For Every Action...

Godric's Hollow shook, trembling deep below the crust of the Earth, violently interrupting the dreams of slumbering witches and wizards. Nocturnal thoughts washed away with the jolt of wakefulness. Sweet dreams of peace that evaded reality fled, as did their ghastly counterparts of shimmering green skulls entwined with snakes, rising high above a lifeless houses.

They rose, wands in outstretched hands, from warm beds, groggily evaluating the situation. "Was that an earthquake?" echoed anxious whispers. Sleep-dulled responses met these questions, none lucid enough to truly answer. "Mmm, no. An earth shake? Just a troll, which I'll be in the morning if you don't let me sleep..." "Oi! Wake up! Do we have them in the Isles?" No solutions were presented for bleary-eyed neighbors. Trees stood at inopportune sites for seeking the origin of the blast, obscuring the view of a world vaguely illuminated by the full moon. Not quite reassured, they returned to lie between rumpled sheets, awaiting the approaching return of the sun and a new day living in fear.

One onlooker stayed at his unobstructed window, unable to move a body wracked by the cold, crippling hand of shock. Smoke rose ominously from desecrated ground, yet there was no Dark Mark in sight. Paraphernalia littered the area- half-burnt books, carelessly strewn photographs, and patterned flatware. A young couple's material possessions reduced to a smoldering collage. Words failed the man, and his legs began to give way. Unsteady legs hastily led the way towards a dimly burning fireplace, where the man regained his voice.

"Albus Dumbledore!"

*****

The Headmaster sat quietly at his desk. Silver contraptions created the only audible disturbances in an otherwise still room. Yet his twinkling blue eyes were trained on a thick sheet of opalescent glass placed centrally among the other articles. An aching void consumed his Foe Glass, leaving Albus with the unfamiliar feeling of having no definite idea of what unseen events had unfolded. Anxiety ransacked his insides, leaving no region in peace. He was no closer to unraveling the mystery than he had been a quarter of an hour ago, when a glowing pair of blood red eyes had vanished from their eminent position within the Glass. A fixture for almost twenty years, they appeared not only when dangerously close in location, but at times of commanding a terrifying power. Several shadowy shapes flocked the newly formed void, but none approached the darkly chilling mist lingering within its depths. He waited. What would meet him after the silence? What truths evaded the omniscient Albus Dumbledore?

He rubbed timeworn hands over a spider's web of lines, feeling new creases that arrived only weeks ago, in the wake on another hideous attack by Voldemort and his Death Eaters. The Bones family, of pure blood and high esteem, had seen its number reduced by two. Dumbledore gazed intently at the fire, willing it to bring an answer. Within seconds, a weary face appeared green and flame-licked below a stone mantel.

"Al-Albus!" A man's voice shook with overwhelming fright.

"Yes, Erwin?" he prompted the face in the flames, hurrying around his desk to be closer to the man, if not nearer to answers.

"He- he's gone! I don't know, I was sleeping, and I heard screaming, terrible screaming! I didn't mean to fall asleep, I was wide awake, and then- I don't know what I did. And there was that horrible green flash we've all come to fear, but...Albus, I'm telling you something happened, Cor, it- it didn't go through? There was an explosion, no, not the typical Death Eater theatrics, it's still echoing, softly, but it was a fifteen minutes ago! I really don't know, Albus, I think he's..." Erwin's frantic ramblings quieted to absorb the news he had just delivered. His face contorted in mystification and wonder hushed his voice. "Gone?"

Dumbledore seized his cloak, mind grappling with the manic discord of too many questions.

"No!" came Erwin's voice from the hearth. "You can't go, Albus! I could never live with myself knowing I sent you down there to the Death Eaters. Our whole world depends on you for too much to risk it. The Ministry will be all over this, all over you. Please," he begged.

"I'll send Hagrid," he announced after quick contemplation. "I'm fairly certain the present danger has subsided, but I'll place protective charms on him. One can never be too careful, especially in these times." These times...but what is happening? What times are we even in? "Thank you for informing me, and understand that you may not be the messenger of solely grim news. Oh, and Erwin," he added. "Don't you go down there alone. The Potters..." His voice trailed off as immense sadness overwhelmed him from the inside out. Was this fate, an inevitable final act for young and promising life?

Albus bid a solemn farewell to Erwin amidst the sparks and went to the window. Gathering his thoughts with the drawing of his wand, he glimpsed Rubeus Hagrid's humble cabin in his mind's eye and sent a single smoky bird to the half-giant's home.

Minutes passed as Dumbledore paced his quiet office. He didn't tend to pace, preferring contemplation behind a desk filled with mysterious gadgets, however, the nefarious reign of Lord Voldemort induced this practice far more often than Albus would care to admit.

"Professor Dumbledore!" came Hagrid's booming voice from the doorway. "I was goin' ter change me clothes, yeh know, bu' I didn' fancy ter keep yeh waitin'." Hagrid did appear to have dressed in a hurry. He had donned a pair of well-worn dark pants and a heavy moleskin overcoat in appropriate fashion for the chilly night. Albus bemusedly noted that, in his haste, Hagrid's tent-like jacket was opened wide to reveal a pink striped pajama top bursting at its buttons. Hagrid followed Dumbledore's gaze and gave an embarrassed sort of smile, but made no comment. "Yes, sir?"

"I have been advised that the Potters have fallen victim to a fatal attack by Lord Voldemort." Hagrid noticeably winced, eyes widening in shock at the same time. While he rubbed plate-sized hands through a wiry beard, the Headmaster continued to brief the man too large for the chair beside him. "Curiously, he has disappeared from my Foe Glass, leading me to believe that something very peculiar happened in Godric's Hollow tonight."

"Professor Dumbledore? D'yeh mean he- You-Know-Who- is gone?"

"It means, Hagrid, that something very unexpected occurred after the Potters' whereabouts were revealed by their Secret Keeper."

"Who was it, sir? When I get me hands on him-" he was silenced by the look on Dumbledore's face. His piercing eyes refused to give a hint of an answer. Evading the question, he continued on.

"What befell the Potters, I cannot tell you, for I myself do not know the truth. What I do know is that I need a messenger to go and account for their bodies. In the rare event that someone has miraculously survived, I need you to bring him or her to me at once. Do not stop along the way; do not speak to anyone besides Erwin Dyer. You may Floo to Erwin's sitting room and go to the remains of the house. Take Erwin with you if need be. I presume that you have no qualms about performing such a task?" His pale blue eyes searched Hagrid's black ones.

"No, Professor, it's an honor. I'll do yeh right, jus' give me a chance." Hagrid vaguely wondered why the Headmaster had the slightest doubt that not everyone had perished, but would not question this great wizard's requests.

"Very well. I will place a few protective charms on you to stave off as many dangers as possible. However, if something feels wrong to you, act upon your instinct. Do not risk your own life on this mission."

"Dumbledore, don' worry, I'll make yeh proud." His chest, already tight with grief, heaved with pride. The elderly wizard raised his wand, and a shimmering gold mist enveloped Hagrid in its warmth. Hagrid thumped towards the fireplace and threw a pinch of sparkling Floo powder into it. Dropping to his knees, he crawled within the oversized grate and curled up as small as possible for the towering man. "Erwin Dyer!" he cried with a thick brogue, and sped away in swirl of emerald flames.

Dumbledore nodded to the fleeing shape of his dispatched gamekeeper. Glancing once more at the inexplicable gap in the Foe Glass, he left to wake Minerva.

*****

Sirius lay atop his sheets, fully dressed, tossing and turning. That sequence of restlessness had been repeated throughout the night. Why he could not enter that precious domain of sleep was a riddle to him. While slumber danced beyond Sirius's reach, something unwelcome refused to leave him alone in his bedroom. He knew something was very wrong.

Ever since beginning Animagus transformations into a dog, Sirius had felt he'd received certain gifts exclusive to canines. For one thing, his senses had sharpened beyond the scope of your average wizard. He could predict exactly what would be served in the Great Hall half an hour before that given course began. Being a werewolf, Remus could foresee (or foresmell) an impending meal at least an hour in advance. Then again, Remus could not control his transformations as Sirius did, and Sirius didn't lose command of himself on nights the moon rose full.

A dog's fabled sixth sense, however, seemed to possess Sirius without reliable intervals. One moment his sense of foreboding would ring true, and the next he'd be proven wrong, infuriating his tender ego.

With a sigh, he rose from wrinkled black bed sheets hastily made on occasional mornings. His room was not much to remark on; an accommodating bed, simple wood floors, and mediocre chest of drawers were the only enhancement to the homely room. A scarred trunk, emblazoned with Sirius' initials in red lettering and gold accents, was stashed in the corner, providing many memories of mischievous nights in Gryffindor Tower. Sirius perched on the edge of his bed and cracked his knuckles, fixing his gaze on the gold-framed photograph upon his nightstand.

All of his favorite people were in one timeless memory. He and James stood tall in the back row, arms thrown over each other's shoulders, identical grins permanently in place. Laughing at the spontaneity of the moment, surrounded by close friends, he wasn't quite sure there was anything more enjoyable. They were all just happy together. Sirius and James engaged in more arguments than any combination of their friends, adding to the likelihood of truly being brothers separated at birth and brought together by an unseen hand. Lily stood at James's other side, wrapped in a muscular arm, smiling demurely. Remus smiled at Sirius's right, and would cuff Sirius on his ear from time to time. Sirius's exact words escaped him, but the joust must have been good enough to deserve it. They always were.

Peter stood opposite from Remus in the picture, on the viewer's right side. Standing next to Lily, he stood at a height approximate to her ears, which were red from the cold. They were all rosy cheeked, in fact. Pure white snow covered the grounds of Hogwarts, and had settled amid the crooks of barren trees. The inhabitants of this picture easily knew Sirius better than anyone else in the world, perhaps more than Sirius' real family. He chose to associate with them, which was more than he could say for his biological kind. They were a reflection of Sirius, and he could never allow them to be threatened. To let his friends down would be the worst kind of shame he could fathom.

He felt ashamed to think he could doubt the integrity of one of his closest friends. Yet Remus was a werewolf, and they were Dark Creatures. He would certainly expect a Dark Lord to recruit Remus, especially considering the young wizard's widely acknowledged skills. Talent can be easily manipulated for good or for evil. Sirius's suspicions were raised quite often around Remus. Yes, he was a cherished member of Sirius' pack, but if he threatened the others he would not be tolerated. He knew there was a spy, and obvious logic pointed to Remus. Peter was too loyal and unaccomplished to be of any use to Voldemort. Of course, Sirius ruled James out, and he could vouch for himself. Remus was loyal to his friends, but he had a dark side, controlled by the light of the moon. Sirius understood his friend couldn't control it, but he also understood that Remus was still dangerous. It was better to be paranoid than wind up regretting your carelessness later.

Breaking free from the stupor of past memories and present guilt, Sirius again felt the lurking feeling of misgiving creep into his body. He knew he had to check on Peter, the Potters' Secret Keeper, before he could attempt to sleep again. Sleeping hadn't been easy in ages. The days held as many horrors as the nights, and gave no shadow in which to seek refuge. Clasping his cloak, Sirius made his way to the shed in which he kept his enchanted motorcycle. It was time to take a nighttime ride to visit Peter.

After a journey high above the rolling clouds, Sirius descended onto Peter's street. He jumped swiftly from the leather seat of his motorcycle and strode towards the door, poised to enter without knocking. Rolling his eyes at the rules of etiquette, he removed his hand from the knob and pressed the doorbell. A chime echoed through the house. "Come on," Sirius said impatiently, tapping his foot. The tinny song ceased, and with Sirius' finger began again. "Damn you, I know you don't have a girl in there, open up!" For the third time, the bouncing melody played, accompanied by the inharmonious rapping of Sirius' knuckles. His ears filled with the duet's frantic cacophony. "PETER!" Oh, please, please, let this be one of those times his instinct was horribly mistaken, for at this point it seemed even one lacking an alleged sixth sense would know something was wrong.

Abandoning magic, Sirius presented a shoulder to the door and pushed his way through. Paint chips and dust mushroomed upwards and settled in his dark hair. "PETER?!" He tore through the quiet, deathly quiet, portentously quiet house. Had Sirius entered the house as Padfoot, his hackles would have stood on end, but he was a man, and he had goose bumps and a fearful look cemented on his face. Someone had hurt Peter, someone had harmed his kin. He would not allow them to do this. Hurt his friends, and you wounded Sirius as well. "PETER!" He screamed it over an over until his voice was hoarse, and he still rasped the name, racing through the house to find his friend. "What have you done to Peter?" came a husky voice much unlike his own. The house was untouched, save for the overturned furniture that was Sirius' own doing.

He realized that he was standing amidst a pile of overturned laundry. Impatiently, he kicked at the black robe wrapped around his leg. "Peter, Peter, Peter, what is going on?" His sights fell upon the twisted black robe. Hands trembling, he removed it from the floor. A long black robe, long for his friend's short stature, quavered with Sirius' fear. An oversized hood was attached to the back of the robes. A hood large enough to shroud a face and obscure an identity. "Peter...what have you done?"

*****

Blazing stupidity overtook an embattled Sirius. Thoughts raging with hatred towards Peter, himself, and with fear for James, Lily, and Harry, he tore down the halls to meet his motorcycle, which would carry him speedily into the night. He couldn't splinch himself at a time like this, although Sirius had the sinking feeling that a half, a whole, or an army of himself could not stave off what was going to happen, or what had happened already. No one survived once Lord Voldemort set him in his sights. Peter, in turn, would not survive what Sirius was prepared to do to him. Sirius finally left the clouds behind and rumbled to a halt. He stood quickly and braced himself for the sights awaiting him.

He smelled acrid smoke mingled with chilly night air before he actually saw the destruction. James and Lily's home, the place they planned to raise fifteen-month-old Harry, his godson, should stand between those two towering trees. But...no...he was too late. Too late! Smoke curled from the ground and rose to the skies, rose from the dismantled form of a house turned on end, in a world turned on end. Running towards the house, tripping over a Transfiguration text, a copper pot, a mangled chair, he fell helplessly to his knees. He gasped for air, breaths unsteady and laced with sobs. Tears washed Sirius's dirt-streaked cheeks, and he shook his head in disbelieving denial. Hands shaking, he turned his face upwards to the blackened night sky, twinkling with smiling stars. Why are they smiling? They should be crying! He thought. Painful images closed in on him he squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to look reality in the face. Death was reality. Reality was that he had failed his pack. They were counting on him, and he failed. He surrendered them to a soulless hunter in the dark woods of life. Opening his eyes, Sirius' unsteady voice rang through the smoke filled night. He screamed the name of the one he had failed most of all.