Sirius Black and the Heir to Slytherin

Sirius Black and the Heir to Slytherin

Prologue

"O, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive!"

--Sir Walter Scott

Drip... Drip... Drip...

Pale eyes watched as each drop of water splashed into the tiny puddle near the wall.

Drip... Drip... Drip...

It was a steady sound. Rain or shine outside, the inside of this cell was so damp, the steady drip of water could always be heard.

Drip... Drip... Drip...

It was such a steady sound, it could drive a person insane if he were to listen for too long. But in this place that hardly mattered. The steady drip of water was better to focus on than the screams and wails that echoed from the other cells.

Drip... Drip... Drip...

Or the rats. It was better focus on the water than the rats that occasionally skittered across the floor. The pale eyes coldly watched one slip through the bars. He hated rats. His gaze lingered for a moment at the spot where it had disappeared before he shifted his focus back to the water.

Drip... Drip... Drip...

It was almost hypnotic if you watched long enough. It was almost enough to put you into a trance. That was, of course, the point. After twelve long years of fighting insanity in a place where it often struck after only a few days, the owner of those pale eyes had decided he'd had enough.

It had taken years of practice, years of training his mind, but he'd finally learned how to completely lock up his thoughts, so he could rest in black oblivion.

There were three ways in which he could bring himself rest, but neither death nor the dementor's kiss had ever appealed to him as much as systematically locking up his mind.

The most notorious prisoner of Azkaban, credited with the deaths of thirteen people, betrayal of his closest friends, the title of heir apparent to Voldemort, the most evil and dangerous dark wizard in one hundred years, was also the only prisoner to stay in that hellhole for over a year and remain sane. He largely credited that to the fact that he was innocent of all charges leveled against him.

And now that very prisoner, Sirius Black, leaned back against the cold stone of the wall and enjoyed the final stages of his mental shut-down--reliving memories, both good and bad, as they were quietly locked in the recesses of his mind.

The dementors were active today, often drifting away from his cell for a few minutes at a time--an added bonus. Something was agitating them. Perhaps a few good memories would slip in, then, before he blacked out.

Drip . . . Drip . . .

The sound was fading as he became lost in his thoughts . . . and his past.

Chapter 1--Death and Life

Sirius Black actually wasn't his given name. The surname "Black" would come later, when he tried to piece his broken life back together. He was only eleven when that had happened. His early childhood memories weren't exactly pleasant. They also weren't very clear to him for a variety of reasons. The clearest memory from before he'd turned eleven being the night his mother died.

Sirius' mother had been the first of Voldemort's Knights of Walpurgis, even before Voldemort had completely shaken off his real name, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Back when the "knights" had only been a little known political faction in the Ministry of Magic. Back before some of the extremists, like his mother, had broken off and formed a secret organization known only to themselves as the Death Eaters. Because he was raised in this background, Sirius was trained in much illegal magic, including the dark arts, while still young.

The night his mum died, a group of Death Eaters had been over. Sirius, disgusted with their talk, had slipped out of the group and instead watched from the stairs. He'd almost drifted off to sleep sitting there when the argument had started. The room went silent except for his mother's shouting. By the time Sirius opened his eyes, it was done. There was a flash of green light and his mother lay crumpled on the floor at Voldemort's feet. She wasn't breathing.

The rest of the Death Eaters silently left, casting fearful looks behind them, but saying nothing. Voldemort looked up at Sirius with his cold, hateful eyes. He'd known all along that the boy would see, and he'd killed her anyway. Sirius remained still as a statue, afraid to move. He'd known that this would happen one day. He was only nine, but he'd expected it. And he knew what would happen next.

A chilling smile crept over Voldemort's snakelike face. "Come here, child," he whispered.

And young Sirius Riddle came to his father, not because he wanted to, but because he was afraid not to. The tall, pale boy walked to Voldemort, masking all emotion on his face. The only part he couldn't mask were his eyes. Anger burned there like blue fire. Anger, hatred and . . . fear. Sirius stopped walking when he reached his mother's body.

Voldemort's eyes were devoid of all emotion. "Sirius," he said softly. "As you can see, I've lost one of my number." He casually motioned with his wand toward her lifeless body. "So, it's time for you to take your place, as you rightfully should, by my side."

Sirius, whose eyes had for a moment been locked onto his mother's body, suddenly shot up to Voldemort's face. "Me . . .? Join . . . you?" he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Of course, boy. What do you think you've been trained you for? Apparation, curses, advanced potions . . . Do you think other boys your age are capable of such things? You were trained for this purpose. It is your destiny."

Sirius shook his head. "No . . . No! Never!" He backed up a step or two.

Voldemort fingered his wand. "No? Sirius, it wasn't a request. You join me or you die. It's very simple."

Sirius froze. Suddenly he wished he hadn't left his wand in his room. Not that it would have helped, but he could have at least died fighting. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Then I die." His voice was surprisingly clear and steady.

"So be it," hissed Voldemort, raising his wand. "Avada Kedavra!"

Sirius felt the spell hit him on the chest, followed by a crushing pain. He dropped to his knees, clutching near his heart. He hadn't expected the pain. He'd always thought that the curse killed too quickly for that. Then another thought struck him. He wasn't dead.

He looked up to see Voldemort's wand in a defensive position, as though he'd just had to block a spell. There was a look of surprise on his face that soon changed to fury. "Patrono Sangre," he snarled. "Of course. I'd forgotten." He grabbed the boy by the collar of his robes and dragged him to his feet. "I should feed you to the werewolves for that, or better yet . . . to the dementors!"

Sirius gaped, eyes wide and frightened. His chest still hurt, and he still didn't know what had happened. What was "Patrono Sangre," and how the hell was he still alive?

"Afraid?" Voldemort whispered, throwing him back on the floor. "You should be. I should let the dementors administer the kiss, but I have a better idea." He raised his wand.

Sirius knew he should try to run, but the last attack had drained him of his strength, so he just lay there beside his mum, doubled over in pain, willing the tears not to come. He wouldn't give his father the satisfaction of seeing him die crying. But it wasn't another death curse.

"Imperio!" Voldemort shouted.

Sirius braced himself, hoping that this spell would go wrong as the last one had.

It didn't. As soon as the spell touched him, Sirius felt a pleasant fog fill his mind. The pain in his chest seemed to fade, as did everything else around him. His mind completely blacked out as it relinquished control of the body to Voldemort.

---------------------

Sirius had no strong memories to look back on for two years. The Imperius curse had taken care of that. Every once in a while there would be a flash of . . . something--a lucid moment perhaps. But most of it was a dark void while the boy's body was controlled by Voldemort. It was this void that tortured him even twenty years later. Because of what Voldemort made him do for those years. Sirius may have done the work of a Death Eater. He may have tortured muggles . . . or even killed someone, and he would never know. That laid the foundation for the hell his mind would later become in Azkaban.

Sirius never knew exactly how he freed himself. But it seemed that around his eleventh birthday, the fog that had been clouding his mind for so long began to slowly lift. The first thing that struck him was the pain in his chest over his heart. It hurt him constantly, but pain seemed to help clear his mind, so he endured it. Because of this, it wasn't long before his thoughts were completely his own again, even though it would still be months before he began to regain control of his body. When he finally had enough control over himself to look, he found that the source of the pain in his chest seemed to be a thin, lighting bolt shaped scar that the failed Avada Kedavra curse had left. It still hurt a great deal, and would worsen when Voldemort was nearby, which, unfortunately for him, was often.

Sirius kept playing the role of the mindless follower while he tried to plan his escape. Not that he had an actual plan. He had nowhere to go, anyway. It wasn't exactly that he'd lost hope. He'd never had any to begin with. He'd never in his life had reason to hope . . . until the letter came.

The first one came alone. Thick parchment with emerald green writing on it. At first Sirius didn't realize that the letters were for him. Voldemort instantly destroyed that first one after reading it, as well as those that followed.

Then one day, Voldemort missed one. But Sirius saw it. As soon as Voldemort had left the room after burning at least twenty letters, Sirius' curiosity got the better of him and he pulled the stiff envelope out from where it was stuck under the door. He read the address and almost dropped it.

It read in ornate green lettering:

Mr. S. Riddle

Smallest Bedroom

13 Ebony Lane

Swanley

Kent

He turned the letter over. It had the Hogwarts crest on it--his father's old school. But that was impossible. Voldemort had told no one that he had a son except for his Death Eaters. No one else knew that Sirius even existed. They couldn't have written a letter to him.

Yet there it was.

"Sirius!" His father's high voice rang out through the house. Sirius quickly stuffed the letter in his robes and went to Voldemort, carefully keeping his expression blank. He would have to read it later.

----------------

He didn't get a chance to read the letter until he went to bed that night. After waiting until he felt it was safe, he quietly crept to his window and opened the envelope. He read the letter in the moonlight. It was an acceptance letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, written and signed by the man who claimed to be the new headmaster of the school, Professor Albus Dumbledore.

As soon as he read that name, Sirius understood why his father had destroyed the other letters. Voldemort had nothing but hatred for Albus Dumbledore. Dumbledore had been Riddle's transfiguration teacher, and apparently the professor had never trusted him.

Sirius smiled faintly, thinking, "The new headmaster and I would probably get along. I don't trust my father either . . . Wish I could go there." He sighed, tossing the letter on the floor. "Right," he muttered. "Who am I kidding? The only way I'll ever leave here is dead. Voldemort will see to that. And even if I did escape . . . I have no money . . ."

He stared at the letter on the floor a moment longer before picking it up and stuffing it back into the envelope. "Might as well keep it," he thought. "If by some miracle I do get out of here, at least I'll have somewhere to escape to." As he was looking around his room, trying to find a place to hide the letter where his father wouldn't find it, he heard people talking downstairs.

Sirius went pale. The only people who would be there this late at night were Death Eaters. Which meant Voldemort could call him at any moment. Sirius scrambled over to his old bedside table. It had been his mum's . . . before she'd died. Voldemort probably wouldn't bother checking its one drawer. Then he stopped. Their house elf might peek in there, though. He'd been more Medea's house elf than anything, and he was a nosy bugger. Sirius hesitated a moment, unsure, but the sound of more voices arriving downstairs made up his mind for him. He couldn't be caught with that letter. He yanked the drawer so hard it almost fell out. Carefully replacing it, he noticed that the bottom seemed broken.

"Great," Sirius muttered, poking at it, trying to fix it. He only managed to make it worse. That's when he realized it was a false bottom. Interested, Sirius pried the false bottom out, all the while keeping an ear open for footsteps. He set it on the floor and looked in the drawer. There was nothing in there but a small key with a tag attached. He picked it up and read: Medea Sansfoy: Vault # 711. Sirius' mother. And the key had Gringotts engraved on it. Sirius was puzzled. He knew his mother's family was extremely wealthy, but he also knew that his grandfather had refused her any money if she married Tom Riddle. Her father had already picked her a pure-blood husband. Sirius had heard her say it a thousand times when his parents would argue. She had no money.

But she had a vault . . . ?

A slow smile spread across Sirius' face. She must not have completely trusted her own husband. She must have had some money after all. A brief sense of hope filled him. So if he could find a way to get out alive, maybe he could escape to Hogwarts after all.

His mind had only touched on the idea when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Quickly, Sirius dropped the false bottom back in place, this time lining it up correctly, and shut the drawer. Too late, he realized that he'd forgotten to hide the letter, but he didn't have time now. He tossed the key and the letter into the pocket of his robes that were draped across a chair. As an afterthought, he tossed his wand in there as well before jumping into bed and feigning sleep.

Only moments later, his door opened and a voice muttered, "Kreacher's sent to get the puppet. If mistress were here, Kreacher wouldn't have to talk to him." It was their house elf. Sirius had never liked him. Kreacher was too immersed in the dark arts. "Master wants you downstairs. Hurry," Kreacher snapped, louder this time. Voldemort apparently wasn't wasting his own time on the boy anymore if he was sending the house elf for him.

Sirius reacted mechanically, as he always did, pretending the Imperius curse still held him in Voldemort's power. He stood, grabbed the robes from his chair, and got dressed as the house elf waited outside the room. He then followed Kreacher downstairs.

When Sirius entered the room, ten masked faces turned to look at him. Casually Voldemort shifted his gaze in Sirius' direction as well. Sirius had an eerie feeling that they'd been talking about him. Voldemort waved a hand vaguely in Kreacher's direction, dismissing him. His duty done, the small, misshapen house elf wandered away to dust Sirius' mother's portrait.

"Sirius," came Voldemort's cold, high voice. "Come."

Sirius approached him and bowed as he always did. As usual, the submissive action made him nauseous. "What is your wish, my lord?" Sirius asked.

Voldemort neared Sirius, who tried not to let the pain he felt in his chest show on his face. Voldemort laughed. "That's what I like. Obedience. I have a special job for you."

"What is it, my lord?"

"There is a family of mudbloods who live in Surrey. One is in the Ministry of Magic and is becoming suspicious of the high rate of muggle murders in the past few years. He could become a thorn in my side. He is at the Ministry as we speak, but his family remains at home. Kill them as an example of what happens to those who involve themselves in things they do not understand." Voldemort turned away, motioning to one of his number. The Death Eater placed a paper with the mudblood family's address on it into Sirius' hand.

Sirius didn't move a muscle. It was all he could do to refrain from telling Voldemort to go to hell. But Sirius managed to control himself. It wouldn't do to get himself killed. Not now when he was just working out a plan for freedom. And maybe he could save these mudbloods while he was at it and redeem himself . . . if only a little.

Voldemort looked back at Sirius. "You may go," he said with a trace of irritation in his voice. "Return here when you've finished."

"Of course, my lord." Sirius bowed again, pulled on a death eater's mask, and left. The hot late July air blasted him as soon as he stepped outside. The heat would have been oppressive for anyone else. For Sirius, it was liberating. Far less oppressive than the room he'd just left.

He stepped under a street light and read the address of the mudbloods. Then he pulled his wand out of his pocket and prepared to apparate to the house. As usual, he hoped to God he wouldn't splinch himself. He hadn't yet, but there was always a first time, and he was very underage. Sirius sighed.

He closed his eyes and began the spell. Moments later he was gone.

-----------------

The house he apparated into was a comfortable little two-story. Sirius looked around. The lights were off, but even in the dark he could tell that this wasn't an ordinary wizard's house. "Must be muggle," he murmured. He looked around for their clock, knowing he'd only have a short time to do this. When he found it, he had to wonder why he'd bothered. It was weird. Only two hands. How was he supposed to read that?

"Better just get this over with," he muttered, holding up his wand. "Lumos!" A small light glowed at his wand tip, brightening the room a bit. He began to search the house.

A shriek from behind him caused Sirius to spin around. There stood an unarmed woman in her night robes. "Who are you?" she demanded, her voice shaking. "What are you doing in my house?"

"Nox," Sirius whispered, and the wand went out, leaving them only faintly illuminated by the moonlight pouring in the window. He quickly put the wand in his pocket. "I--I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to get you out!" He raised his now empty hands where she could see them.

The woman relaxed a tiny bit. "Do you . . . know my husband then?"

Sirius shook his head. "No. Listen, I don't have much time. You've heard about the rise in muggle murders? The one who has been involved is the one who sent me here. I was sent to keep your husband quiet."

Too late, Sirius realized that this wasn't the best way to explain the situation. Eleven years of near isolation hadn't given him much tact.

Terror washed over the woman's face. Before she could scream again, he continued, trying to fix the situation. "His name is Voldemort. I don't approve of his methods, so I'm giving you a chance to get out of here before the house is destroyed."

"Wha--what?" she asked faintly.

"I'm giving you and your family a chance to get out," he said urgently. "If you trust me, I'll just destroy the house. If you don't, then Voldemort will send another, and I guarantee that the next will kill everyone . . . including me."

The woman was frightened. That much was obvious. She also wasn't moving.

Sirius let out a cry of disgust. "Are you listening? If you stay, you'll die! Is there anyone else in the house?"

"My-my son . . ."

"Good. Get him. Do you have any floo powder?"

She nodded.

"Then I would suggest taking the floo system to the Ministry. Tell your husband what I have said."

The woman still didn't move.

"Go!" Sirius barked, grateful for his size. He was tall for an eleven-year-old--Big enough to scare this woman.

She finally ran up the stairs. Moments later she was back, carrying her sleepy-eyed son. She grabbed a handful of floo power from a pouch on the mantle. Then she stepped into the fireplace. Casting a look at Sirius, she asked, "What are you going to do?"

He scowled. "Destroy the house and leave. Hopefully it will throw them off long enough."

She didn't get a chance to ask, "Long enough for what?" before he snapped at her again to go. "Tell the Ministry I died in the house. Now, get out before we all die!"

She nodded, throwing the floo powder down, and saying, "Ministry of Magic." In a puff of smoke and flames she was gone.

Sirius lost no time. He tore off his mask and tossed it on the floor. Then he pulled out his wand and pointed it at the sofa. "Incendio." It went up in flames. After setting a few more fires in the room, Sirius hurried to the fireplace. He grabbed the entire pouch of floo powder, took out a handful and put the pouch in his pocket with his letter and key. He was about to pocket the wand as well, when a better idea struck him.

Throwing the wand his father had bought him into the flaming room, Sirius backed into the fireplace. He threw down the handful of floo powder, shouting, "Hogsmeade!"

And he was gone.