the crack.

“But he has a right to know about Sirius.”

“You won’t do any good! Don’t give him hate at such a young age. Don’t say…,” Mrs. Figg’s voice trailed off. There was a shuffle, and footsteps approaching. Harry backed away from the door nervously. “Harry, dear, if you’re awake, then come out.”

Harry swallowed uneasily, feeling a blush creep up his cheeks. But it was too late to run back into bed and pretend. Slowly, he pushed the door open and faced the hobbling old lady.

“Sorry,” Harry whispered, face downcast.

Mrs. Figg seemed to overlook that statement. She gripped his shoulder with bony hands and led him jerkily to the living room. “I have someone I want you to meet, dear. This is my nephew.”

Harry was partly relieved that she didn’t seem to mind the damage to her yard at all, but all thoughts faded from his mind when he caught sight of the man sitting stiffly in a chair. The young man, probably only in his mid-twenties but already with graying hair, trigged a sense of familiarity. He was pale and sickly, as if he had just went through a wasting illness that drained him. But his eyes were wide and unblinking; they stared back at him with something akin to shock. The man’s sad eyes seemed to trigger a memory deep in his mind, but he couldn’t place his finger on it.

“Moony?” Harry whispered.

Those words escaped from his mouth even before he realized it. It was so softly whispered that Harry could barely even hear himself, but the man did. He sat up, face possibly becoming even paler.

“What did you call me?” the man whispered shakily.

Harry’s stomach filled with ice. The man was probably insulted! And he just met him too…

“No, nothing, sir,” Harry took a step back. He half expected to bump into Mrs. Figg, but belatedly realize that she had left. Harry looked around uneasily, feeling out of place with the strange man.

“No, you called me Moony,” the man continued, eyes becoming distant.

“Sorry!” Harry said hurriedly.

The man looked surprised for a moment. He shook his head, “No, I’m not offended. It’s just…,” he paused, expression darkening for a moment. “Nevermind, my name is Remus Lupin. And you must be Harry.”

He held out his hand, smiling warmly. A comforting and welcoming smile that just drew Harry’s trust. Without hesitation, Harry reached out, but the moment his hand brushed against Remus’ fingers, a tingling warmth shot up the length of his arm. Images flooded his mind, and Harry drew his hand back sharply in surprise.

A white glow. A blood-curling howl. A silver…

“Wolf.”

He didn’t know where word came from; he wasn’t even aware that he spoke aloud. But the man blanched into a ghastly color, his left hand gripping the chair so tightly that it shook.

“What?” Remus choked out.

“Nothing!” Harry said, looking at the man with apprehension. His reaction was frightening.

“You said…”

“Sorry! I don’t know where it came from!” Harry shook his head, taking another step back. Vernon looked worse when he was angry, but the man seemed to emit a quiet, suppressed emotion that was far stronger. But Remus seemed fearful, not angry.

Remus hesitated at the obvious distress Harry was in. “Harry, it doesn‘t matter.” He placed a reassuring hand on the frail boy’s shoulder, but he flinched under his touch. Remus pulled back quickly, bewildered.

Harry wasn’t sure what sort of desperation possessed him then. All he knew that he had offended the stranger somehow, but there was something frighteningly wrong with him. When Remus took another cautious step forward, Harry fled from the room. He barely caught himself before tripping over a few cats in the narrow hallway. But as he made his way blindly towards the door, he struck something solidly, and the force sent him sprawling on the ground.

“Harry! What is wrong, child?” the familiar, raspy voice caught his attention. Amazingly, she remained standing, looking down at him with a rather severe expression.

“Mrs. Figg! Sorry,” Harry bit his lip worriedly. “I… I was going back.”

The old lady’s expression turned even harsher. “I called your aunt and told her you were staying here tonight. Is that alright with you?”

Harry nodded even though his confusion.

Mrs. Figg asked him to stay? She never did in the past unless the Dursleys were on vacation. What was going on?

“Harry, are you alright? I’m sorry if I alarmed you,” said a voice behind him.

Harry scrambled to his feet when Remus stepped in the hallway. He wasn’t sure why he was so frightened of a person so gentle and kind, but it was so instinctive. There were two emotions combating each other, the urge to trust him, the urge to fear him. It didn’t make sense. Harry wished that the dog was with him; there was never any doubt towards Padfoot.

Remus seemed to notice the flickering colors in Harry’s eyes. He maintained his distance. Whatever Arabella saw, she chose to ignore.

“It’s time for a rather late lunch, don’t you agree? Why don’t you both sit down and I’ll get us some pie?”

Harry blanched.

Remus smiled knowingly when he caught sight of Harry's face. “Arabella, that’s quite alright. I’ll take Harry out for something."

Chapter five - of suspicions

Remus settled on walking, muggle foods court only a mile away. It gave him time to speak to Harry, but at the same time, he wasn’t sure if it was a good thing. Harry seemed so different from the most six year-olds: soft, withdrawn, so repressed that it was hard to discern anything other that fear and curiosity on his face. He never did expect Harry to be quietly restrained, acting much like the way he did a year after a werewolf shredded a portion of his back.

He stole a glance at the child walking quietly beside him. Sensing eyes on him, Harry turned to him questioningly. Remus smiled as warmly as he could.

“Where would you like to eat, Harry?”

The boy only shrugged.

“What do you usually eat?” Remus asked again.

Harry was thoughtful for a moment. “Celery.”

Remus raised an eyebrow incredulously. “Do you like celery?”

Harry shook his head furiously.

“What do you like then?” Remus asked, still a bit surprised. Why would Harry always eat something he didn’t like? That didn’t make any sense at all.

Harry shrugged again.

Remus inwardly sighed, feeling another shred of patience gone. He mentally reminded himself to a conversation with Dumbledore tomorrow. Gaining Harry’s trust was far harder than he had thought.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Harry watching him curiously.

“If you have a question, go ahead and say it,” Remus said gently.

Harry tore his gaze away, and for a moment, Remus thought he would stay silent.

“Whose Sirius?”

Remus faltered in his steps, ice filling his stomach. Harry had heard after all; how much of their conversation did he catch? Hopefully not very much if Harry was to inquire after him so blatantly. Remus struggled through several minutes of tense silence. Apart of him wanted to spill the entire story to the boy, but he knew that was not what Dumbledore and Arabella wanted. The old potions mistress had made it clear that Harry was too young to accept such a cruel story, and after facing the boy, Remus had to admit she was right. He drew a trembling breath, hoping that Harry would not notice.

“Someone evil,” Remus finally muttered, voice bitter. “Someone dangerous. Stay away from him.”

Harry said nothing for the rest of the trip, walking beside him with a distracted gaze. And even at the cafeteria, the child seemed distant. He sat meekly at the table, eating the food mechanically, every movement jerky and cautious has if someone threatened to scream at him any minute. Harry was unnervingly quiet, completely and uncharacteristically still for a child so young. At first, Remus thought that he was only shy, but now it seemed much more than that.

Harry picked at the fries, leaving the burger completely untouched. Remus briefly entertained the idea of him suffering from an eating disorder of some sort.

“Harry, if you’d like something else…,” he began.

Harry jumped, snapping his hand back as if burnt. He shook his head hastily.

“Well, if you’re sure,” Remus said slowly.

The two fell into a tense silence again. Harry seemed to have no intention of speaking unless spoken to. But every now and then, he would turn his emerald eyes to Remus that seemed to pierce him right through.

“Why do you hate Sirius?”

The question was softly whispered, but it still made Remus lurch. He choked on his drink, spluttering and gasping for breath as he tried to control the pounding in his ears. He mopped at the spill half-heartedly with the napkin, his hand wavering so badly that he only smeared the water more.

“How do you know I hate him?” Remus asked, staring at Harry with wide eyes. He was thankful that his voice deceptively calm.

Harry picked at the edge of the table distractedly. “You hate him. Why?”

Remus didn’t miss how he skillfully avoided the question, wondering whether Harry had done it consciously or not. But the boy seemed to ask questions that were a sure stab in the gut. Harry’s perception was uncanny. The flaxen haired man drew a sharp breath, forcing his hands to keep from trembling.

“Sirius…,” Remus swallowed, unsure of what he should say and what he shouldn’t. “…lied. He betrayed his friends. He did horrible things.”

A suffocating silence enveloped the two, with Remus trying hard to avoid Harry’s gaze, and Harry grinding a French fry between his fingers. He seemed to be struggling to say something, but afraid to say it at the same time.

“He killed?” Harry’s words were more of a statement than a question. But despite those cruel words, he was still perfectly composed, his tone only of innocent curiosity.

Remus could feel the color draining from his face. How did he know, how could he know?

“Yes, he did,” Remus admitted quietly.

Harry chewed his lip, looking at him timidly. “What if he didn’t?”

Remus’ hand jerked convulsively and he came close to knocking his drink onto the floor. “Harry, what are you…?”

“What if Sirius didn’t? What if it was someone else?”

“Harry, did someone tell you that? Have you met someone who told you that?” Remus asked. His words bore a dangerous edge that seemed to bring out the wolfish shadow hidden deep within him.

Harry seemed utterly confused at those words, shrinking back deep in the plastic chair. Harry shook his head quickly, color draining from his already pale skin. “Sorry! I… sorry!”

“No, Harry. Please tell me how you know,” Remus said worriedly, reaching forward to place a soothing hand on the child’s shoulder. Harry’s reaction was unnerving. But he was even more surprised when the boy all but darted from under his lose grip, scrambling behind the chair to put some distance between himself and the older man. Remus backed away quickly as well, his action frighteningly reminiscent of those who discovered his true nature and shunned him.

“Sorry! You're angry. I didn’t mean to! Sorry!” Harry whispered desperately.

Watching Harry’s frightened expression, Remus was torn between grinding out all the secrets from the boy and trying to comfort him. It was so strange to see someone afraid of angering him as a person; those who fled from him were hateful of the wolf side of him, but Harry wasn’t even taught those stereotypes. There was something bothering the child, something very, very wrong…

“Harry, I’m not angry,” Remus said carefully, raising his hands to show that he meant no harm. “I just wanted to know why you thought Sirius was innocent. Did someone tell you that? Have you met a strange man who spoke to you?”

Harry shook his head, still wary and anxious. “No. But I just thought…” his voice drifted and faded into muteness, turning his attention to the edge of the blue plastic chair. He picked at it half-heartedly, looking ready to bolt at a moments notice. “It’s like that feeling that I’ve met you before,” he continued softly. “That feeling that… you’re here for something.”

“How…?” Remus’ voice waved and caught in his throat.

Harry shrugged slightly.

The blatant naïveté of his childish gesture left no question about his honesty. Remus’ confusion only grew at Harry’s words. Harry had never heard of Sirius; he hadn’t seen him. Then why did he wonder about the criminal’s innocence? How could he have known? There were so many unanswered questions; Harry was a sealed vault of hidden secrets that just seemed to reject every key. But at the boy’s pale and frightened face, Remus couldn’t find the heart to pursue it.

“Harry, it’s alright,” Remus said as reassuringly as he could. “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to.”

*

Harry reluctantly stepped back into the house on 4 Privet Drive the next day, Remus behind him. The few hours he spent in the other man’s company was a relief from the bitter relatives of his. Mild and soft-spoken, he never asked any questions that seemed to make Harry uncomfortable. Although Mrs. Figg’s nephew seemed to say strange things and react oddly to others once in a while, he was the kindest person Harry met since quite a while. If only he could stay…

“Boy! It‘s about time!” a gruff voice shouted from the living room.

Harry flinched at the sound, entire body tensing at the fear it invoked. Uncle Vernon was angry! He was angry so easily of the late, always complaining about the company. He always took it out on Harry, with Aunt Petunia on vacation and Dudley spending half his afternoons in day care. Uncle Vernon was furious, he was going to be punished. Unconsciously, Harry shivered.

Remus’ hand found its place on his shoulder, face becoming unusually grave.

“You stayed overnight at her house?! If I hear Mrs. Figg say one word of complaint…” Vernon trailed off when he noticed the stranger standing behind his nephew, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Who’re you?”

Remus hand tightened, and for a moment, Harry thought he was going to drag him back outside again. But he was surprised to see a small smile, however forced, on the man’s face.

“Hello, I’m Arabella Figg’s nephew, Remus Lupin. Nice to meet you, Mr. Dursley,” Remus held out a hand amiably.

Vernon took it, flustered for yelling out in the presence of a stranger. “Yes, well, I hope the boy hasn’t been causing any trouble.”

“No, he has been a great help. He washed all the windows for us without even being asked,” Remus said carefully. Harry noticed a forcefulness behind his words as if he was trying hard to suppress a strong sentiment.

Harry glanced up in surprise; the man was defending him?

Vernon scowled, drawing his hand back as if the very thought of Harry’s goodness was revolting. “He’s a devious child, constantly scheming. You shouldn’t trust him. I’d watch him if I were you.”

Harry swallowed, narrowing his eyes bitterly. He had just gained Remus‘ friendship, and his uncle was already discrediting him before he got to know him! It wasn’t fair…

Remus’ hand tightened again convulsively, pulling Harry back in an oddly protective gesture. His smile faltered looking more like a grimace than anything welcoming.

“Mr. Dursley, Harry’s a nice boy. And that is hardly the right thing to say especially in front of Harry.”

“I’ve lived with him for five years and he’s been nothing but trouble,” Vernon snapped, face purpling in irritation. “Now, if you’re done dropping the boy off, then get off my property!”

“Actually, I do have a reason for coming,” Remus gritted out, his upturned lips falling altogether. He was rapidly loosing his composure. “I’m a coach for football for a school in London, and I was wondering if you could spare Harry and your son for two hours every day for some training.”

“Dudley doesn’t like sports,” Vernon grumbled, although he did look slightly interested. The thought of getting rid of Harry for two hours every day was tempting.

“Harry then? It’s free of charge,” Remus asked hopefully.

“Fine!” Vernon snapped.

He gripped the collar of Harry’s over sized shirt and tore him roughly from Remus’ grasp, pushing the older man out the door with the other. He slammed the door shut, and glared at it silently. He seemed to be listening whether or not Remus had left. After several minutes, Vernon seemed satisfied and turned around slowly.

Harry paled.

Chapter six - of improvising

“Remus, that is a serious allegation to make.”

Remus sighed, shaking his head. “I know! But his relatives… they’re terrible people. It’s not place to raise a child. I’ve only spoken to Vernon once, and the way he speaks about Harry…” His voice drifted as he turned his eyes away.

“Remus, they have a child of their own and he seems to be…”

“Dumbledore, they treat their son and Harry completely differently! If you were here, you would say the same thing!” Remus said sharply. “They constantly kick him out of the house. Vernon constantly says how worthless Harry is in front of him. He tells everyone how evil and devious he is, and Harry just seals up like a wall. Dumbledore, he‘s just a child, he doesn‘t deserve this!”

Dumbledore was silent; it was hard to discern his expression. The light was long gone from his eyes, and the blue lacked its usual intensity.

“We can’t leave Harry with those people,” Remus repeated again.

Dumbledore sighed. “Remus, with the protection wards, the Dursleys are the safest place for him right now.”

“It isn’t Sirius I’m worried about right now, it’s those relatives of his!” Remus’ nearly shouted. Dumbledore sobered at the tone; Remus rarely raised his voice, but when he did, it was usually serious. Remus ran a tired hand over his face. “The way they speak about him, it’s like he’s a monster or something. Harry’s just six years old! He doesn’t understand any of this. We can’t leave Harry with them. They’ll destroy him. He’s already become so lost…”

A tense silence settled between the two, Remus resting his head in his hands wearily, and Dumbledore grimly thoughtful.

“When all of this is over, we’ll find a new home for Harry,” Dumbledore finally said.

Remus’ jerked up, his eyes hopeful.

“I’m sure you’re right. I always realized that Harry’s relatives had defaults, but I had hoped…,” Dumbledore sighed, his shoulders sagging and the age appearing on his face. “We’ll find a new home for him with someone who will take good care of him. But right now, lie low, Remus. I know it’ll be hard, but we have to wait at least until Harry’s safety is ensured from Sirius.”

Remus flinched at those words, but he still nodded. “When all this is over,” he repeated softly. That would be a welcome reverie; coming to Little Whinging was nothing but a reminder of the past. But seeing Harry so unhappy and so neglected made him oddly angry that he never came earlier. “Dumbledore, if it’s possible, I’d like to raise Harry.”

Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed brightly for a moment, and he smiled knowingly. “I’ll see if it can be done.”

*

“Hello everyone. I suppose you all want to play?” Remus said with a warm smile, masking the unease in his mind. The six little boys, the oldest no more than ten years of age, stared at him anxiously. But Harry wasn’t among them. Remus couldn‘t hide the nagging suspicion, but Sirius shouldn‘t come until another two days. He sighed inwardly, with the little school-kids, he knew better than to stretch their patience. If Remus waited any longer for the dark haired child, they’d erupt in protest.

Remus cleared his throat, lifting the guide manual. It was a muggle guide to soccer, he couldn’t find much time to examine it the day before.

… the goalie may use his or her hands, unlike the…

What the hell?

He had the general idea of the game, it wasn’t that different from quidditch. But the rules read like French to him, and he was never that great in foreign languages. Remus chewed his lip, desperately wishing the static pictures would move like the wizarding ones. They would be far more informative than black and white sticks.

Remus cleared his throat again. “You know what? I think all of you should just have some fun today. Here’s the ball, divide yourself into teams; it’s free play.”

He was instantly met with an excited cheer. Remus breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the children running, kicking the spotted ball between them.

Well, that was strange. Why are they only using feet?

Remus frowned in bafflement, flipping through the manual with a renewed determination. All the rules seem to fly right over his head; why could it be like quidditch? He was still trying to make sense of the befuddled instructions when an indignant cry tore him away.

“Sir, he kicked me!” a thin, rat-like boy yelled, point at a pudgy, pig faced kid.

Remus raised an eyebrow, wondering if that child’s legs could even reach the seemingly agile kid. “Is that true?” he asked the accused.

“Of course not! He kicked me!” he cried defensively.

“Is this true?” Remus asked a nearby child, with a pampered and haughty demeanor.

“They both kicked each other,” he grumbled.

“Hey, what?!”

“… the liar! I saw him…”

“Now, lets be civil,” Remus said hastily, rising his hands to separate the bickering miniatures.

“See, he’s scolding you, you…”

“Me? He’s scolding you! Rat face! You mommy probably….”

Remus drew a deep, calming breath, feeling the shards of patience quickly fuzz away. This was the reason he was never going to coach children again. He never anticipated to deal with these things, he came here for Harry. Where was he?

“You pig! Can’t even move your fat little legs, can you? You…”

“… stupid and ugly! Brains the size of a pea! You…”

“Quiet!” Remus insisted, louder than he intended. He glared at the kids sternly, and they cowered under his glower. God, he felt like Snape. But Harry’s absence was a thorn in his mind, and it made him snappish. “It’s both your faults. Now, apologize to each other right now.”

“What?! No way! It’s his fault! He…”

“Oh yeah? What about…”

Remus slammed the instructions book against his head in exasperation.

Hours later, Remus found himself rubbing the sore spot of his forehead. The sun set quiet early in Little Whinging even in summer. The children had long since left (thankfully. If they stayed any longer, Remus feared he would wring their necks), but Remus still lagged behind, sitting alone on the same bench that Harry passed only hours ago. He glanced at his watch.

6:26 pm.

Harry was late, three hours late. He hadn’t even had a glimpse of the child walking since the two hours he spent overseeing the strange muggle game, or the one he spent waiting. Fear and doubts were stretching spidery fingers through his mind.

What if something had happened? What if Sirius had found Harry on his way here?

Remus scowled inwardly; if he waited any longer, he’d go insane. He stood up and began tracing his way to Harry’s relative’s home, the image of Harry lying lifelessly on the sidewalk haunting his mind. But there was no body of the boy, throat slit and his young face twisted in fear, or the stain of blood on the concrete. Remus was trying to quell his doubts when he knocked on the door to the nondescript house.

No response.

Remus’ stomach sank.

“Hello?” Remus knocked on the door of 4 Privet Drive again, the sense of foreboding growing. “Anybody home?”

The door jerked open so abruptly that he almost knocked his fist against the round-faced man.

“What is it?” Vernon snapped, watching Remus with something just short of contempt.

Remus caught himself quickly. There was a strange shiftiness in the man’s eyes that made him suspicious. “Mr. Dursley, I was wondering if Harry was home. He never came to the park today, and…”

“What?!” Vernon’s face morphed into a disturbing shade of purple. “That boy never showed up? I sent him five hours ago.”

“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean, am I’m sure? I saw that boy walk down to the park! Trying to escape his chores, that freak is never up to any good. I should…,” Vernon broke off abruptly, but the glare never faded from his eyes.

Remus bit his lip. Vernon’s expression told him that he was speaking the truth, but with his response, he wasn’t sure if telling Harry’s relatives about his absence was a good thing.

“Oh, well, I’m sure Harry went and missed me somehow. I was late, and he probably went to Arabella’s to look for me,” Remus said.

Vernon snorted, “I suggest you not take chances with that boy. He never does anything willingly. I recommend a good trashing…”

Remus blocked the rest of his words out. He forced his hand still and his expression neutral, afraid that if he stayed any longer, he would do something hopelessly rash.

“I’ll go check at Arabella’s place. Sorry to disturb you,” Remus said hastily, taking several steps back.
The way they spoke of him, Remus wasn’t surprised if Harry had absolutely no self-assurance. Growing up with that sort of influence, he was amazed Harry still carried that innocence.

Remus gritted his teeth. Vernon was pushing his fury past beyond endurance. The way he spoke of ‘boy:’ Harry, that silent, withdrawn child…

Harry, where are you?

Chapter six - of sour discoveries


* five hours prior *


“You’re still here?”

Sirius perked up, but his lips weren’t pulled back in a smile nor did he wag his tail excitedly. Something was wrong today. There was a fragility in Harry’s voice, a tone of desperation that a six year-old should not have. Harry steps lacked the spring of excitement and energy; Sirius noticed a distinct limp when he approached. Harry sat down beside him slowly, making an obvious effort to be careful.

Sirius whined worriedly, rubbing his head against Harry’s hand. He gave him a small smile.

“Sorry I couldn’t come earlier. I can’t stay very long today either… football practice…” Harry said, his voice oddly weak and soft.

Football? Since when did Harry play football?

“Here, I have some food. I saved it from yesterday.”

He pulled a bundle from his pocket and laid it in front of him carefully. Sirius raised an eyebrow.

A hamburger? That was unusual but not unwelcome, although…

Sirius glanced at Harry questioningly, noticing not for the first time, the bones that stood out sharply on his face. Why hadn’t he noticed before how much weight his godson lost since his arrival? All these meals came at Harry’s own cost. Sirius bit back an overwhelming wave of guilt, edging the bundle towards the boy.

But Harry looked miserably upset, even a bit afraid. “You don’t like it? I know it’s not very fresh anymore, but it’s all I can get today. I ate all the fries yesterday. Do you like fries then? I… I’m sorry…”

Sirius was shocked to see tears rise in Harry’s eyes. He seemed genuinely distressed that he wouldn’t eat. Sirius shook his head quickly, clamping his teeth over the boy’s sleeve and dragging his hand towards the food trying to get his point across.

Harry made a small cry of pain and Sirius dropped his arm in surprise. Did he accidentally bite him without meaning to?

Harry drew his hand back jerkily, clasping it against his chest. For a long time, he was silent, his body slumped over with an odd fatigue and his breathing shallow and uneven. Sirius watched him with growing concern, whining and nudging his cheek apologetically. But when he brushed against Harry’s shoulder, the boy gasped and pushed him away.

“No, don’t!” Harry choked out.

Sirius blinked, feeling a bit hurt. Harry hadn’t pushed him away since the day they first met, and that gesture was like a slap to his face.

“Sorry, I…” Harry swallowed uneasily. “I didn’t mean it. You’re not mad, right? Please don’t be angry…”

Sirius paused at those words. Harry seemed so lost, so desperate for someone who cared. He sounded as if he was frightened of him. Sirius nuzzled his cheek, and Harry smiled shakily. He lifted his hand to stroke his fur, but his expression broke into a grimace and he placed his hand back down quickly.

Sirius observed Harry intently. There was something wrong…

Abruptly, Harry grinned. “I can trust you, Padfoot. I don’t know why, but I can. I can’t tell him anything. He’s hiding too many secrets. You’re the only one I can tell these things to. For some reason, I think you can understand me.”

Sirius whined, nodding his head in agreement. Harry’s unquestioning trust was too much to hope for, he could hardly hide his relief. Was it possible for Harry to retain such distant childhood memories?

A part of his was happy that Harry had valued him so much, but another part screamed guilt and duty to him. Sirius was disappointed at the lack of friends Harry had; he seemed to have no life outside of the daily ventures at the park (and his visits grew day by day). He must have been deprived for him to accept him so easily. For neglected and deprived children, a large but friendly dog was some sort of sanctuary that hid them from the truth of their realities.

A light touch on his head brought him out of his thoughts. Harry fondly stroked the dog’s long hair, his fur still smelling of a field of flowers.

“I don’t know if he’s a friend though,” Harry murmured, leaning back against the trunk of a tree as if sitting cost to much energy. “There’s something familiar about him, just like you, but at the same time, something tells me I should be afraid of him. I don’t know why. It’s strange.” Harry paused, his emerald eyes clear as they remembered.

Sirius nudged his cheek for encouragement.

“He’s teaching people soccer right now. He just came yesterday, Mrs. Figg’s nephew…”

What?

That story was suspicious. Arabella never had any family that he knew of. It must be someone there to look for him. Sirius swallowed a growl.

“There’s something odd about him. He’s a…,” Harry wrinkled his brow in thought. “I don‘t know. It doesn‘t make any sense, but he‘s familiar.”

Sirius stiffened, his body growing numb. Someone Harry knew? A sense of foreboding was seeping into his bones. It couldn’t be…

“Remus. He said his name is Remus Lupin.”

Sirius stomach all but disappeared. He could see Harry’s mouth moving to form words, but none of it registered in his mind. Remus, his friend. His one true friend of all those years that he falsely named a traitor. What would Remus think of him now? Did he believe his guilt? Did he hate him? Sirius desperately wished he could see his friend but was afraid at the same time.

Abruptly, he noticed Harry had finished talking. The boy was looking at him inquiringly.

“Is something wrong?” Harry asked.

Sirius wagged his tail in an attempt to lighten the mood and distract himself, nuzzling Harry in the ribs. But instead of that burst of laughter, Harry uttered a strangled cry. Harry clambered to his feet, but a fit of coughing overtook him, and he hand to catch the trunk of the tree to steady himself. Sirius barked softly in worry.

“Don’t…,” Harry choked out, but the rest of his words drowned out as he coughed raggedly.

Sirius shifted, walking around him agitatedly. It was all he could do to stop himself from transforming back to figure out what’s wrong with Harry.

Harry’s coughs were becoming loud and raspy, sounding suspiciously like the boy had received some damage to an area close to his lungs. His whole body shook with the effort, he barely could draw for breath. Then, with a shuddering gasp, his legs gave out beneath him and Harry collapsed heavily to the floor.

The concern immediately became panic. All the caution and fear of being caught was gone in an instant. Sirius found himself kneeling beside his godson without Padfoot’s disguise, gently pulling Harry into a sitting position. He wondered how the boy would react seeing him, but when Harry’s head lolled back lifelessly, Sirius’ stomach plummeted.

He eyes were closed; was he dead? No, he can’t be. No. No. No.

He breathed a sigh of relief when noticed the steady rise and fall of his chest, but when Sirius pressed his fingers against Harry’s neck for a pulse, something caught his eye. Sirius peeled back the collar of his oversized shirt and choked.

Livid bruises, still fresh with the lines of blood, stood out against his pale skin. There were distinct fingerprints against his neck. He unbuttoned the flimsy shirt, trying to examine the extent of the injury, but it another long welt caught his eye. It was thick, but not quite deep enough for a scar. When every inch of cloth revealed a new sea of bruises, Sirius could feel his anger burning to a point past endurance.

Harry was hurt. Someone had hurt him! The Dursleys… Vernon!

Sirius’ breath was becoming more and more uneven, his throat painfully tight. After removing Harry’s thin jacket, he could make out distinct strips of blood on his back where the fluid had clotted against the shirt. As gently as he could, Sirius tugged away an fringe of the cloth.

Large streaks of purple weaved between recently healing scars laced through the child’s back. A distinct shoeprint could be seen on the fragile ribs. Lines of bruises crisscrossed the skin, Sirius’ hand shook when he recognized it: a lingering mark of a leather belt, etched in the six year-old’s body. He ran his fingers over the frayed skin gently. Sirius growled low in his throat, the rage rushing through every vein like hot fire.

Harry was a child; he never did anything to deserve such a treatment. A completely innocent and naïve little boy, his best friend’s son…

At that moment, Sirius wanted nothing more than to clamp his canine teeth over that excuse for a muggle and shred him to pieces.

Harry made a small whimper of pain. Sirius drew his hand back quickly, fearful that he had reopened a poorly healed wound.

“Harry?” he whispered gently, brushing a few strands of hair from the boy’s face.

Harry flinched under his touch, squeezing his eyes tightly. Sirius chewed his lip; chest constricting painfully. What had the boy gone through?

Sirius pulled the shirt tightly around the boy, and when that didn’t seem to be enough, extracted himself from the remains of his tattered cloak and spread it over him. He pulled the small child close, letting Harry rest his head against the crook of his arm. But even in sleep, Harry’s face was twisted in a small grimace of pain.

Sirius gritted his teeth, whole body trembling with barely contained rage.

Chapter eight - of bitter realities

Sirius scrambled through the trees, leaving the trail of angry shouts behind him. He bit down firmly on the water bottle, trapped securely between his teeth. Stealing so openly from Muggles was a terrible idea especially with Remus in town, but at that moment, he just didn’t care. His godson was lying alone in a shroud of trees, trapped in the fitful sleep with livid bruises branded into his skin, lips parched with thirst. Harry needed help, he desperately needed help.

I should have know, Sirius thought bitterly. It was so obvious, why hadn’t I suspected? I should have stopped this long ago. I should have…

As much as he wanted to kill the Dursleys in their beds, Sirius couldn’t leave Harry on his own. Should he take Harry away? Sirius wished nothing more to just be able to raise his godson, but where would he go? He had no food, no money, no clothes. He’d probably make the child suffer even more. Could he tell Remus? But how would his friend react at seeing him? Or perhaps he should leave Harry at Arabella’s and leave, but that would mean he compromise ever seeing Harry again. No doubt they would take him away immediately, and without being able to reveal himself to the boy, Sirius was reluctant. But Harry’s injuries weren’t life threatening, that much he was certain. He could take him to a muggle physician, and everything out be fine…

Once Harry wakes up, I’ll tell him everything, Sirius told himself firmly. I‘ll take him away, get him out of this dump… I’ll get money from the Gringotts account… buy us some home in the States and get away…

And that was the thought that kept him from setting fire to 4 Privet Drive. He needed to make a clean disappearance, just take Harry and leave. With luck, the Dursleys wouldn’t care and wouldn’t report it until weeks later. Sirius felt a small part of him burn with relief and joy of finally being able to raise his godson, but he was still bitter. Angry. Vengeful.

Damn them. Damn them. Damn them.

Sirius darted through the narrowly grown bushes, a little harder to squeeze through since he first arrived, especially after Harry’s daily meals.

Harry…

That boy had always been trying to help him. Sirius hadn’t done anything for him yet, he didn’t deserve it…

Sirius jerked to a stop, skidding through the soft soil to leave moist paw prints over the grass. The plastic between his teeth screeched as he grinded his teeth against its surface. Sirius felt his heart log in his throat, his breath coming in short gasps.

It was empty. Harry was gone…

*

* ten minutes prior *

Harry stirred awake slowly, consciousness slowly returning. But the moment he regretted it the moment he opened his eyes; pain assaulted his limbs, diggings its claws through his flesh. Harry bit his lip to keep from crying out. They would be furious, and he would be in even more trouble. It was better if he was quiet…

Harry squinted in the light. He tried to raise his hand to block the sun, but his arm hurt just by flexing the muscle. Strange, he never felt so weak and he had received far worse before. Perhaps it was the lack of meals for the past week. The only thing he ate were the fries yesterday, and that he retched after Uncle Vernon kicked him…

Harry groaned, blinking rapidly to bring the world into focus. But instead of the dark, low ceiling of the cupboard, a brilliant, glowing canopy of green met his eyes. Bewildered, Harry lifted his head, taking in his surroundings. It was that shroud of bushes that had been his sanctuary every since Padfoot arrived; Harry recognized the thick layers of tall shrubs. But what was he doing here? Had he fallen asleep?

Oh no…

He sat up with a jerk, wincing when flashes of pain shot down his back, but the years had taught him to be tolerant. He bit his lip, swallowing a sharp gasp. The grass beside him was crushed with Padfoot’s weight, but the clearing was empty without any sign of the dog. Harry swallowed some disappointment.

A tattered black cloak with numerous frayed edges caught his attention; it was wrapped around him tightly, and he wrinkled his brow in confusion. Harry pulled it away, wary of his bruised arms and back, baffled. Whose was this? He certainly did not recognize it. But the glowing numbers on his watch shattered all his other thoughts.

6:46 pm.

It was as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice in his stomach. Harry drew a sharp breath, looking at his watch again. Something wasn’t right. He left Privet Drive at 1:30, unless…

Harry scrambled to his feet unsteady, the desperation and fear overwhelming all the pain running through his back. He had slept for half a day! And he missed soccer practice! The Dursleys were going to kill him. He was going to be in so much trouble; Harry shuddered at the thought.

He pushed through the bushes hurriedly, not even checking for Padfoot’s presence. He limped across the park as fast as he could. His leg still throbbed every time he placed his weight on it, but it was nothing compared to the fire jostled in his back at every step. All Harry could think of was the reaction Uncle Vernon would have when he found out he spent half the day in the park. He wanted to run away and never go back just to never face him, but he knew he couldn’t. There was no one else who would take him; his uncle’s constantly reminded him of that.

“Harry!”

He froze.

“Where were you? I was worried something happened.”

Harry turned to see the speaker half running across the grass to meet him. He couldn’t suppress a small sigh of relief when he recognized the tall man with light brown hair and pale eyes. But then it soon became guilt when he realized the practice he missed.

“Sorry,” Harry whispered quickly.

He watched Remus carefully, preparing for that flicker of anger to appear, but there was only a strange sadness that Harry couldn’t name and never saw before. The older man returned his gaze searching in silence.

“Are you alright?” Remus asked finally. “You look pale.”

Harry nodded, but paused when the movement teased the bruise on his neck and shoulder blades. He couldn’t hide the small frown of pain, and Remus noticed immediately.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” Remus asked, bending down to examine Harry’s face with concern.

Harry instinctively took a step back.

Remus’ expression darkened. “Harry, it’s okay. You can tell me. I promise I won’t tell anyone else.”

“No!” Harry shot back. Remus was lying, he just knew it. He would tell someone, someone with pearl white hair and twinkling blue eyes…

*

Remus was shocked into silence for some moments at the reaction he incited. Very slowly, he tried to place a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder. But when Harry stiffened and shut his eyes at the gesture even before he touched him, Remus wasn’t sure how to act. He placed some distance between the two to be as unobtrusive as possible.

“Harry,” Remus began gently. “I don’t mind that you didn’t come. You obviously aren’t feeling well. I can take us out to dinner.”

Remus watched the strange mix of hope and fear drift across Harry’s young features. Harry shifted uneasily, face downcast.

“But… I can’t,” he said very softly.

Remus frowned. “Why not?”

Harry chewed his lip, looking up at him timidly. “Uncle Vernon says… it’s too much trouble.”

“Of course not. I don’t mind. I’ll go talk to him right now…”

“No!”

Remus was stunned by Harry’s reaction. All the color drained from the boy’s face, and a tremor ran through his thin frame. Harry took a step back, shaking his head furiously even though it seemed to cause him a lot of pain.

“No… don’t. I can’t!” Harry choked out desperately.

“Harry,” Remus said as soothingly as possible, raising his hands to show that he meant no harm. “I won’t. It’s okay. I’ll…” he broke off sharply when the collar of the battered shirt pulled away from Harry’s neck at the movement, revealing a discolored patch of skin. “Harry, what happened to your neck?” Remus asked sharply.

Perhaps it was the one of his voice, but when Remus reached forward to stop the panicking boy, Harry’s large emerald eyes filled with a kind of horror and he fled from him as if he was in his werewolf form.

“Harry, wait!” Remus called after him.

But his voice seemed to jolt Harry even more. His leg crumbled under his weight, Harry barely caught himself before he sprawled on the floor. He was on his feet again, running with a kind of mad desperation. Remus hesitated, feeling a mix of confusion and concern.

Something was wrong.

Chapter eight - of bitter realities (part 2)

Harry realized his mistake the moment he burst through the door of 4 Privet Drive.

“Boy! Where the hell were you?” a gruff voice shouted.

There were loud footsteps banging down the stairs, and Harry paled. He stole a glance at the closed door only a few feet away, fighting the urge to flee. He had learned years ago never to run from his uncle. Things always came out worse that way.

He shouldn’t have left. He should have stayed with Remus…

“Well, speak up! Where were you?” Vernon stepped into the living room, fixing Harry with a contemptuous glare.

Harry shifted uneasily, “Sleeping.”

“What?!” In three long strides, Vernon reached Harry from across the room and clasped a firm grip on his shirt. “Don’t lie to me, Boy.”

“It’s the truth!” Harry said desperately. “I was tired! I fell asleep!”

“For half a day?! That man came by and asked where you were. I know you weren’t sleeping, boy. Sneaking off doing who knows what…”

“I didn’t do anything!”

Slap!

That blow came so fast and so unexpectedly that Harry could only blink several moments in surprise. For a moment, all he saw was dancing black spots. He staggered, the blows only two days before still gnawing at his body, and touched his cheek gingerly. Vernon must really be angry; he never struck his face before…

“Are you speaking back to me, Boy?” Vernon’s voice was low with warning.

Harry swallowed uneasily, hand pressed against his stinging cheek and glasses askew, silent.

“You’ve been running off to the park all this week; what were you doing there?” the purple-faced man growled.

Fear chewed at his mind, but Harry forced it out of his face. He couldn’t tell! Uncle would be furious if he told, and he may never see Padfoot again.

“Nothi…”

Another blow to the side of his face cut off his words and left a bittersweet aftertaste of blood.

“I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget. Don’t ever run off like that again! I don’t want to deal with the neighbors all asking!” Vernon roared.

“But I didn’t…”

Another blow cut Harry off abruptly. The child staggered under the force, and would have fallen if the older man hadn’t caught him roughly by the collar.

“Shut up! I’m sick of these excuses… all lies, every single one!” Vernon snapped, shaking him roughly.

But the force nearly dragged Harry off his feet. He was so tired, even after that long rest. His heat was light and his vision blurry; Harry blinked, shaking his head to clear it.

“Sorry!” Harry whispered.

“Shut up! I know you’re not!”

A sharp kick to his already bruised leg sent him collapsing to the floor. Harry bit back a cry of pain, blinking away the tears that rushed to his eyes. Another blow to his ribs knocked the air out of his lungs and sent fire running through his side. Instinctively, Harry rolled away, coughing as he tried to catch his breath.

“What did I tell you about not moving!” he could hear his uncle say through a fogged mind.

A rough grip pushed him onto his back. Harry could feel a heavy weight settle against his shoulder, his uncle’s foot to keep him from squirming.

“… freak… good for nothing…”

Harry could barely make out his uncle’s voice through the thick haze of pain.

“…been stealing Dudley’s food all week… deserved this long ago…”

But he said he didn’t want to eat the sandwich… he said he didn’t want it! I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry! Harry wanted to scream out. But if was like Dudley had sat on his chest, Harry could barely strain himself to breathe.

And the first blow came, a sharp, biting pain from a leather belt that ripped across his back against all the clotting cuts from only a day before. It rippled like flames in his blood, and even the nerves in his chest screamed in response. Harry pressed his hand against his mouth tightly, muffling the whimpers of pain. The second missed his back completely and struck high on his neck. Harry recoiled at it, the skin tender against abuse. He could feel the warm fluid trickle down his shirt and into his hair. But by the third, fourth, and fifth, Harry could barely stay conscious to register where it struck. All he knew that a hot brand was being pressed to every inch of skin on his back, and it hurt.

It hurt!

Stop. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, I promise. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry, Harry wanted to say. But it always came out like a strained sob. Please stop. Stop! I promise I’ll be good.

Harry wasn’t sure when the his uncle finally pulled the belt away, or when he finally released his shoulder. But he was jolted from his thoughts when a brusque force slammed into his side again and turned him around. Harry couldn’t suppress a whimper when his battered back grinded against the wooden floor.

Another slap. Another punch. All he could do was cover his face defensively and curl up as tightly as he could on the cold floor. His mind was drifting frighteningly close to unconsciousness; he could barely hear the words that Vernon hissed under his breath, or see the fingers in front of his face. Another kick against his side was the last straw. Icy fingers clutched his lungs and spread a haze of film over his eyes, before darkness enveloped him completely.

Chapter ten - of unpleasant revelations

Remus knocked on the door perhaps harder than necessary, but the fear for his best friend‘s son was rapidly turning into regret. He should have ran after Harry yesterday, but he had been so shocked then. He spent all night tossing and turning, and came as soon as it was daylight.

Something wasn‘t making any sense. That fear and pain in Harry’s eyes…

Remus grinded his fist against the wood in an effort to vent his frustration. The door flew open, and a bleary eyed thick necked man stood, glaring at him scornfully.

“What?!” Vernon snapped.

Remus blinked. He was crankier than usual. “Mr. Dursley, I have some questions regarding Harry…”

“That boy!!” Vernon’s face seemed to bloat and stain into an alarming shade of purple. “Don’t speak of him in front of me!”

Remus took a step back in surprise. “Pardon?”

“That boy, that freak… ran away last night!” Vernon hissed.

Remus gaped. Harry, running away? That wasn’t like that shy little boy at all.

“What?” he whispered incredulously. “Are you sure about that?”

Vernon only grunted, looking ready to slam the door against his face again. Remus quickly raised a halting hand, concerned. With the threat of Sirius growing, Harry’s survival would be quite grim.

“Where is he? Is he alright?” Remus asked.

“Where? Where?! Do you think I’d still be here if I knew where he was? I’d drive after him and run him over!” Vernon’s anger was obvious clouding his judgment. Remus barely hid a scowl, holding back the fist that was itching to plant itself in the man’s fat face. “That freak stole my son’s clothes, my clothes, food, the first aide kit, and six hundred pounds… six hundred pounds!! That boy was up to something, I should have known it! He was running off to the park all this week, playing with some dog, Dudley says…”

Remus almost stumbled in shock and horror. He caught the doorframe to steady himself. “Dog?” he whispered hoarsely.

“Yes!” Vernon continued, spluttering in his fury. “Dudley says he saw that freak running around the block with some huge black dog that was as large as him or something…”

“Dudley,” Remus interrupted. “May I speak to Dudley?”

Vernon frowned. “Well, I suppose. But I don’t see how that…”

Remus pushed past him, not bothering to hear the rest of his words. He rushed into the living room, a bit surprised at the sight of a boy the size of a miniature whale. The differences between him and Harry were disorienting.

The boy glanced up at him idly, a piece of oily bacon poking out for the corner of his mouth. “Who’re you?” he grumbled.

Remus waved the rude question aside. “Dudley, when did you see the large dog that Harry was with?”

Dudley grinned widely, looking pleased at possibly getting Harry into some more trouble. “On Tuesday, about a week ago. He was walking to Mrs. Figg’s house or something.”

Tuesday? Sirius had been here that long? But that was impossible by foot! Unless…

“Was the dog attacking him? Did you see it hurt Harry in any way?” Remus asked desperately.

Dudley’s eyes narrowed. “No, but I wish did. Then Harry wouldn’t be running off with my food for that stupid dog.”

“Harry was…,” Remus trailed off, eyes widening in disbelief.

Harry was helping Sirius, the very person who doomed his parents to death? How was that possible? But it made sense, the way Harry only ate the fries and saved the burger of his small meal, the growing thinness each day.

Sirius, you bastard, Remus scowled inwardly. You’re completely taking advantage of the poor boy’s naiveté. You’re using him, lying to him, fooling him, using his loneliness against him.

“It followed him everywhere,” Dudley continued. “It didn’t hurt him though.”

“Should have killed him when it had the chance,” Vernon growled, listening to his son’s words with mounting anger. “I should have broken both his legs yesterday!”

That was too much. Remus could feel something within him snap. With a burst of inhuman strength, he slammed his hand against the table, feeling the wood make a distinct groan beneath it.

“What are you saying? Mr. Dursley, that is no way to speak of your nephew!” Remus nearly shouted. “If you had treated him better, then perhaps he wouldn’t have ran! All this was…” he paused. There was a distinct bitter tang in the air that his wolf senses picked up that reminded him suspiciously of…

“Blood,” Remus choked out, catching sight of the stain of red beside the closed door of the cupboard under the stairs.

Vernon abruptly stilled. He shifted, blocking the stairs from Remus’ sight. “Now, I don’t know what you’re talking…”

But Remus wasn’t listening. He pushed past Vernon firmly, almost knocking the man twice his size to the floor. The bittersweet smell was becoming stronger; Remus stopped at the door, opening the cupboard slowly. The scent of blood was suffocating then, washing over him and drowning him in its thickness. But all this disappeared from his mind the moment he caught sight of the blankets.

“This,” Remus jerked the sheet free, stained with strips of dried blood. He lifted it up for Vernon to see. “is Harry’s, isn’t it?”

Vernon paled.

“You beat him, didn’t you?” Remus growled, his voice dangerously soft. These days he kept careful watch in fear that Sirius would somehow hurt Harry, he completely overlooked the very family that Harry needed to be protected against! He had been so blind…

Vernon said nothing, but the strangely satisfied gleam in his eye gave him away instantly.

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice this sooner! You lock him in a cupboard,” Remus almost shouted, slamming the door shut with a force that cracked the wooden frame. “Then you abuse him. You tell everyone how worthless and evil he is. How long have this been? Two years? Three years? Since he arrived in this… this family?”

Vernon seemed to finally find his voice. His eyes narrowed, and he backed away from the seething man cautiously. “You don’t understand that boy. He’s… he’s a freak. He’s abnormal.”

“Harry’s just a boy! How can you say those things?” Remus asked incredulously.

“That boy stole six hundred pounds from my wallet!” Vernon snapped.

“And you deserve to be sued for everything you own for what you did to Harry!” Remus gritted out, his hand trembling as it gripped the bloodstained blanket.

Vernon shut up instantly; he seemed genuinely frightened at that thought. He took another step back, pressing against the wall and staying as far away as possible.

“Listen,” he said slowly as if Remus was a little child. “That boy is… a freak. He got what he deserved…”

A resounding crack rang through the room.

Remus drew a sharp breath, trying hard to control the furious trembling in his limbs, nursing a sore fist. Blood was pounding loudly in his ears; he could almost feel his heart pumping erratically with the rage coursing through his veins. Vernon lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, a mass of fat and linen. The lycanthrope enhanced strength was hard to control with such anger; Remus had struck him so hard that Vernon broke the corner of his wooden breakfast table when he fell. Dudley squeaked, hobbling off the chair and running upstairs. All the walls of the flimsy house creaked under his weight.

Remus scowled, hand shaking as he folded the thin and tattered sheet, placing it securely in his pocket. His wand was right there beside it, so tempting, so enticing, he wanted to avada kedevra the muggle right then and there. He had to leave. He had to leave before he did something he seriously regretted. It was so many years since he lost his tempter…

A gleam of light against polished wood.

Remus glanced up, catching sight of the small coffee table beside the sofa. There was something about it that bothered him. He approached it, ignoring the senseless lump of Vernon Dursley nearby, kneeling to examine the article closer. Bloodied fingerprints lined the edge of the wood, fingers too long to belong to a child, too thin to belong to Vernon.

No...

*

*six hours prior*

Sirius was close to panic when he returned, only to find the grass around him cold and empty. He wasn’t even sure when the child left or where he could go. He couldn’t have been going back, those people abuse him, could he? But Sirius already knew with a sinking heart that he would; the child accepted it and he had no where else to go. At the calm exterior Harry presented, Sirius couldn’t help but wonder if it was a common occurrence.

He had startled off immediately in the direction of Four Privet Drive after that sneaking suspicion.

If they even touched Harry again, he was going to kill them! He was going to slit their throats in their bed, who cared about what others would say. Those damn Muggles…

But Harry had never led him to the house before, and the muggle community was a myriad of branching streets. He paced the ground agitatedly, trying to discern the child’s scent. He didn’t even wonder the reactions of the children who saw a bear-like dog, or consider the possibility of Remus nearby. All he could think of was Harry limping painfully, hurt and vulnerable through the streets.

Sirius had followed it easily enough, but the moment he reached open ground, so many others trampled over and mixed into it. It took hours just finding his way out of the park, and by the time he reached his destination, it was past midnight.

Sirius paused in front of a rather drab, white house with small windows. He transformed in front of the door, either oblivious or just careless to the possible neighbors who would be looking out their windows in the middle of the night. Fished a paperclip out of his pocket, something he picked up running through the streets, and twisted the tapered end in the lock. His hand shaking with rage and apprehension, Sirius barely stopped himself before he flung open the door. He slipped it shut quietly behind him and morphed back into his canine form

… only to catch the bitter scent of blood.

Old blood, about several hours old. But it was thick in the air and permeated through the very walls. Sirius felt as if someone had soaked every inch of his flesh in icy water. He rushed into the living room, following the trail with a kind of frantic desperation.

It couldn’t be Harry’s could it? He couldn’t return after all that, could he? They couldn’t be that cruel, could they?

… could they?

He almost missed the cupboard under the stairs, looking anything but conspicuous, in his rush to find Harry. But when the pungent odor nearly suffocated him as he passed, Sirius jerked to an abrupt stop. He stared at the door incredulously. Surely not…

Harry smelled like dusty cupboards. It made sense…

Sirius was standing beside the battered door in an instant, back into his human form. He opened the door apprehensively, not even aware if it creaked or not. The biting tang of blood was so strong that Sirius could detect it even without his canine senses. He creaked the old frame open, and a beam of moonlight seeped into the compartment. Sirius stomach all but disappeared.

“Oh god…”

Chapter nine - of a road less traveled

A makeshift bed was fit into the small space, sheets lined with small patches of what looked to be black in the dimly lit room. But that wasn’t what caught his eye. A small boy, lying against his chest with one of his arms trapped gawkily beneath him, laid in the enclosure. His shirt was plastered against his back, soaked with patches of both brown and crimson red. Harry’s head dangled over the edge, eyes closed but expression anything but peaceful. His body was twisted in an awkward position in the small room, looking as if someone had dumped him there carelessly. Long lashes laced his chest; some cuts were so deep that they had sliced through the very fabric of his shirt. Sirius choked back a cry of rage and disbelief, falling to his knees beside the unconscious boy.

“Harry…” he choked out, his voice so strained that he couldn’t even discern it.

Oh god… what have they done? How could they…? Harry was just a six year old boy! He was just six years old… how… what… damn them. Damn them!!

With a trembling hand, Sirius reached out and touched Harry‘s cheek softly. The boy’s skin felt unnaturally cold beneath his fingers. His face was ghastly pale and his lips were taking a bluish hue. His breathing was ragged and unsteady.

Catching sight of a long overcoat hanging over a kitchen chair, Sirius tugged it free. As gently as he could, Sirius lifted the child from the tainted, cramped space, weary of the shredded skin of his back, and wrapped the frail boy tightly in the coat. Harry’s face twisted into a faint contortion of pain, but he didn’t so much as to make a sound.

Shaking with suppressed fury, Sirius could barely keep his hands steady. Looking at Harry’s battered and blood streaked face, he was suddenly seized by an overwhelming urge to set fire to the flimsy walls, take his godson and just leave. He was so angry and it was so tempting…

Harry must have sensed those thoughts, because his brows knitted into a small frown and he writhed slightly in his godfather’s arms.

“No…” Harry choked out, his voice soft.

Sirius’ stomach churned at the childish innocence in his tone. “It’s alright, Harry,” he whispered, resting his forehead lightly against the tangled mop of dark hair. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, I promise.”

But his actions seemed to aggravate the boy more. Harry whimpered softly and stiffened against his chest. He squeezed his eyes tightly together, but amazingly, did not cry.

“Sorry…” he whispered.

Sirius was silent, words lost in surprise.

The Dursleys had hurt him! They beat him, and Harry was apologizing? What had they been telling the poor boy?

“What are you talking about?” Sirius couldn’t keep the anger out of his tone.

“Sorry… I won’t do it again… stop… don’t be angry…” Harry turned his face away, squirming weakly.

It was as if someone had squeezed his heart and held it in an icy grip. Sirius drew a shuddering breath, his arms tightening instinctively around his godson. Forget the Dursleys and all the fury that threatened to burst without a moments warning. Forget all those dementors just waiting to suck out his soul. All he wanted to do was take Harry and hide him far, far away where no one could find him.

Carefully shifting the slight weight against him, Sirius stood up. He laid Harry carefully on the sofa, the boy huddling into a tight, protective ball the moment he left his godfather’s arms. The thick fluid was still slowly seeping through his shirt; Sirius’ tattered sleeve was a dark crimson from where the coat had pulled away. Brushing his fingers lightly over the child’s back, his hands came away wet. Sirius could feel his stomach clenching in response.

Harry’s injuries were serious. How much blood had he lost?

Sirius rushed through the bottom story house, eyes finally resting on a basket of folded clothes. He dragged it beside the duvet, using a clean shirt as a makeshift bandage, pressing it lightly against his back. Harry whimpered feebly, and Sirius jerked away.

By the wan countenance and shallow breathing, Harry had obviously lost too much blood for a frail six year old to endure. He couldn’t take much more. He needed medical care, that much was obvious. Sirius had to get him out of there, get him away…

He rummaged through the clothes basket, careless of the racket he was making. It a way, he almost wished Vernon would step downstairs, and he would be at leisure to enact vengeance. His hand was just itching to spread over the fat neck of Harry’s uncle. Sirius beat it back harshly, but body still shook with rage as he dug through their clothes. He selected a few articles that had a remote chance of fitting himself and peeled off his own tattered robes. Wearing the clothes of Harry’s dreaded relative was the last thing he wanted, but raising eyebrows with his grimy black robes was worse.

Nevertheless, he’d still receive some odd looks every now and then. The pants were a several inches short of his ankle and the waistline was twice as wide as his. The shirt gave him an odd sensation of wearing a partly unbuttoned thing even though it was fastened to the collar.

Smaller clothes were folded at the bottom, but they were just as wide as they were long. Sirius just pulled out a few, not really caring and too frustrated to care. Several extra large shirts, a few pants as long as they were wide, a thick jacket that would probably hang about Harry like a cloak, a belt that might just manage to fit on Harry’s narrow waist. He stuffed it all in a duffle bag that he nabbed from under the table.

As he stood up, Sirius noticed the fat wallet lying on the dinner table. He grinned, fishing out all the bills and counting the contents with some triumph. Although, Sirius decided, that excuse for a muggle deserved far more punishment than just losing a few pounds.

He stopped at the kitchen, digging through the cupboards for any food that didn’t need to be cooked or preserved to be edible. A gleaming white box caught his eye. Sirius squinted at it, and realized with some relief, that if was the first aid thing that Lily always told them to use whenever one of the Marauders got a rather nasty scrape during the summer. He grabbed that and stuffed it in the bag.

The air was suffocating, and becoming thicker by the minute. Just standing in the house made Sirius feel sick, disgusted, irritable. His hands were shaking with impatience, itching to grip the kitchen knife that laid only a drawer away and avenge all the horrors they had put Harry through. But those Muggles hardly deserved the effort, and with Harry lying almost lifelessly on the duvet…

Sirius softened his footsteps as he approached the living room, the milky white moonlight illuminating the small figure, limp. His stomach clenched when he noticed the extreme paleness in Harry’s face. Running his fingers soothingly over the boy’s forehead, Sirius was alarmed by the clamminess of his skin.

As carefully as he could, Sirius lifted the light form. With the bag dangling from his arm and Harry nested comfortably in his arms, Sirius walked resolutely outside. It was strange to feel the wind without the thick fur of his animagus form, but he didn’t even notice. Harry whimpered when the movement jolted the abused skin of his back, shifting feebly. Sirius swallowed, examining the pallid complexion with unease.

I shouldn’t have taken so long, Sirius thought angrily. I should never have waited. I should have taken him away the moment I arrived a week ago.

*

Sirius’ hand shook as he attempted to bandage the harsh streaks of frayed flesh; every whimper the child made sent anger fire down his spine. The uneven jerks and bumps of the muggle vehicle only aggravated it, making Harry wince in pain every time his body was jarred.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered under his breath, his words choked in his throat. “I’m so sorry.”

Sirius rearranged the overcoat, wrapping Harry tightly in its folds, pulling his godson closer. The boy was pale almost beyond recognition, his skin like thin paper that would break at the lightest touch. Even now and then, he would shiver violently and fall limp again. Sirius ran his fingers over the child’s cheek, wincing when he felt how cold the boy was. Harry seemed almost lifeless if it wasn’t for his slow and shallow breathing.

Sirius couldn’t ignore the nagging suspicion that something was wrong with the boy. Harry was hurt far more than his exterior appearance. Those cuts couldn’t affect him this much, could they? But the amount of blood that was soaked into his shirt…

Sirius chewed his lip worriedly, the anger against the Dursleys rapidly replaced by fear for his godson. Harry needed medical care, and fast. But Sirius knew nothing about healing, he didn’t even have his wand. He couldn’t call a doctor from the wizarding world without giving away both their identity completely, and leaving Harry was the last thing he wanted.

“Sir, we’re here.”

Sirius nodded at the taxi driver distractedly, handling over few bills.

“Can you drop us off at a hotel of some sort?” Sirius hoarsely asked.

The cab stopped in front of a drab-looking structure with blinking neon lights that Muggles seem to be so attached to. It stood on the outskirts of the bright city, looking small and insignificant. But Sirius barely took in its appearance as he walked into the building, his godson in his arms. Harry shuddered when the cold morning air brushed against him, moaning softly.

“It’s going to be alright soon, Harry. Just hold on,” Sirius whispered, hugging the small child tighter.

He shoved the door open roughly, making the sleeping receptionist jump in surprise. Harry didn’t even respond at the movement, his body only slumping further into sleep.

“What is it now? Could you…?” the lady began irritably. But one glance at Sirius’ blanch and frantic face and the lifeless bundle in his arms shut her up instantly.

“I need a doctor,” Sirius choked out, voice laced with anxiety. “I have a child whose very, very sick. I need a doctor immediately.”

Chapter twelve - of unfavorable results

Sirius leaned over the edge of his chair, trying to catch a glimpse of anyone making his way down the hall through the partly opened door. He was reluctant to leave the boy. Harry was growing less and less responsive to his words, the life draining from him even though the bleeding had been stanched hours ago. His skin was so pallid that he seemed to almost bleed into the bleached bed sheets. Even his normally untamed hair lost its wildness, caught against his clammy skin in thick locks. His body grew colder by the minute. Gently, so not to jar the inflamed skin on his back, Sirius enveloped the child into a lose embrace. He rubbed the thin arms to bring some warmth and blew on the small hands.

Loud footsteps echoed through the room. Sirius was alert immediately, the fear of being caught as an escaped convict forgotten hours ago.

The door was flung open, and Sirius breathed a small sigh of relief.

A doctor, a young man in his early thirties with warm brown eyes and smoothly trimmed hair, stumbled in the room with less than usual dignity. His eyes were bloodshot, but he seemed perfectly composed at being aroused at such an odd hour. He froze the moment he caught sight of Harry, looking lifeless as he leaned against his godfather.

“What happened to him?” the doctor whispered.

Sirius swallowed thickly, “Forget questions, can you help him?”

The doctor stopped beside the bed, lifting a budging bag and dropping it heavily on the floor.

“Could you lay him back down?” the man asked smoothly, all the previous shock gone.

Carefully, Sirius lowered the limp child against the bed, trying to ignore the way his head fell back lifelessly. He watched the stranger unbutton the oversized shirt, the man’s face darkening. He drew a sharp breath when the red stained bandages glared back at him, livid bruises carved in flesh.

Sirius tensed, inwardly wincing at the sight.

“Sir, could you please step outside?” the man said slowly.

Sirius shook his head firmly. “I’m not leaving.”

The man’s head snapped up, looking just as flustered as he was. There was an angry suspicion in those eyes, but Sirius was too preoccupied to notice. “Sir, the boy’s condition looks very serious. I suggest if you want to do this child any good, you step outside!”

Sirius chewed his lip, but as the doctor continued to glare, stood up reluctantly.

*

Half an hour later, Sirius paced back and forth in the narrow hotel room hall, throwing uneasy glances at the closed door. Since the time, and he couldn’t hear so much of a whisper from the room. It was deathly silent, so silent that it frightened him.

Sirius ran a hand roughly through his hair in frustration. Harry couldn’t die, could he? He didn’t look that bad when Sirius first left the Dursleys with him. His condition steadily worsened as time wore on, but it never occurred to him that it was that serious.

Please, let Harry be okay. He wasn’t sure if he could deal with the guilt otherwise. First Lily and James, and now Harry! He’d be condemned for the rest of his life. He’d never be able to live with himself…

“Sir?”

Sirius spun around, nearly attacking the doctor in his trepidation. “How is he?” Sirius asked breathlessly. “Is he going to be alright?”

The doctor seemed unfazed by his reaction, seemingly used to these violent responses. He stopped Sirius from rushing into the room, keeping a firm hand on his arm. “The boy is stable,” the man said slowly. His words were purposefully vague. “You should have called me hours ago. It’s fortunate that there’s no infection, otherwise, he might not be able to pull through.”

“Is it that serious?” Sirius asked, paling at the realization.

The doctor frowned, “His injuries wouldn‘t be that serious by itself, but he’s suffering from anemia. With his blood sugar count, I’m guessing he probably hadn’t eaten for the past few days. His blood wasn’t clotting. He lost a lot of blood, and his body isn’t taking to the damage well. A blood transfusion would be recommended, but that would be available unless he’s at a hospital…”

Sirius drew a sharp breath, hands clinched so tightly that they shook. “Is he… going to be alright? Will he recover?”

The doctor examined his face carefully for a moment before answering. “He hasn’t been very strong even before these injuries. It’s been a rather severe blow on him. That boy needs a lot of care right now. But given time, he should be able to make a full recovery. Although it isn’t compulsory, I suggest you take him to a hospital.”

Sirius hesitated. Bringing Harry to the hospital would mean he probably wouldn’t be able to see him. It would risk never seeing his godson again, and possibly Harry’s return to the Dursleys. He scowled bitterly at the thought.

“No, I’ll take care of him,” Sirius said firmly.

The doctor’s eyes narrowed in an oddly calculating way. “Are you related to the boy?”

Sirius paused, swallowing uneasily. “No… Yes, I’m his godfather.”

The doctor frowned, lips set in a grim line. “Who are his parents?”

Sirius flinched. “They’re dead,” Sirius whispered, voice strained. “They died a long time ago.”

“Does he live with you?” the doctor asked.

Sirius grimaced, turning away. “No, Harry lives with his aunt and uncle.” His voice bore traces of suppressed rage.

At his bitter tone, the doctor nodded understandingly. “I suggest you contact the police and report the case of child abuse.”

“I can’t,” Sirius said slowly, but it was so tempting to finally punish those Muggles. “I… I’m not suppose to be in custody of him. As far as I know, his aunt and uncle don’t know I took him out of their house tonight.”

“That’s rather complicated,” the doctor whispered, brows knitted in a way that reminded him of Dumbledore. “You could be charged on the case of kidnap for this.”

“They were abusing him!” Sirius hissed, all his anger rushing back at the doctor’s seemingly careless words. “I wasn’t going to stand beside and just watch because I was afraid of being arrested.”

The doctor didn’t respond, his brown eyes watching him with a strange intensity. Suddenly, he smiled. “I understand. He’s lucky to have a godfather like you.”

Sirius’ throat tightened at those words, wanting desperately to tell the doctor how much he was wrong. He followed him numbly back into the room, stilling at the sight that met his eyes.

Harry laid on the bed, eyes closed in a heavy slumber, his breaths still soft, but deeper and more even. The blankets seemed to swallow his small form. His skin suddenly was even more washed out and pale than before in the bright lamp light. A thick cloth was wrapped around one of his wrists tightly, hiding the boniness of his arm from view. A bag of clear fluid was suspended by a metal contraption that Sirius didn’t recognize, a long tube stretched from it, a needle attached to the end that was embedded deep in Harry’s skin.

Sirius ran his fingers over Harry’s thin arm, tracing the needle with some bewilderment. Wasn’t it cruel, hurting an already injured boy? But the doctor took no notice of the fury flashing through his eyes.

“You need to keep him on the IV until he can eat by himself. He needs to build up his blood sugar before he starves or dehydrates,” the doctor explained, his tone strictly professional.

“What’s… what’s wrong with his arm?” Sirius asked shakily, glancing at the thick swabs of cloth encasing Harry’s hand.

“His wrist is very badly strained, a cast would be better for it. There could be a hairline crack in it, but without an x-ray, I really can’t be sure. His left leg is heavily bruised as well. There could be bone damage, although…” the doctor trailed off, looking weary. When he spoke again, he seemed to be speaking to himself distractedly. “I’ll bring a portable ultrasound and some plaster later. I wasn’t prepared for something like this. But I can’t cast his arm or ankle until after the swelling recedes. It’s going to be difficult…”

“How long…” Sirius slowly said.

“Two weeks, at least. I would be careful about moving him anytime this week; his ribs are bruised and possibly broken. There aren’t any internal injuries; it’s practically a miracle considering all those…” the man frowned but composed himself quickly. “The… cuts on his back are already bandaged, but they need to be changed twice a day or else they might infect. Lying on his back will be painful for him, but he can’t lie on his side without jostling his ribs. The most I can do for him is to provide some painkillers.”

Two weeks? Sirius frowned. He shouldn’t have taken him to a Muggle doctor, he should have gone straight to Hogwarts. But how could he explain? What if they didn’t believe him? What if they took the child away?

Sirius said nothing, taking the small hand in his own. Harry was hurt far worse than he ever expected; the chances of such a young child fully recovering from something as serious as this…

Sirius cleared his throat shakily. “The blood that he lost…”

“It’s not life threatening. He’ll be very tired and his immune system is weak; I recommend keeping him inside for at least a week or so,” the doctor paused, pulling out an orange bottle, “These are antibiotics in case he gets an infection, but don’t give him any unless you’re sure he’s sick. I left some high protein powder on the table; make sure he gets a dose twice a day.”

Sirius nodded in response, but he was only half listening.

“Call me if he doesn’t show any signs of improvement. I’ll be back to check on him tomorrow.” The doctor paused on his way to the door, watching him sympathetically for a moment. “I respect patient confidentiality. If anyone questions me of a missing boy, I’ll be sure to tell them I’ve met no such person.”

Sirius barely even registered those words; and when the meaning finally sunk in, the doctor was already gone. He would have sighed in relief if the situation hadn’t been so grave.

He stood unmoving beside Harry’s bed, watching the closed eyes, unshielded by the round glasses. Sirius pushed a few strands of hair from Harry’s face, brushing against the uneven flesh of the curse scar. It was frightening to see such a lively boy, so excited and full of life only days before suddenly drain into a wasted body, so wan and ill.

This was your fault, you know, said that small voice in the back of his mind. If you had revealed the truth to him earlier and taken him away from that place. Or if you had escaped sooner, instead of moping for five years. Or if you hadn’t asked James to switch, this wouldn’t have happened…

Sirius sat down heavily beside the bed. His chest clinched, his breath stained in his throat, he buried his face in his hands.

Chapter twelve - of the question of trust

“Remus, you’re sure about that?” Dumbledore asked, his eyes dark with an angry fire.

“Yes. Vernon practically admitted it to my face. They lock him in a cupboard, and I found the sheets bloody,” Remus whispered, voice muffled against his hands.

Dumbledore was silent, his face darkening into an emotion of regret. The blue eyes were almost a dull grey, and his shoulders sagged with a weariness beyond his age.

“I should have taken him out of that place sooner,” Dumbledore said softly.

Remus was silent, running his hands over his eyes resignedly.

“Harry had bruises yesterday. They must have abused him for… oh god, I don’t even know how long ago they started,” Remus finally said. Suddenly, he clenched his fists. His shoulders shook as he spoke, and his words carried an audible tremor. “Why didn’t I notice it sooner? It was so obvious! The signs where right in front of my face, and I hadn’t even considered that they could be… physically abusing him…”

Dumbledore sighed sadly, looked at his former pupil with an unreadable expression. “Remus, it’s not your fault.”

Remus shook his head, face still hidden in his hands. “No, there’s more. Sirius broke into the Dursleys last night and took Harry.”

“He what?” Dumbledore’s voice carried a dangerous edge, but the fury carefully controlled in his face was unnerving. Remus could feel his skin prickling and the hair rising at the back of his neck in response. There was a dull thud, as if the headmaster had knocked something to the ground in his shock.

“Sirius kidnapped Harry last night…” Remus repeated hoarsely. “Apparently, he’s been here for a week…”

He broke off abruptly, but his mind was screaming at him to speak on. He just couldn’t bring himself to tell the headmaster of those marauding years. It would be admitting to betraying Dumbledore’s trust those years at Hogwarts.

You’re so selfish. Tell him! The voice in his mind was yelling, It could mean Harry’s life and death!

But before he couldn’t even bring himself to open his mouth again, the headmaster’s expression darkened further.

“What?” Dumbledore’s voice was almost a low growl.

“Sirius is…” Remus swallowed thickly. “an animagus.”

He waited for the headmaster’s response, but there was none. Looking up, he found the man watching him with the a searching, yet understanding gaze. There was no anger, no disappointment. Remus drew a deep breath and continued, explaining the plans of his closest friends, of James, Sirius, and Peter. Of their desire to help a friend and at the lengths that they took. Remus was surprised to find Dumbledore only reacting only mildly, as if he suspected it all along.

“But, Sirius didn’t hurt Harry at all. By what the child told he, he’s quite fond of James’ son. It… oh, I don’t know,” Remus sighed wearily. Things were becoming more and more complicated by the minute.

Dumbledore frowned in thought. “He never hurt Harry.”

“No! That’s the part that doesn’t make any sense,” Remus choked out with some frustration. All the stress of the week and the past that returned to haunt him was eroding the calm exterior that he carried. “He could be lying to him, but… that still doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, it doesn‘t,” Dumbledore sighed.

“I thought he may have been using Harry at first, but…,” Remus shook his head angrily. “Sirius was imprisoned for five years, and when he finally escapes, he just bides his time? That’s not the way he is! Sirius isn’t patient, he’d act immediately! If he wanted Harry dead, he’d be dead long ago. I would never have made any difference…” Remus chewed his lip, biting is so hard that he could taste the bitter tang of blood. “And now, Sirius kidnapped him…”

He fell into muteness as he stared into the palm on his hands. Remus drew a shuddering breath, unclenching his bloodless fingers. Harry needed help, he couldn’t even guess how badly the child was hurt. And with someone so young and frail, Remus wondered how much Harry could endure before breaking. He was at a murderer’s mercy, a cold-blooded mass murderer who betrayed his best friends. He desperately hoped that Sirius somehow had a change of heart, and would help James’ son. Harry was so young and innocent, looked so much like his father; perhaps, just perhaps, Sirius would hesitate…

But after realizing the extent of his misjudgment with Harry’s relatives, Remus found it hard to be optimistic.

*

A soft moan.

Sirius jerked awake late in the afternoon the next day, blinking blurriness out of his grainy and dry eyes. His back cracked in protest of the rough treatment of falling asleep in a chair. He moved closer to the bedside, watching the boy intently.

“Harry?”

The boy flinched, shifting awkwardly as he tried to turn away.

Sirius drew back cautiously; Harry’s reaction was disturbing. He had never seem the child so frightened by people, he never recoiled like that when Sirius was in his Padfoot form. How much did those Muggles do to traumatize the poor boy?

“It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay,” Sirius said as reassuringly as he could.

Harry didn’t seem to respond at first. But convulsively, his arm jerked and his eyes fluttered open. Sirius held his breath, waiting for Harry’s reaction on seeing a stranger at his bedside, but his godson seemed to tread on the edges of consciousness. His eyes didn’t focus and they darted around the room nervously.

“Harry, do you recognize me? It’s…,” Sirius hesitated for a brief moment, “Padfoot. Do you remember?”

That seemed to catch his attention. Harry turned his head slowly, eyes stopping on Sirius’ face, but they were hollow and unseeing. He didn’t cringe when Sirius brushed a few strands of hair from his eyes.

“Padfoot?” Harry echoed, his voice so soft that Sirius could barely hear.

His voice was strained with a strange sort of desperation, his eyes glazed and distant was they stared up at the ceiling. But then his eyelids dropped, his body slackened, and his head fell limply against Sirius’ hand.

*

Through the course of two days, the shabby hotel room was slowly transformed into a muggle clinic. The bed sheets were bleached and sterilized, the curtains drawn and air conditioning refiltered, and specialized machines were localized to constantly check the child’s blood sugar and body temperature.

Those days passed without any sense of day or night. The curtains were constantly drawn, and Sirius knew the time no better than how many times he nodded off into a fitful sleep and how many times he jerked awake only to an unresponsive child in front of him.

It was unnerving; Sirius had never seen a six year old so silent. He never made a sound when Sirius moved him to change the bandages. Once in a while, the boy would awake and mumble incoherently, but fall asleep again. The hopes of seeing Harry as the laughing child running through Arabella’s trampled garden again was rapidly melting away. Sirius found himself thinking numerous times how he could contact Remus and get Harry to St. Mungos, but he bring himself to carry it out.

Then on the third day, Sirius opened his eyes, adjusting to the dim light of the room to find Harry’s eyes wide open. They were fixed on him unblinkingly, but by the way he squinted, his eyesight was too poor to distinguish anything without glasses. But he visibly cringed when Sirius jerked up, shrinking deep under the covers. A soft whimper of pain escaped his lips when that movement jostled his side and crushed his ill-treated back against the bed.

“Harry,” Sirius whispered gently, disturbed by his reaction. He bent forward, but hesitated to touch the child. “It’s alright.”

The boy made an indiscernible sound in the back of his throat, struggling to move his unresponsive limbs. Sirius carefully slid the glasses over his face, and the child blinked.

Sirius held his breath, waiting for a response. He silently hoped that Harry’s memories of Padfoot carried over to him as well, but that seemed to be asking too much. Harry froze when the strange man at his bedside under the unfamiliar ceiling finally came into focus, eyes widening larger than Sirius thought was possible.

He looked at Sirius fearfully for a long time but never uttered a sound. Sirius considered with some amount dread, of the possibility that Harry’s trauma had damaged him so much that he became mute overnight.

Sirius bit his lip; he reached out to smooth the child’s hair. “Relax, Harry. I’m not…,” Sirius broke off when Harry recoiled, turning away from his outstretched hand.

“Harry, it’s alright. We’re not at the Dursleys, they can’t hurt you anymore,” Sirius said, but he couldn’t mask the bitter anger in his voice. “You’re not going back there ever again, okay?”

But Harry was still stiff under the covers, even though tensing the muscles on his back obviously caused him a lot of pain.

“Relax, Harry. It’s better if you don’t try to move,” Sirius told him quietly. “I’ll get you something warm to drink, okay? It’ll help with the pain.”

The child didn’t respond, but Sirius wasn’t expecting one. He stood, making a careful attempt to move slowly, and poured a cup of the lukewarm water from the coffee machine. He had kept it boiling with the can of powder from the doctor, waiting for the child to awake.

“This isn’t very warm anymore, but it should be alright,” Sirius murmured as he sat down again. He was speaking mostly to shatter the silence between them, but couldn’t help feel awkward at the one sided conversation. In the past, it was always Harry who spoke, but suddenly without Padfoot, Harry became quiet. “I’m going to move you a little bit, tell me if it hurts, okay?”

He reached forward, but at the lightest touch, Harry flinched and closed his eyes. It was like he was expecting to be hit at any moment, and Sirius couldn’t help but wonder exactly how deep those emotional scars ran. He lifted the boy slowly; the child’s head limply fell back as if he lost all the strength in his body. Sirius gently supported his head against his shoulder, and held the cup to his lips. Harry twisted away from the proffered mug, struggling weakly. He seemed terrified of it somehow, as if the whole thing was a trick to get him in trouble.

“Is something wrong?” Sirius asked, concerned.

Harry seemed delirious with his brightened gaze. But slowly, he turned and sipped at drink tentatively, eyes never leaving his Sirius’ face. Harry was awkward at such treatment, drinking a few mouthfuls before pulling away. He was obviously having difficulty swallowing, it seemed to cause him pain just to try. Sirius shifted the child to ease the stress, but at the slight movement, Harry cried out in pain.

Sirius winced inwardly. He froze, unsure of whether to lay him back down and possibly hurt him more. He whispered words of apology and reassurance.

Harry was still, eyes tightly shut and making no response that he actually heard those words. But Sirius could feel him trembling, whether in pain or fear he wasn’t sure.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius whispered again. There were a million things he wanted to apologize for.

Slowly, Harry opened his eyes. The fear was replaced by a curious confusion, staring at Sirius as if he was the strangest person in the world.

“Who are you?” Harry whispered, his voice soft and timid.

Chapter fifteen - of re-acquaintance

Sirius hesitated. Could he tell the boy about Padfoot? Would Harry understand? But it would be such a shock to see a man turn into a beast right before his eyes especially with the kind of atmosphere he was raised in. He couldn’t deal with Harry fearing Padfoot as well.

Sirius felt his stomach clinch. He couldn’t, Harry wasn’t ready. But what would happen if Sirius told Harry his real name? With Remus there, he wondered if his old friend told him about the situation. Although his escape wasn’t publicized, it was hard to say how much Harry knew. The last thing he wanted was to scare the boy when he seemed so fragile already.

But he couldn’t lie, especially not to Harry. He drew a steadying breath, “I can’t tell you right now, but I promise I will once you get better.”

The child squinted as if scrutinizing him, tilting his head to one side curiously. The fear wasn’t gone, lurking behind the shadows of his eyes waiting to return full force. “Why?” the child asked timidly.

Sirius took a deep breath and held it, slowly lowering the child back onto the bed. He tucked the blankets firmly around the six year old, “Because you’ll hate me if you don’t understand,” Sirius whispered.

Harry tensed slightly, baffled and unnerved by Sirius’ words. But the effects of the food was exacting its toll, and he was sinking into a heavy weariness. His eyes unfocused and glazed like a sheet of glass, before sleep claimed him once again.

*

Harry drifted at the edges of consciousness, reluctant to open his eyes and relinquish sleep. His blankets were so warm, and he was so tired. There was a strange essence of peace and comfort in his cupboard, and Harry never felt that way about it before.

So tired… he never felt this tired before… not since Dudley had pushed him down the stairs his fourth birthday and he struck his head against the banister.

His limbs weighed like stones over his body and his arms of solid metal, he couldn’t even turn more than a few inches before hot fire would gush through his veins. His body was stiff and numb, he was so sore and tired. Harry snuggled deeper in his folds. Instantly, there was a blinding pain raking across his back, and he gasped.

Harry opened his eyes jerkily, blinking when his faulty eyes refused to focus. But there was no reflection of the dark, cramped compartment of the cupboard. He tried to raise his head despite the protests of his bruised neck. Harry could barely make out the slurred outline of a television and another full sized bed across from him. Streaks of milky white lined a wall and if he tried hard enough, he could just see the folds of the curtain.

What…? Harry blinked, disoriented.

The memories of yesterday crashed over him in an instant. Much of it was a blur, but he could distinctively remember the stranger’s words. It was disorienting to wake up in a foreign room with a stranger; a man had taken him out of Pivet drive, and found a doctor for him and treated him with foreign kindness that Harry didn't understand. A man who refused to tell him his name, but bore such a strong sense of familiarity that Harry stared for several minutes without blinking. His memory was a blur after that, but some things still made no sense.

How did he know his name? Why did the man help him? Harry couldn’t figure out why anyone would even bother. He was worthless, Aunt Petunia always said so.

Something shifted beside him. Turning, Harry could barely make out a dark blur of the man, head slumped forward in an uncomfortable angle as he leaned against the side of the bed. He looked oddly like Padfoot with its streaks of long, black hair.

Trust him, a distant part of his mind said. He telling the truth when he said he wouldn’t hurt you. It’s okay to trust him.

The stranger shifted again, his breathing deepening. Slowly, Harry lifted his right arm, the only arm that he could move without scalding fire in his wrist, and placed it softly on the man’s hair. He had patted Padfoot’s head so many times, it was almost an instinct. He lightly stroked the thick strands, still smelling oddly of flowers that reminded him of the cat shampoo he dumped over Padfoot’s fur. Harry wished that he had left with the familiar black dog; how was he managing without Harry to bring him food? Would he be alright?

Why wasn’t he sleeping in the empty bed? Harry wondered dimly. It’s so uncomfortable to sleep in a chair.

Harry blinked, belatedly realized that the man he was petting wasn’t a dog, probably would be angry at being treated like one. Harry drew his hand back apprehensively.

A gleam of light against glass caught his eye. Squinting, Harry could just see the smear of black beside the stranger's hand. His glasses…

Harry reached for them, but his arm was far to short. His left hand could probably touch them, but it stung like acid was in the bone. But his glasses…

Carefully, Harry dragged his arm over the bed, chewing his lip to keep from crying out. Cold sweat was rising on his skin from the effort. There were nails digging into his flesh at the movement, but his glasses were so close. Just a little further, and…

The large blur stirred. Harry’s fingers brushed the man’s arm as he reached for the round rimmed plastic, and the man’s head shot up. Harry froze. Sirius stared at him for a moment with an expression he couldn’t see, but then his face traveled to his outstretched arm, swabbed with bandages.

“Oh god, Harry, what are you…,” the man stood up sharply, reaching for his hand.

Harry jerked away to cover his face defensively, a reaction grinded into him after years of residence with his relatives. But the movement aggravated the biting pain in his wrist and made the child gasp. The man sounded so angry, so frustrated. He was mad at him, he was going to punish him! That tone of voice sent waves of memories that haunted him all too often. Especially with the baggy clothes of Uncle Vernon, the man was terrifying.

The stranger froze at his obvious display of fear, backing away as if burned. “Harry, it’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.” He was obviously trying to be reassuring, but there was a sort of cautiousness in his tone.

Oddly, Harry believed him, and when he reached forward again, managed only a small wince. Harry wasn’t sure why he so willingly wanted to trust the stranger, but it was so natural. Something about him just called for it; it was like with Padfoot, only stronger. Harry knew him somehow. If he tried hard enough, he could almost see it. A face leaning over the crib, speaking words that he couldn’t remember…

He’s familiar, like Padfoot… was thought that rose in his mind.

Harry could feel his larger hands encircling his bandaged arm. Sirius supported the almost fractured wrist as he laid it against the covers, carefully peeling away the stiff bandages. He couldn’t seem to be afraid of Sirius at all, not when the man was so kind. But Harry was still confused.

“Be careful about moving your hand. The sprain is pretty serious, and the doctor says it’s not going to take much more damage. Doesn’t it hurt?” Harry could hear him saying as he lightly touched the battered skin. Sirius was speaking mostly to relieve the tension. His voice was strained, but it wasn’t with rage.

Harry stared at Sirius, unsure of what to say.

“The swelling still hasn’t receded. I’ll get you a warm compress. ”

Harry blinked, dazed. That man didn’t want to hurt him at all. He wasn’t even angry. It was all so confusing, he wasn’t sure how to respond. Harry turned his attention to his glasses, still lying obliviously on the bed. It looked a bit closer after Sirius had knocked it when he stood up. Perhaps if he tried reaching for it with his right arm…

“Harry, no,” Sirius said firmly, hurrying back towards him. “Are you trying to get your glasses? Why didn’t you just ask me?”

Ask him? But wouldn’t the stranger be irritated? Or would he…

Harry was silent, unsure of how to respond. No one ever asked such a question before. He just stared at the man in puzzlement.

Sirius sighed again, running a weary hand through his long hair. “It doesn’t matter. Here.”

Glasses were slipped on his face with care, nothing like the way Aunt Petunia would when he was younger and she wanted to drag him out of bed. Once, she jabbed the leg of it so hard against the corner of his eye that he saw red for hours. The room came sharply into focus, and he could finally see the tan color of the blankets and walls. Sirius was standing beside his bed, reading the instructions on the back of a small white package he held. He frowned slightly.

“Damn Muggle instructions… never could make any sense…,” Sirius grumbled. “Oh, there we go.”

He shook the contents before pressing it lightly against Harry’s wrist. The bag was comfortably warm, like the bottom of the refrigerator on a cold winter day. The heat seemed to thaw out the knots and wash away the acid in his ill-treated arm. Harry let out a small sigh of relief.

Sirius smiled. “Better?”

Harry nodded slightly, baffled. The stranger wasn’t annoyed, he wasn’t angry. Rather, he sounded a bit like the parents he passed in the park every time their child fell and scraped his knee. The man seemed… concerned? That couldn’t be right. No one was ever concerned about him before.

A hand on his forehead drew him from his thoughts. Harry tensed at the touch, but Sirius didn’t seem to notice. Sirius brushed a few strands of hair from his face, lips thinning into a line.

“You’re breaking out in cold sweat. That must have really hurt,” Sirius frowned, chewing his lip.

Harry shifted uneasily under Sirius’ intent gaze. The stranger suddenly seemed aggravated again, and Harry was afraid to speak.

Harry examined the man cautiously. He was tall and skinny; the clothes that he wore were definitely not his own. Sirius did seem a lot like Padfoot, even if he was human. His hair was long and the exact same shade of black; his eyes were the pale blue that contrasted sharply with the rest of his face. Sirius’ was pale though, like he hadn’t seen sun for years. But even so, Harry couldn’t help but find parallels between the stranger and the large dog that somehow went from a scrawny stray to his closest friend.

Sirius raised an eyebrow when he noticed Harry watching him.

“What is it?” he asked gently.

Harry quickly averted his gaze.

Could it be that he was only pretending to care? Aunt Petunia did that once after he fell down the stairs. He could do nothing but drift in and out of sleep for days, and she sat by his bed for fifteen minutes everyday. She seemed to be worried then, and Harry thought one of his wishes finally came true. At least a little bit of it: someone cared about him. But the first thing Aunt Petunia did after Harry could stand was slap him and yell that he was lazy for the past week…

Harry shuddered. The man couldn’t be truly concerned for him. It just wasn’t possible. br>
Chapter fifteen - of the past that always returns to haunt

Sirius had always taken Harry’s frequent visits and ecstatic conversations for granted when he resided in his Padfoot form; it never occurred to him that the child spoke just because he was a dog and not a human. But now, with Harry speaking only a word or two at a time, Sirius felt that he somehow lost the boy again. Harry’s past experiences with people obviously disillusioned him and made him silent at an early age. Sirius desperately wondered if Harry would ever be so carefree again.

Not to mention the wonders of wizard medicine, which Sirius hadn’t truly appreciated before either. He never realized just how long it took for the body to heal naturally. To see the gaping wounds scream back at him everyday for four days straight on the young child’s back was enough to remind him just how badly he was hurt, and just how slowly he would recover.

Damn those Muggles…

Sirius mixed the drink bitterly, stirring it probably harder than necessary. The powdered protein fiber had long since dissolved in the warm milk, but he was too far gone in his thoughts to notice. But when he finally turned to face the bed, Harry still hadn’t touched the steaming plate of breakfast. He leaned, propped against the pillows, staring at the opposite wall unseeingly. The scrambled egg and bacon were ignored on a tray before him The injuries had drained the remaining flesh from his already slight form like water; Harry was so pale and thin that the veins could be traced over his skin and the bruises stood livid on his body. Sirius choked back anger, his grip around the cup tightening convulsively.

“Harry,” Sirius said softly so not to startle the boy.

Harry still flinched, head snapping up in surprise. Sirius held out the mug and the boy took it in a one handed grip. But the weight seemed to strain his hand; his entire arm shook with the effort of just holding it. Sirius caught the cup just before it slipped between his fingers, the warm fluid splashing a little over the brim.

Harry was wide-eyed, baffled and even fearful. He glanced his hand, flexing his fingers weakly. Sirius watched him uneasily; it must be so frustrating and confusion for a child to wake up and suddenly find that he didn’t even have the strength to hold up a cup.

“Sorry…” Harry’s childish voice broke into the thick silence.

Sirius shook his head, trying to decide whether he should be exasperated or distressed with Harry for his extreme shyness. “It’s alright; it’s not your fault. Harry, you’ve been very ill. You’ll be tired for a while.”

Harry frowned slightly. “But…”

“But what?”

He looked up at Sirius inquiringly. “What…. Why am I…?”

“You are… very sick. You haven’t been eating.” Sirius brushed back a few strands of Harry’s hair, inwardly grimacing. He knew why Harry had starved himself, and to know that he had somehow indirectly worsened his condition…

“You should eat if you want to get better,” Sirius said quickly as a distraction, sitting down at the edge of the bed. “Try some of the egg first.”

Harry visibly blanched as he examined the steaming dish in front of him. Despite Sirius encouragements, he made no move to eat at all.

“But… I can’t,” the child said meekly.

Sirius frowned, baffled. “Why not?”

“Uncle Vernon…” Harry visibly shuddered at those words. “says I’m not suppose to…”

Harry’s next words were lost when Sirius stood from bed haltingly, looking torn between guilt and anger. He made an obvious effort at restraint, but his knuckles were white on the tightly clenched fist.

“I don’t care what that Muggle says. You’re never going to see him again, you’re never going to go back there again,” Sirius said firmly, but couldn’t hide the bitterness.

Sirius crushed those thoughts away when he noticed Harry watching him strangely again. The child’s emerald eyes were unnerving sometimes, especially when he had thinned out, those eyes were large and stood out from the rest of his face.

“Sorry,” Harry choked out.

Sirius blinked up, visibly surprised. The pained countenance was back again. “Why are you sorry?” he asked softly.

“You’re unhappy,” Harry whispered resignedly, shifting deeper in the thin blankets. He peeked over the edge of the sheet meekly. “Is it because of me? I… I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

Sirius drew a sharp breath, Harry’s words completely catching him off guard. Harry’s manner was completely of a shy little boy; he looked truly distressed at causing him trouble. Sirius was relieved at the acceptance, but concerned for his sudden reticent behavior. For a long time, Sirius was at a loss of what to say.

“Do you think so?” Sirius asked finally.

Harry nodded

Sirius sighed, pushing stray locks of hair from Harry’s face. The boy didn’t shield away at the touch, but he tensed fearfully. Still, it was better than a few days ago when he flinched violently at any contact. “Harry, I…” Sirius paused, biting his lip as if catching some words he was disinclined to say. “It’s nothing that you did wrong, Harry. I’m not angry with you. I won’t be angry with you.”

Harry looked puzzled.

*

Sirius’ head snapped up, his arm knocking over a stray styrofoam cup that roamed too close to his elbow. His neck strained with a sharp crack, and he groaned at the uncomfortable position of his back. He had been sleeping in the various hotel chairs ever since a week ago, despite the spare bed in the room, and his spine was taking its toll.

I’m getting old, Sirius noted somewhat with disdain.

The brief thoughts vanished quickly as Sirius scanned the darkened room, wondering what awakened him. Over the course of the week, he had groan especially susceptible to any noise, alert at a moment’s notice.

A soft whimper.

That caught Sirius attention immediately.

A strangled gasp.

Quickly, Sirius stood, concerned. Harry was always quiet, no matter how much those injuries tortured him. He must be in serious pain if he was crying out in his sleep. Kicking aside a few articles that he couldn’t see, Sirius blindly made his way towards the child’s bed.

A different sight met his eyes altogether when he switched on the light. Harry was twisted on his side, curled against the bed and tangled helplessly in the bed sheets. His hair was plastered to his forehead with perspiration, and he shivered visibly. His face was knitted in a deep frown, and once in a while, he would flinch and whimper as if trapped in a nightmare.

Alarmed, Sirius hurried towards the child, and carefully turned him from his side to relieve his bruised ribs. But a violent spasm raked through the thin form and the child cried out. Sirius drew away cautiously.

“Harry!” Sirius tapped the child gently on the forehead. Harry’s skin was cold and clammy, and he dabbed at the child’s face with the edge of his sleeve. “Wake up, it’s just a dream.”

Without warning, the child’s eyes snapped open, larger than he believed humanly possible, glazed and unfocused like the glassy eyes of his ancient divination teacher. Sirius could feel the boy stiffen, and Harry seemed to stare at him, right through him.

The remaining color drained from his face and left him ghastly white. He made a sharp jerk in an attempt to move away, but all he managed was a sharp gasp of pain.

“Harry, don’t move!” Sirius said sharply.

Those words sent a jolt down the child’s spine, as if they incurred a terrifying memory. He clutched the far edge of the bed with the undamaged arm, trying to drag his weakened body as far from him as possible. He whimpered when Sirius took a step forward.

Unnerved by the response, Sirius reached out to clasp the child’s arm. But Harry recoiled so violently that he snapped back. The edge of the colt caught the child completely by surprise. With a strangled cry, Harry tumbled to the floor. His shoulder scrapped against the edge of the bedside table with a dull bang, and he fell against the carpet in a tangled heap.

“Harry!”

Alarmed, Sirius scrambled over the bed to get to his godson. But his frantic tone only frightened the boy even more. Harry coughed, dragging himself to against the bed and curling tightly defensively around himself. The pain from the fall and the panicked movement was obviously causing him unbearable agony. Harry was biting his fingers to muffle the cries.

“Harry, no. Don’t try to move, you’re going to hurt yourself more,” Sirius whispered almost imploringly. He knelt beside him, but every time he moved forward, Harry would flinch. Afraid to touch him and reluctant to leave him, he watched Harry agitatedly. In his drug induced delirium, Sirius wondered if it was really him that he saw.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Harry choked out between gasps. He shielded his face with his hands, pressing his back against the wall despite the fire lashing out. “I won’t… do it again!”

“What…? Do what? Harry, it’s alright, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not angry,” Sirius said as reassuringly as possible, but his tone betrayed his distress.

“I didn’t… steal Dudley’s food,” Harry continued. He spoke so softly that Sirius could barely hear, “I didn’t! He said… he didn’t want it… I… sorry… sorry… Sorry!”

Sirius drew a sharp breath, catching onto the edge of the bed and twisting the fabric between his fingers. Harry was in trouble because of stealing his cousin’s food? Sirius choked when he remembered the oversized sandwich Harry had pocketed for him. Harry had taken it for him. This was all his fault. Harry was in trouble because of him. Sirius swallowed thickly, feeling as if someone had just twisted his stomach with razor sharp nails.

Harry’s eyes were wide in terror, glazed with a strange gloom that a six year old should never have had or seen. He stared at him as if seeing somebody different altogether, mentally reliving all the horrors of his short life in one desperate moment.

But Harry just shuddered, whether from pain or fear, he wasn’t sure. He huddled in a small corner, act reminiscent of the small child fearful of being torn to pieces by a wild dog. But the position was straining his already tender ribs, tearing at the delicate skin on his back. The poorly clotted wounds had ripped at the brush against the table, noticeable stains seeped through Harry’s tattered shirt. Sirius tensed at the sight, lightly pulling the slight form from the floor.

Sirius reached out, a hand hovering above the child’s shoulder. But the moment he touched the thin shoulder, Harry startled and struggled.

“No! Please…” Harry choked out. He buried his face in his arms as if as if blocking out a sight only he could see. He writhed helplessly, face contorted in agony at the ribs that he jolted, his body was twisted in a painful position in his attempt to move away.

“Harry, I’m not going to hurt you!” Sirius whispered. He pried the child’s hands free with ease, the fear of further frightening the boy was quickly replaced by concern. He stopped him as he attempted to move away, easing the slight weight against him to keep the ribs from being jarred even further.

But Harry all but screamed, entire body jerking as if someone had stabbed him. Sirius startled at the response, but held him still before he hurt himself further. He whispered quiet words of comfort and reassurance, but they seemed to past right through him. Abruptly, Harry fell limp, legs buckling beneath him as he collapsed.

Sirius caught him before he fell completely. But when the child’s head lolled back against the crook of his arm, eyes cracked in small slits as he drifted between the edges of consciousness, Sirius found his throat too constricted to sigh in relief.

Chapter sixteen - of spotted ceilings and broken cabs

Sirius leaned in the deeply seated cushions of the divan, the tattered headrest a gnawing into the back of his neck. With the thin hotel blanket draped lightly over him, and the six year old sleeping quietly in its folds, Sirius numbly counted the discolored spots on the ceiling. But when they danced haphazardly over the darkened walls, he began to wonder if they were on the paint or in his eyes.

Sirius blinked the graininess in his eyes away, keeping his hand still so the child wouldn’t be jarred.

He was beginning to get used to the dark room. The color black no longer reminded him of Azkaban. Rather, the last time he even thought about that place was over a week ago. He was so caught up with Harry then…

Sirius blinked again, but his eyelids refused to open this time. He pried them open forcefully, the room swimming in his vision and his veins throbbing in his head.

He rubbed his eyes, forgetting the effort to stay still. His hand came away clammy, and Sirius inwardly groaned. Becoming ill was the last thing he needed, with a physically and mentally scarred child on his hands. He knew he should rest, but he couldn’t. What if Harry had another nightmare? He had to be there to reassure him, tell him everything was alright, that he’d be okay, everything would be okay…

Distractedly, Sirius rocked the bundle in his arms back and forth, lightly smoothing out the child’s unruly hair.

He never felt more defeated in his life. It was reliving James and Lily’s death all over again, only it was their son dying. A trapped, lost six year old boy slowly fading away into a shell. He was so deeply scarred, so scalded and burned from those experiences that Sirius wondered if he could ever lead a normal life.

And Harry didn’t trust him…

He should take Harry to Remus, to Hogwarts; leave him in peace where he can be tended to without fear. Harry trusted Remus, didn’t he? He remembered the child talking about him to Padfoot. Sirius could make sure that Harry had a good home; he could make sure the child was happy. He could explain to Remus, and even if he was sent back to Azkaban, he would have found some semblance of peace. It felt so much like giving up, abandoning his godson.

Sirius rearranged the blankets, and tucked the child snuggly in its folds. Harry had sunk past unconsciousness into sleep, eyes peacefully closed. But Sirius couldn’t bring himself to move.

Harry’s face twisted into a faint grimace, burrowing himself deeper in the folds of Sirius’ shirt.

*

//

The autumn wind blew the browning leaves in gentle sweeps. Harry stared up at the clouded sky, blind to the people that passed by. They couldn’t see him, anyway. A lady in an overcoat ran right through him, her body passing through his like a rippling wave. Her overcoat fused into his arm, and drew out the other side as if he was only a shape of solid, clear water, leaving behind only the lingering sensation of perfume. Harry just stood still, watching the leaves sway overhead.

Another dream.

He didn’t mind dreams. The people didn’t acknowledge him, and he preferred it that way. If he could, he would have chosen to spend his life in dreams.

Invisible hands, guiding him. Harry followed them, as he always followed his instincts, picking his way through the brick street of a crowded London afternoon. A gleam caught the corner of his eye, and Harry turned.

A short man with thin flaxen hair and a potbelly stood in the middle of the sidewalk, beady black eyes watery with terror. His right hand clutched a piece of stick, entire body shaking. Harry stilled at the sight of him, inwardly shuddering. There was something about him that brought chills to his stomach.

Another man rapidly approaching made Harry’s eyes widen. The pale, blue eyes and dark hair, although shorter and neatly trimmed, the lanky frame…

The stranger…

The stranger looked murderous, eyes burning was an enraged fire that he never even saw in Uncle Vernon. His face was ashen, but filled with such abhorrence that it made the plump, rat-faced man squeak with fear. In two strides, Sirius had caught him by the collar, shaking him savagely.

“You bastard!” he hissed, every word laced with contempt. “You traitor…”

Harry flinched at the fury radiating from the stranger.

“Si… Sirius!! I… I don’t know what you’re talking about!” the man whimpered, hands fumbling to loosen the man’s grip.

Sirius? Sirius Black? That man that Remus said was evil…

Harry paled like a sheet.

Sirius’ fingers tightened, his other hand raising a wand in front of his face threateningly. “Shut up! Don’t play the fool with me. You know exactly what I’m talking about!”

Peter squeaked, writhing futilely to free himself. The people were oblivious, hurrying through the streets in hope of making home before afternoon traffic.

“I trusted you, Peter,” Sirius growled out, his blue eyes darkening to a dull gray. “I told James to trust you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!!” Peter cried, his face tearing up pitifully.

“You betrayed them to Voldemort!” Sirius hissed.

Peter visibly cringed at the name. “I… I…”

Sirius cut him off sharply with a clench of his hand, the glint in his eye almost insane with fury. “I should never have trusted you, I should never have told James to trust you. You deserve to die for what you did!”

That seemed to shake Peter out of his daze of fear. His hand went to his back pocket, but Sirius was too distracted to see. With a sudden upward jerk of an arm, Sirius made a start of surprise and dropped his collar, stunned. A thin line of blood seeped through his sleeve, a gaping wound deep in his shoulder. Peter took a few unsteady steps back, clutching a bloodied knife in his hands.

Sirius snapped out of his surprise, face contorting in almost unrecognizable fury. “You…”

Peter gave a loud sob, “James and Lily,” he shrieked accusingly to the crowded afternoon street. “Sirius, how could you?!”

And the dream exploded into shards of light. The faces of shocked pedestrians shattered like broken glass, falling around the child in uneven pieces, leaving black patches in its trail. Harry awoke with a jolt.

\

*

Remus paced restlessly along the sidewalk tracing the outer edge of the secluded park. With Harry gone, there was really no more reason he should stay in Little Whinging. But Dumbledore had insisted he should for reasons even he did not understand. Remus found himself scrounging through the streets questioning every nightworker, bus, and taxi driver he could find, hoping, somehow, that he’d be able to find some sign of where the six year old was.

But the chances of finding Harry alive were so slim. Sirius, Remus clinched his fists ate the name he used to react with fondness, probably killed the child the moment he left the Dursleys. And even if he didn’t, who knows what he could have done to him.

But another part desperately said otherwise. Sirius had been there for a week and never touched a hair on that boy’s head. It didn’t make much sense for a convict to escape from prison, already stained with the blood of others to hesitate with a child. By the way Dudley described it, Sirius seemed actually fond of Harry, but what if he was only pretending?

But that’s not like the hot-tempered and impatient man. All of this was so confusing. Sirius saved him from the Dursleys when they abused him. He took Harry’s clothes and a first aide kit. Perhaps Sirius’ motives weren’t that sinister, but that was a foolish hope. Who knew what the man who had fooled everyone around him would be thinking? He could have been misleading everyone on purpose.

A thought haunted the back of his mind ever since Arabella voiced it. He knew everyone steered away from it, but it was still there, just lurking in the shadows.

What if Sirius was teaching Harry Voldemort's ways? What if he was corrupting the child to the dark?

Remus shuddered. He tried hard to dismiss it as an impossibility, but there was no other explanation for Sirius’ actions. He heard too many horrifying possibilities from the staff, and he found their ideas quenching his hopes.

If those muggle relatives hadn’t been so foolish…

The Dursleys…

Remus gritted his teeth. The family was so horrified of persecution they packed their bags and bought a vacation to London for a month. But that was after Remus had pressured them into telling all the details in Harry’s upbringing. Remus slowed his steps, sitting heavily on a park bench. He buried his face in his hands feeling as if someone spread silver in his veins. Harry was so young, so innocent, how could they…?

He should have pressed charges… made sure they paid for their crimes.

Damn those Muggles…

Damn you Sirius, where the hell are you? If you hurt Harry, I’ll…

Remus stood up jerkily. He couldn’t sit anymore, he had to do something. All the searches Dumbledore sent had resulted in nothing, but the headmaster was severely hindered by the Minister’s denial and unwillingness to act. He had to help, find Harry. Somehow, just somehow, but he knew he couldn’t sit and wait.

Remus approached a cab parked casually at the curb, the driver leaning against the open door drinking from a mug. He glanced up when he noticed the other man.

“I’m sorry sir, the, car broke down. Still waiting for the towing truck,” the man said, voice muffled by his mug. “Sorry about that, sir.”

Remus nodded distractedly, not really listening. He had been detached ever since Harry vanished four days ago, staring off into the distance and wondering if his best friend’s son was really dead or alive. He should have told him, however young Harry was. He should have told him the truth about Sirius, at least he would have been prepared. But now, just how badly had he failed James this time?

Remus inwardly sighed, cursing his never relenting fortune or misfortune to survive despite anything and everything that occurred. The wolf bite, James and Lily’s death, Sirius’ betrayal, Peter’s death, and now possibly Harry’s. Why was he always the one left? Did something hold a grudge against him?

A small breeze teased his acute senses. Remus stiffed, all thoughts fading the moment he passed an opened door. The air in the car was stale, scents lingering for days in the small compartment. A mix of smoke, a whiff of perfume, the smell of somebody’s cat or dog. But one stood out above the rest: the bittersweet tang of blood. Remus choked.

“Something wrong, sir?” the man asked professionally but not really caring about his reply.

“Did you see a man and a boy four days ago?” Remus asked hurriedly.

The man glanced at him in surprise. “I’ve seen many men and boys since four days ago…”

“A man with black hair, tall… probably wearing some strange clothes. His hair is a bit long, and he has really pale blue eyes, in his mid-twenties. The boy has really messy hair and glasses, very bright green eyes. He has a small scar on his forehead, always wearing old and oversized clothes. He’s six, but looks younger. He’s… probably a bit injured,” Remus continued, his gaze never wavering from the driver’s face.

There was a long silence when Remus held his breath. He was sure he was going to choke if the driver didn’t speak again.

The man wrinkled his brow. “Oh, you knew them?”

Remus stood up straighter. “You saw them?” he asked desperately.

The driver nodded slowly. “Yeah, at night. The man came in with the boy; he was quite flustered and upset… didn’t even know where he wanted to go. He had on these really large clothes that didn’t seem to belong to him… came in carrying this thing that looked like a large bundle of jackets of some sort… took me a while to realize it was a boy… didn’t even notice he was alive at first…”