Fading Star

Chapter 4: Thy Kingdom Come

Perfect by nature

Icons of self indulgence
Just what we all need
More lies about a world that
Never was and never will be
Have you no shame? Don't you see me
You know you've got everybody fooled

--Everybody's Fool, Evanescence

The ear-piecing whistle of the Hogwarts Express blew as a jet of white smoke shot out from its stack. The usual flurry of activity that occurred every September the first at Platform 9 ¾ was at its peak. Owls hooted, cats meowed, and toads croaked while they were jostled into compartments. Shouts of, "How was your holiday?" and "I don't want another owl from Hogwarts about you" came from all directions. Sirius watched as tearful parents kissed their children goodbye and how the kids moaned in embarrassment. Others hung out of windows, shouting things down to their younger siblings who had come along from the ride. A familiar mop of unruly black hair caught his eye. "Oy, James!" he called.

"Sirius!" James hollered back, waving furiously. He jostled his way through the crowd, followed by Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew.

Sirius surveyed his friends. James had shot up another inch, nearly on eye level with him now. Still as scrawny as ever with his wild hair, over-sized glasses and the grace of a blind rhinoceros. Remus, his light brown carefully combed, seemed to be wirier than he remembered, but his voice had finally deepened and the "Crackling Wolf" joke was obsolete. Peter had perhaps gained or loss a pound or two, he could never really tell. Mrs. Pettigrew kept him on a constant diet, but also kept him shut up in the house where every room had one thing in common, they were all different shades of pink. Peter's mother also had a thing about silence. She lived by the rule that it was golden which caused Peter to develop a kind of bluntness whenever he opened his mouth. Which Sirius figured was the reason behind him saying:

"What the hell happened to you?"

"And nice to see you too, Peter," Sirius smiled sweetly.

Peter gaped at him. "Which girl are you trying to impress, now?"

"'Tisn't my fault I've been graced with good looks, now is it?" Sirius said haughtily.

"Yeah, and we've been cursed with your ego," James snickered.

Sirius rolled his eyes.

Remus yawned, shaking his head a little. "How was your holid--?"

James had jabbed him sharply in the ribs before he could finish. Remus was not the easiest person to contact during the summer months. Sirius had never asked why. He had always figured that this sort of concealment had something to do with Remus' "condition," and he had not been able to notify him of Aurora's passing.

"It was okay, boring mostly," Sirius said quickly. "You've seen the village, Browning, right? Yes, it's as dull as it sounds, Lily."

James, Remus, and Peter spun around to come face to face with tall red-head. Sirius noted that James's knees were quaking. Quick as lightning and extremely clever, Lily Evans had always been tall and scrawny for her age with large, overly bright green eyes and dark red hair. And for reasons unbeknownst to anyone but James himself, she intimidated him beyond belief, and because of this, he waged a never ending competition against her over just about everything. Marks, Quidditch, even how fast one could finish eating, and Sirius found it useless to try and stop them since that only seemed to add fuel to the steadily burning fire.

"Browning? Can't be any worse that Surrey," Lily said, a sympathetic note in her voice. "My sister finally has herself a boyfriend after weeks of moaning."

"Really?" James asked, "The one that looks like a morbid giraffe?"

"Really," Lily confirmed. "And Petunia is not a morbid giraffe, she positively peachy compared to the bloke she's dating."

"Who is?" Remus prompted.

Lily wrinkled her nose, "Vernon Dursley."

James snorted. "The name just screams dull and droning."

"And he is. He works for his father in a drill firm."

"A what?" Peter asked.

"A drill firm, a firm that sells drills. You know, those loud things that Sirius uses to destroy perfectly good cars with," Lily said as the train whistle wailed again, signaling the students to board. "I'll tell you on the train."

2.

The sixth years watched as Sorting was conducted. Small, scared eleven year olds walked up to the harmless old hat as though it was a fanged beast, ready to pounce. Sirius found this oddly amusing. He cheered if a new Gryffindor was chosen and hissed if some poor soul was sent to Slytherin. He averted his eyes from directly looking at the Slytherin table. The idea of Lucius Malfoy's face leering back at him was enough to make his sick to his stomach.

Ping! Ping!

Up at the High Table, Professor McGonagall was tapping the side of her goblet, calling for attention. Sirius smiled at her, she ignored him. Minerva McGonagall was the Head of Gryffindor house, and had a long withstanding love/hate relationship with "Mr. Black" as she referred to him. Deep down, Sirius knew that she would be buggered if anything truly dangerous ever happened to him. (He had always had the sneaking suspicion that she experienced very interesting dreams about him.) She sat down once the hall had grown quiet. To her left, the Headmaster rose to his feet.

Albus Dumbledore could have been mistaken for a Muggle interpretation of Merlin. Tall and thin, with his long white beard and hair that could be tucked into the belt of his royal blue robes, and golden-rimmed half moon spectacles that sat on his severely crooked nose, hiding a pair of light blue eyes through which he surveyed the room.

"I trust all of you have had a most enjoyable holiday," he began. "I also trust that you have completely forgotten everything you have learned in the previous year, but can aptly tell me who won the Quidditch Final."

"Ireland!"

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," chuckled the Headmaster, his eyes twinkling. "Now, onto more important, duller matters. New and old students should be advised that the Forbidden Forest is strictly prohibited. Any magic, wand or otherwise, performed in corridors will result in a point deduction. Hogsmeade visits are for only third year students and above. And due to recent developments," the ever present twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes dimmed a little, "these rules shall be strongly enforced. Any person who does not follow shall be harshly punished." He paused, letting the students absorb this information before continuing. "And now that all the things that need reminding have been reminded, off--"

McGonagall cleared her throat.

"Oh, yes," Dumbledore said quickly. "I suggest to whoever owns Mr. Smiley, the parrot that has been roosting in the six-year Slytherin boys' dorm and seems to have quite the colorful vocabulary, please send him smiling out of there before he becomes Professor Kettleburn's next experiment. Now, off to bed with you!"

As the students began filing out, James leaned over and whispered, "Too late. I think I tasted parrot in the soup."

3

The candle burned low, its amber light reflected in the plated gold goblet. He turned the steaming goblet slowly, swishing the mud-colored liquid around. He watched it slap up against the sides, staining them. Narrowing his eyes, he sniffed the potion. The scent of scorched flesh and sweet sun dried blooms invaded his nostrils, fogging his tired brain.

He blinked.

Now was not the time to be careless. Late night escapades never were.

From his pocket, he drew a small velvet pouch and undid the drawstring, letting its contents drop onto the table. He uncorked the crystal vial that the bag had contained, withdrawing a single strand of hair. Slivery blond hair.

It fell into the bubbling, burbling potion. Slowly, the mud color turned to a sickly sort of yellow. The kind that reminded him of tarnished gold.

Wrinkling his nose, he gasped the goblet firmly, bringing it to his lips. What happened next was only the first of many horrible experiences that awaited him.

Pain wrenched at his gut. Twisting, turning, tearing at him, contorting his body into that of another. His fingers shortened; his wrists thinned, skin rippling, paling to color of paste, his knees gave out, sending him to the floor, gasping for air. Convulsing, he flung an arm out, his trembling hand catching on the long handle of a mirror. He brought it to his face. It fell, shattering.

Drawing himself slowing up from the cold cobblestone floor, he ran a hand over his face. So this is what it is like to step into someone else's skin, he thought caustically.

"You . . . better . . . get . . . going . . ." rasped the broken mirror, pulling itself back together. "The . . . Polyjuice . . . only . . . las' . . . an . . . hour."

"Right," he said, running a hand though his now blonde hair. "Yuck! How much gel does this man use?"

"Malfoy!"

Sirius jumped, realizing it was he who was being yelled at by . . . James. Bleary eyed, and red nosed, Sirius figured he had just tripped over his own feet again. He still hadn't gotten used to his long legs.

"Poor klutz," he mumbled, still walking. If he knew one thing about Malfoy, he ignored James.

"Malfoy come back here!" James shouted, jogging after him. "You missed rounds, Ally said--" He caught his arm.

Sirius spun around, jerking his arms out of James's grasp.

"What do you think you're doing, Potter?" he snapped, hoping he sounded like Malfoy. By the look on James's face, he did.

"Ally told me to find you," James said stiffly. "She wanted you to know that if you missed rounds one more time she was . . ." He trailed off.

"She'll what?" hissed Sirius. Might as well push the envelope, Black. "What will that filthy little Mudblood do if I miss rounds?"

"She said she'd inform Dumbledore, that sparkly badge of yours' can still be taken away." James's eyes glittered wickedly. "Wouldn't look good for a Malfoy to lose his position now, would it? Daddy Dearest would probably flog you for it, eh?"

"I wouldn't be saying things like that if I was you, Potter. Who knows what could happen to your "sparkly badge" if someone said that you were showing insubordination to your elders; especially the Head Boy."

James visibly paled.

Perhaps this whole Prefect thing meant more to him than Sirius had thought. It almost made him feel guilty about all the teasing he had done when James had first become one. Almost.

"Go sniff around somewhere else, Potter. And try not to walk into any walls."

James rubbed his nose self-consciously. He opened his mouth to give a snappy retort but thought better of it. Turning on a heel, he stomped off in the opposite direction. He tripped, rounding the corner.

Shaking his head, Sirius continued onto where the secret entrance to the Slytherin common room was located. Or at least where the Marauder's Map said it was, and that was good enough for him. Near the entrance to the dungeons, he came upon a long stretch of bare, damp wall.

"Serpiente," he hissed.

Three swift giant ripples ran across the wall, exposing a stone door that slid open. Sirius slipped inside. The common room, with its black leather sofas and serpentine torch holders, was nearly deserted. Its sole occupant was sitting in a high backed arm chair, a pale-haired girl. She couldn't have been more than thirteen, but she greeted him with words that thirteen year olds should never say.

"Good evening to you as well," Sirius hissed, glad that it was Malfoy she was addressing those comments to and not him.

"Isn't it," said the girl icily. "What do you want me for anyway, Malfoy? I need my beauty sleep, after all."

"It seems you have been missing much of it," Sirius shot back. "With all the sneaking around you do after hours."

The girl repressed a shudder.

"The girls' lavatory, the prefects' bathroom, this very common room," Sirius ticked off on his fingers the places where he had seen her sneaking about. "Mind letting the public in?"

"Never!" she cried clutching something.

Sirius smirked, realizing his mistake.

"All right then," he said silkily, kneeling so he was on eye-level with the girl, "how about just me? I won't tell."

Her bottom lip quivered, terror crept into her watery blue eyes.

"You'll tell him and he'll want her."

"Tell who?"

"You-Know-Who," she whispered, clasping her robes. "He'll wait until she's ready and he'll use her to kill people."

Sirius's insides seemed to disappear. He knew what she was saying was true, but he had his own reasons for taking this mission. Reasons that would remain true whether or not she took care of it or He took it. It would kill either way . . . but still, the girl thought that it was only a pet. As harmless as a puppy and for now it might be but soon . . .

"Listen to me," he said, trying to sound as honest as a Malfoy could sound. "She may be gentle now but soon she'll want more than dead rats and owl eggs. She'll want to hunt. Hunt creatures you can't provide for her, she may even want to hunt you."

"She wouldn't! She'd never . . ."

Sirius fixed her with a piercing stare, silencing her.

"Pan," he said sternly, holding his arms out. "Give me Gini."

Sniffling, Pan reached down and undid the flap on her bag. Out from it slithered a two foot long bottle green python. Sirius picked the snake up, carefully.

"How long has she been hatched?" he asked.

"Only four weeks," mumbled Pan. "You better take good care of her, Malfoy."

Sirius nodded.

"I will. I'll make sure He doesn't hurt her."

"'Bye Gini," sniffled Pan, patting the snake's head. "I'll miss you."

Sirius tried to make the snake nod in return but as he leaned forward a thin lock of black hair fell in his eyes. Quickly, he turned to leave. "Good night, Pan."

All he heard in response was a muffled cry.

Sighing, he left the common room and began his trek to the owlery where his father's owl would be waiting to take the snake back to Him. It was for the best, he reasoned, climbing the Owlery ladder. Only Parseltongues could control Midgard Serpents after all.

4.

Sirius--

You have greatly pleased Him with the Serpent. He has given me significant honor. With this honor I shall kept up my half of the bargain for another two months. I shall be expecting another packet come December. You know the weight that is placed upon my word's worth.

--Father

"Padfoot?"

Sirius jumped at the soft voice, shoving the letter under his pillow. "Jesus Christ, Peter! Don't you ever knock?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "It's my dorm as well, and I didn't see a tie on the door to begin with."

"Ha . . . ha . . . ha," said Sirius disdainfully. "Your wit astounds me."

"Your ability to set your watch correctly astounds me," Peter countered playfully. "Moony's been in the Shack for nearly ten minutes, probably chewing on the bedposts by now."

"Does Prongs have the map?"

"Of course he has it, now come on!"

Before Sirius could react Peter pulled the covers out from under him, sending him to the floor.

"WORMTAIL!" he roared, jumping to his feet. He remained upright for all of five seconds before making contact with the floor again. A laugh came from above, sparking the instinct all creatures have to participate in a good chase. After freeing one's self from bed sheets, of course.

Down the staircases, through the corridors, cloaks waving wildly behind them, they ran. Hurling themselves through the heavy oak doors at the castle entrance, their game continued across the school grounds, leading up to a particularly large willow tree.

Peter skidded to a stop in front of it, clutching his stomach. "Can't catch me yet, Black," he huffed.

"I let you win," Sirius said, stopping next to him. He was neither short of breath nor did he looked like had ran more than five feet.

Peter began to feel anxious.

Turning away from Sirius, he focused his attention on the willow, planning out his route. His job was a tricky one. Not only did he have to press the knot that would freeze the tree, but do it without being bashed in by one of the tree's mammoth branches. But for the moment the tree was silent, its aged vines swaying gently in the wind. It did not look vicious nor did it look powerful. It seemed docile, serene; he would even go far enough to say friendly. But he knew better. He glanced up at Sirius. Receiving a swift nod, he transformed.

A rush of sounds and smells hit him, his whiskers twitched. His ears perked. Someone was coming. He looked in the direction of the sound. Rat's eyes, being a hundred times better than humans in the dark, Peter could have seen an ant cough. Given that the ant was not wearing an invisibility cloak like the person standing directly over him was.

Swish!

Sirius was gone from sight.

"Go for it, Pete," whispered James.

The rat scuttled forward, tail twitching erratically. About a meter from the trunk he leapt onto it.

With a thundering crash, the tree came alive, wielding its mighty limbs like arms, failing them through the air with the force of a speeding bus. Trembling, the rat scurried through them. Dodging, skidding and jumping, he made his way through, reaching the knot in the center of the tree. He pressed it. The tree froze. Or very nearly froze. A small section of the trunk slid open and he saw the leaves sway on a branch inches from the ground. Quick as a flash, he scurried down the tree, ignoring the sound of branches "whooshing" through the air, slipping past the door just before it closed. Wormtail raised his head, meeting a pair of large blue eyes. "Prongs." Then he turned to a pair of brown eyes that seemed black in the darkness. These were closer to the ground, but not by much. "Padfoot."

Padfoot let out a soft bark in greeting before turning, and starting down the passage. Prongs' hooves and Wormtail's claws clicked and clattered behind him. The tunnel led steadily upwards, ducking under tree roots or scrambling over loose rock. Finally they reached an arch that caused to the tunnel to become too narrow for Prongs to pass through with ease, forcing him to become James again.

"We have to remember this," he grumbled, rubbing his head.

Padfoot let out a bark that sounded like a laugh. It amazed him that someone who could memorize the twelve uses of dragon blood and the potions they were used in, could not remember a simple passageway.

"I knew I should have gotten you a muzzle for your birthday, Padfoot," James quipped, crawling behind the dog. "And get your tail out of my face, please. No! Don't wag it! My glasses!"

Padfoot howled in ecstasy, bounding forward. James' revenge could be put off for another few minutes as far as he was concerned. Continuing upwards, through the passage until he reached a trapdoor directly above him shaped like a porthole. Placing his front paws upon it, he heaved himself forward, shoulder muscles rippling.

Pop!

The door flew open and over on its hinges, a cloud of dust hit the dog in the face. Snorting and sputtering, Padfoot pulled himself up, onto the grime covered floor. He shook the remnants of the tunnel free from his shaggy fur, adding to the debris that already littered the floor before turning his attention on sounds coming from the room above.

Savage, bloodthirsty snarls echoed through the drafty shack. Long low howls that mixed with the wind that whistled freely through the cracks in the walls followed. Then came the scratching, fast and furiously it came; tearing at walls and bed clothes. Whatever was trapped up there wanted out. Now.

Padfoot made his way up the shaky staircase, the rotting wood creaking and shuttering beneath him. The noises magnified as he approached the door. He barked softly, letting whatever was on the other side know that it was him.

The howling subsided.

Carefully, Padfoot stood on his hind legs and turned the knob. The tumbler slid out of the lock. The dog's body tensed.

The scratching had begun again.

With his nose, Padfoot nudged the door open, slipping inside, letting the door swing closed on its hinges.

Moonlight filled the shabby room, illuminating the dilapidated furniture and shredded curtains. Padfoot turned to the latter, his eyes fixed on them. He barked.

Out from behind tattered fabric, emerged a hulking beast covered in silver fur as bright as the light that it stood in. Saliva dripping from its open jaws, the creature approached him. Deep growls filled the room as its flame colored eyes flashed with hunger. Arching its back, it flung itself forward, teeth barred.

It hit Padfoot head on, causing them to tumble. Head over heels, teeth gashing they fought. Jaws clashing, claws scratching, eyes flashing, they rolled across the room. Merciless fangs tore at shoulders and ears, shredding fur and flesh. Until the dog saw his chance, holding the animal's upper body away with his fore-legs, the beast had moved his back legs off of the dog so he could get his footing; allowing Padfoot to bring his own hind legs under the silver creature and strike. Through the air, the monster sailed. Twisting in mid-air, it fought to find its feet but to no avail; it struck the far wall with a sickening crunch.

Padfoot, chest heaving from exertion, stood, holding his head high and his tail erect. He waited for his opponent to rise.

Shaking violently, a red streak marring is face; the silver creature pulled itself up. It turned to Padfoot, staring at it. A moment later, it blinked and shook its head, ridding itself of the stars that was been lingering at the corners of its eyes. Eyes that were no longer the color of red flame but as yellow as the moon that shown through the window glass.

Moony . . .

5.

The crisp autumn wind rippled through trees, tugging the last few leaves that had survived the first frost from their gnarled branches. Crinkled and crackling, they were swept along in the wind's erratic dance. Over rock and wood, dirt and mud, they were blown until coming to rest on the damp surface of a pond. Floating peacefully along with the gentle current, the leaves rested. They were quite happy to spend the last few remaining moments of their lives there, spinning in soothing circles. But it was not to be.

With a tremendous splash the leaves were sent spiraling downward into the murky depths by the sharp hooves of a gigantic stag. The animal stood in the pond for a full minute while the grey rat, fancying himself as a scout, sitting amongst the scrawny antlers, looked for their companions. It tapped the stag's left ear, telling it to look to the east. Out from the brush slid two canines; both had their lips pulled back in a grin.

The black dog trotted up to the stag, his tail high. Standing up on his hind legs, he politely picked a tree branch out of his friend's antlers.

The stag snorted.

The dog licked his cheek.

If stags could gag, this one would have. It stamped and snorted as its friend pranced away, its claws tic-tacing on knotted tree roots and thorny brambles. The wolf followed the dog, mimicking its jaunty gait. He felt the rat slide down his neck before leaping to the ground; following his friends into the thicket. Shaking his antlered-head disbelievingly, he too went after the mismatched bunch but this time he was careful not to get his antlers caught in any foliage.

The dog led them to the top of a hill that was silhouetted against the moon. From the top of it, the four creatures could oversee all that went on in the village below. He turned to the wolf in front of him. Simultaneously, they threw their heads back and long, low howls left their lips, echoing into the night.

Down in the village, mothers hugged their children close and fathers bolted their doors. Fear came to them with every full moon. The town elders swore the howl was from the creaking wheels of the coach of Death, coming for stray barins; others said it was the Devil himself who had come to smite the wicked. But whatever it was, those that heard it all agreed upon one thing: no man, woman, or child was allowed outdoors whenever the spirits that haunted the Shrieking Shack were on the rampage.

6.

"Can anyone translate this?"

Sirius looked around the room, praying for someone to raise their hand. No one did. No one ever did. He had to feel sympathy for Professor Temple. She had been thrust into a situation where she either had to be as strict as a rod or not get any results. It was not her fault that Ancient Runes was thought of as a "bird course." But to make things more difficult, being strict did not come as naturally to her as it did to Professor McGonagall or Madam Suite. Nor did she have to commanding presences they did. She was a thin, wiry thing with stringy black hair that she kept pulled tightly back from her pallor face with a clip. Her dark brown eyes scanned the room once more in hopes that one of her students may have had an epiphany or would at least wiped the dense looks off their faces.

"Mr. Black," she sighed, her Irish list fading in desperation.

Sirius translated the passage easily enough, only tripping once or twice. When he looked up, Temple was smiling in approval. At least someone still trusts me, he thought caustically.

Two weeks ago Gryffindor had played a Quidditch against Ravenclaw. The game was a hard fought one. Gryffindor's victory had been spectacular, but he could not, for the life of him, recall why. He could only remember that during the on-field celebration, he had looked up at the Professors' Box, and next to Dumbledore sat his father. When several people had asked him why Orion was there that night he had shrugged in indifference. But now shivers ran down his spine at the mere thought of it. What had Orion wanted? He did not even speak with him after the game. Not that Sirius was particularly crushed; he tried to avoid Orion as much as possible. But he knew that his father did not just have the urge to see his son play Quidditch.

Death Eater activity had increased in the Scottish highlands in the weeks subsequent to the match, attacks were staged closer and closer to Hogwarts. Although, nerves were not as on edge as Sirius thought they should have been. The truth of the matter was that no one barely gave an eye's blink to it. Test were given, exam dates posted, Quidditch matches played, and owl post still arrived right on time. Turning his head to the side a little, Sirius could see Margaret McKillon sitting up straight in her desk. Her eyes were still puffing from breakfast when a tawny owl had arrived with a gray envelope in its beak, bearing a Ministry seal. Sirius turned back to the board, Temple was writing down their work for the Christmas holiday.

Lifting his book, he grabbed a scrap of parchment that he had hidden underneath it. It had been crumpled and crinkled from being held within the confides of a tight fist all morning. The ink had been smudged but the words could still be read easily enough. For what felt like the millionth time, Sirius reread them.

Mr. Black:

Please see me after you have finished your dinner tonight.

---Professor McGonagall

Once again a feeling of dread passed over him. McGonagall rarely called him in to see her, and when she did it was never for anything remotely enjoyable like acknowledging that he had the highest mark on an exam or inheriting a fortune or even being selected to open a school ball. The only alleviate to his fright was that James had also received the same notice. And there was that tap-dancing soap bar . . .

He shook his head. No, that couldn't be it. McGonagall wouldn't haul them in for caked lard that thought it was Fred Astaire, would she? Suite would just knit up a detention slip for them and that would be the end of it. True, an hour of listening to knitting needles was enough to drive any prankster up a wall, but the Marauders had their various tricks to block out the clicking metal. But what if they could enchant the needles to only knit Gryffindor colored socks? A grin spread over Sirius' face. He would have to tell James that one.

"Mr. Black, if there is life on other planets would you kindly tell us when you return to ours?"

"Sorry Professor."

The din in the Great Hall was always at its nosiest during traditional feasting times, and, of course, the night before those who were returning home for Christmas holiday left. Goblets banged, silverware clanged, feet stamped, voices rang so loud that the enchanted ceiling quivered. People were running back and forth, exchanging gifts, addresses, phone numbers (for those who had telephones and could use them properly), and for a certain four Gryffindors, prank-foods.

"Aren't we getting a little too old for this?" panted Remus, sliding back on his seat after planting a Cockroach Cluster in Severus Snape's stew.

"Too old to see Snape scream like a girl? Never!" chortled James.

"Will you lot ever grow up?" asked Lily, sitting down next to James. She shielded her plate with one hand. "You didn't do anything to the beef I hope."

"Actually--"

"I'll just eat whatever I have left over from the last Hogsmeade visit," she added hastily, moving the plate aside.

Sirius sniffed. "I was just going to say that we should have thought of that."

Lily still ignored her plate. She had known the Marauders for too long not to know when and when not to trust them. Anything dealing with food qualified as one of the "when not" occasions.

"Coward," Peter teased.

Lily's lips parted, a comeback prepared to spring from them, when McGonagall rose to her feet and called for silence.

"Would all those," she said, "who received notices from their heads of house this morning come to me after they have finished their meal, notices in hand? Thank you."

Sirius turned to James, taking the note out of his pocket. James did the same; his was unmarred by tears or creases. They pushed away from the table as did Lily.

"You got a note too?" James whispered to her.

She waved her notice.

"She's starting a cult," he said, moving his eyes shiftily from side to side.

Sirius had to silently agree with James. As they bid their good-byes to Remus and Peter, a line had already formed at the High Table. Mostly upperclassmen from all the houses, not an overwhelming amount, mind, but enough to acquire stares from their fellows. The line moved slowly. McGonagall checked each notice twice before allowing the student to walk past her. Craning his neck, Sirius could see them slipping behind Dumbledore's chair, and into a chamber behind the staff table. He caught the Headmaster glancing at each person as they went by with a strange look in his pale eyes.

As the line diminished, Sirius once again found himself being filled with an indisputable dread. Something was coming, with every step he took towards the High Table, it grew nearer. His gut tightened as he shuffled forward, his skin began to crawl as he could now make out the candlelight flickering against the lenses of McGonagall's spectacles. A sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead as one by one his friends, classmates, and total strangers disappeared into the notorious back room. And by the time he was next in line, Sirius felt as though he was going to be sick.

"Are you all right, Black?" asked McGonagall, taking the slip from him. Sirius nodded mutely while she consulted it. She performed two handwriting identification spells before returning it to him, and gesturing toward the door.

"Thank you," Sirius managed to squeak, stepping away from her. Abruptly, the path to the chamber door seemed become longer. Every step he took he grew farther and farther away. Silly it seemed how five seconds ago he wanted to run from that door and now all he wanted to do was get to it. His muscles tensed, it as though every hair on his body was standing straight up, whatever was behind that door would either make his life easier or kill him outright. But he no longer cared.

He surged forward, yanking open the oak door, throwing himself inside, and slamming it shut behind him. He was breathing hard.

"Padfoot, are you all right?" asked James in a hushed voice, staring at Sirius.

Sirius, chest heaving still, choked out an affirmative reply.

"Sirius, what happened?"

"Nothing, Lily, I'm fine," he said, finally regaining his breath. "Suite, knitting needles, feared for my life."

It was a lie, Sirius knew. But a likely one at least. Both Lily and James knew of his continuous cat-and-mouse game with Suite. She stalked him; he went the other way when he saw her coming. His friends pressed the matter no more, only guiding him to a corner where they could see properly around the crowded room.

Circular in shape, children were mingling with others from their respective houses in tight groups; many were leaning against the portrait covered walls. The portraits' subjects appeared to be kin to the Fat Lady, a portrait that guarded Gryffindor Tower. The one nearest to him was snoozing in its frame, its snores kept causing the top of the man's toupee to fly up and then flop back down on his forehead. A fire roared in the small grate, casting long shadows on their faces.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Sirius listened to the chatter that filled the room. Rumors about why they were summoned there flew about the room like bees swarmed about honey. He caught snatches of the conversations. The Slytherins thought that McGonagall was going to give them a reward, the Hufflepuff girls concluded that Dumbledore planned to alert them of some special contest that was going to take place at the school. As for the Ravenclaws, they hoped that the Professors were calling upon them to help cast some sort of complex charm. Sirius himself preferred a mixed group's idea that they were all being sent on an exchange program to wizarding schools in other parts of the world, especially the part about a French Witches' Academy.

Their questions were answered soon enough because before the girls even had time to pick out which boys would definitely not be attending the French Witches' Academy, the chamber door opened again and in stepped Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore.

A blanket of silence enveloped the room. The students moved aside, creating a path for the Professors so they could make their way to the center of the room. Dumbledore's eyes met Sirius', but only for a second. Still, it made his skin prickle.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Dumbledore, "I am sure you are wondering why I have asked you here tonight."

Murmurs of agreement came from various corners of the room.

"What I have to say to you tonight is something that I wish to remain within the confines of this room. What you will learn here is something that I hope you will keep in mind during the coming months. But I ask you first and foremost to remember that it is human nature to think of one's self as essentially a "good person." No matter what they have said or done, no one ever thinks of themselves as a "bad person." To allow one to think that would cause them to do the most unnatural thing that a human being can do: admit that somewhere within the depths of their being they have a darker side. A part of them is truly wicked."

Dumbledore paused to see if his words had any effect on the children. Although he knew that they were steadily revolving around the room, Sirius felt as if Dumbledore's eyes were right on him. His eyes, though warm and kind, were oddities. Sirius doubted that when looking through them the Headmaster saw either flesh or bone. He did not fall victim to their masks, of which everyone thought was the perfect example of "carefree teenage-dom." He was only capable of seeing the one thing they kept the most closely guarded: their emotions. He saw curiosity, anger, anxiousness, bravery, and worst of all, fear. Sirius ducked behind James.

Dumbledore began again. "It has become apparent that one of our number has stumbled upon their darker side and instead of tucking it away, he has cultivated it." Sirius' knees began to shake, could Dumbledore's eyes that far into his being? "He has planted it and urged it to bear fruit. He has plucked, sliced it, and used it in a potion." Dumbledore paused to clear his throat. "The potion of which I speak has not been brewed since the time that your parents and grandparents spent their days inside these walls. It is a hot and bitter brew. It bubbles slowly, almost in secret, but soon enough it boils. There is not defendant shape, color or smell to the potion, but its fumes seep into the air. Sometimes they are sweet and pungent but others burn your nostrils, making your eyes water and your body tremble in pain," his voice was soft but it still filled the room, rattling the picture frames, and thundering like the cry of beating drums in the children's ears. "Yet," he said. "There are times, many times, when the potion is neither fragrant nor foul, but merely bland. Familiar in shape and smell, unwittingly ensnarling your senses until you find yourself trapped within its spell, unable to claw your way up to the clear air above its putrid cloud.

"This, my children, is what has been happening while we have been locked in our classrooms, taking notes, studying for exams, speaking with friends, and hiding within our safe stone walls."

The fire in the grate had been blaring furiously during Dumbledore's impassioned speech, dimmed now. Darkness crept back into the room. A thick fog had rolled over the castle.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the mage said heavily, "I have called you here tonight because within a year or so, you will no longer be able to return to Hogwarts every September first. You will be setting out into the world, a world torn by war."

Surprised exclamations came from corners of the room, but were quickly shushed. As a whole the students edged closer to Dumbledore like moths to the flame, astonished, mesmerized, and in need of answers.

Dumbledore's countenance seemed to age before their eyes as he explained to their eager ears about a man who was slowly gaining power. His strong allies and fierce ideas about the state of the wizarding world were drawing people to him. Warlocks, trolls, Dementors, and dark wizards were all clamoring around him, longing for a bit of his power.

"They think that he is the answer to their prayers," stated the Headmaster. "They have longed to rid us of those they think are a liability to our world."

"Muggle-borns," breathed Lily.

"Yes, Miss Evans, and for many years their ideas have been thought unsavory and they have chosen to keep their opinions to themselves. But now, someone has finally decided to act. He has appealed to those that agree with his ideas, and has begun to "purge" our society of those he deems unworthy. Those who have done nothing that would have earned them the pain that he inflicts. Some of you already know of what I speak." This time Dumbledore did look at Sirius, fixing the boy to the stop.

Sirius met his gaze, summoning all his resolute to look as though he was neither frightened nor bearing the brunt of his bargain. He searched Dumbledore's eyes, finding only sympathy and hope within the azure orbs. Dumbledore still trusted him. He had fallen for the mask; the detached look in the chocolate-colored eyes despite the shadows of sorrow.

"The Ministry is still trying frantically to keep their knowledge of this man secret. They think that by pretending that something does not exist, it will simply go away. But it has not gone away, it has grown, and our leaders are finally removing their blindfolds to see the bloodstained sky. And they have decided to take a stand," Dumbledore said solemnly. "Before me stand some of the most promising young witches and wizards in England. Your talents extend far beyond those of your fellows, and the time is near when you will be called to join those already fighting to regain peace in our world."

In the farthest corner of the tiny room, a perfectly round drop of crimson blood rolled down the Sirius Black's forehead, staining the maroon carpet.

7.

The seasonal strains of 'Come All Ye Faithful' played softly, mingled with the clinking of glasses, the tapping of shoes, the rustling of robes, and of course, the mindless chatter. Ever since he was a small boy, Sirius had longed to attend the annual Black Christmas Ball. He had stay up half the night, listening to the strange voices and other party sounds. But when he was finally old enough to go to it, the awe wore off within the first few hours and the whole thing went from being a "mysterious adult affair" to an annual nuisance. Of course Orion had chosen to continue it because "Aurora would have wanted it so" and added that he highly suggested Sirius make himself present.

Sirius obeyed. He pulled on a pair of semi-respectable burgundy dress robes, grabbed a glass of iced butterbeer and firmly planting himself in the most secluded spot in the entire ballroom: right beneath the crooning wreath that could only sing 'O Christmas Tree' backwards. (Sirius had stuck an apple in its mouth ages ago.) From his spot, he watched as his father mixed and mingled with the elite of Wizarding society. Occasionally, one or two women looked his way then twittered to Orion.

"He probably has betrothed you already, mate."

Sirius smirked, not bothering to face James. Prongs could have amazingly good timing when he ever gave it a second thought. "Like hell he has, the minute I fancy one of those simpering poodles will be the day--"

"Poodles? I'm sure Padfoot would love a few poodles."

"Oh shut up, you prat," Sirius sniggered, pulling over a chair. "I can't believe how he's being so . . . so . . ."

"Cool?" James supplied, sitting down. He was clad in navy dress robes and his hair was even messier than usual. He pointed as Orion smiled graciously at a Ministry official who was expressing his condolences on Aurora's passing. "He doesn't even look like . . . well . . . you know."

"I know," Sirius sighed. He fought back the rage that was boiling inside him. Orion was cool all right. Too cool for Sirius' liking. With all the buzz about Voldemort lately he would have expected the man to be a little ruffled. "Where are your parents?"

"Home. Mum said she didn't feel well and Dad had work on something and they both ordered me to spend the night here . . . that is, if I can."

"Brought your stuff up, all ready?" Sirius asked, knowing that the answer would be confirmatory.

James only smiled and sipped his butterbeer.

The sounds of the party filled their ears as they sat in contented silence. For the first time in a long time, Sirius felt that all was right with the world. The Ball was going on, James was next to him, a song was being caroled on-key, he had a full mug of butterbeer, and Orion was no where in sight.

Sirius' ears quivered as the noise died away and was replaced by a lyrical voice.

"Silent Night, Holy night,

All is calm, all is bright,

Round yon Virgin Mother and Child,

Holy Infant so tender and mild,

Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace . . ."

Applause broke out as the last soft note faded; drowning out the tinkling of glass as it shattered on the ballroom floor.

8.

His boots refused to catch on the frozen earth, sending him to his knees again. Muffling a curse, he hauled himself up by a tree branch, not caring if the bark stripped the skin from his hand. If he was not quick enough, he really would have blood on his hands and it would not be his own. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so unsettled by one little event that he had forgotten his duty? That's why Orion had come! That's why the bastard had been at the Quidditch match! He was giving him a friendly reminder. Only he would overanalyze something so much that he could miss this! He fought not to scream at himself. He could scream later, now he had to run.

His long legs jack-knifed beneath him, finally getting his footing on the craggy hill. Hours of being chased through Hogwarts' corridors and dodging Ragnarok's whip were finally paying off. He would make it. He would beat them. He would--

"SIRIUS!"

Shit! Sirius swung his head around to see James bounding after him. Couldn't a guy run out of a Christmas party these days without his best friend following him?

"Get out of here!" he shouted furiously. It wouldn't matter to the Dark Lord if James was under the Fidelius or if he wasn't. One less liberated pureblood was for the 'common good' in his eyes.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" yelled James, skidding on the ice.

Sirius groaned. He didn't have time for this. "I'll explain it all later," he hollered over his shoulder before sprinting up the side of the knoll.

He knew James was still following him. He would have been frightened if his friend had settled for such a lame explanation as "I'll explain it all later," but he prayed that James' klutziness would come through and cause him to break his ankle and possibly save his life. But Sirius' prays were rarely answered.

The two teenagers were neck-in-neck as they reached the top of the hill. Sirius skidded to a stop, panting. His hands slammed onto his knee-caps, chest heaving. The spiraling world began to slow on its teetering axis. Sweat and blood mingled on his face and long locks of hair hung in front of his eyes like a funeral shroud. He pushed them away. His eyes traveled up the cobblestone drive, across the steps, past the 'Welcome' mat, and to the closed forest green door still attached properly to its hinges. He dropped his head in relief.

James came up next to him, huffing and puffing, asking why they were at his house. Sirius ignored this; he was too relieved to care about the stitch in his mate's side. It had been a false alarm, his instincts had been wrong. They had always been reliable before but now . . .

"What's that?" cried James suddenly, pointing at something overhead.

Sirius felt his blood freeze as he followed James' gaze. A lone wisp of curly white smoke floated upwards, followed by another and another until the inky sky was stripped with white. They stared up at it, mesmerized, as the wisps drew together forming a queer shape. A human skull with slanted eyes and a snake coiled around its base that slithering out through its gaping mouth.

BOOM!

The force of the explosion knocked them off their feet and sent them flying through a debris riddled world. Sirius landed hard on the ice covered ground, rolled several feet. He sat up; warm blood trickled down his mud-splotched face. A river of orange light swept over the stately house in one mammoth wave. The smell of soot quickly filled the air, assaulting his nostrils, as giant flames leapt into the sky like acrobats before falling back, consuming the timber from which they had sprung. He watched impassively as almost instantly the house's foundations caved, and the Potters' ancestral home crumbled inward like a flimsy house of cards that a flamed hand had come to sweep away. He barely noticed James rushing forward, perhaps hoping that he could still save his parents. Sirius could not help his friend; he was no longer in the same world as him, but in a dream-world. He watched the destruction in a dazed, almost uncaring way. He had had this dream before. He knew every inch of it. And he did not mind it any longer. It was terrible, yes, but completely imaginary and really rather expected. As surrealism overrode his senses, he fell to his knees on the soaked ground, laughing softly to himself.

Distracted by his chuckling, Sirius failed to notice that small sparks, thrown from the blaze, were running along the slick earth before fizzling out, leaving minuscule piles of ash in their wake. One of these sparks that singed his hand, jerking him sharply back into reality. Sardonically, he raised his head up to the heavens, knowing what he would find there. Despite himself, his throat constricted as the seemingly harmless smoke cloud now was a glittering acid green sigma in sky.

Lord Voldemort had finally returned to England.