The Promise

Chapter 2 - Holding On By A Thread

When Sirius woke from his dream he was frantic. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he was sure, absolutely sure, that something was wrong with Harry. He could not say how he knew or why he knew, but he knew. His gaze fell back to the newspaper that lay discarded on the floor. Something was wrong with those Muggles Harry lived with... They were not treating him right... They had done something to him... There was something about the picture that made his insides squirm. He didn't like the look on the man's face. And he didn't like the way they were holding Harry, almost like a prisoner.

He only had met Lily's sister once, and she wasn't anything like the joyful redhead who had turned James' head around. Lily had seldom talked about her sister, giving the impression that their relationship wasn't the best. He had never pried. He knew about family and the desire to ignore everything about them. But she once had told him that her sister detested magic and the 'freaks' - obviously her sister's words - that were able to do it. And now little Harry was living with her? How could people like her and that brutish looking pig be the right ones to raise a child like Harry?

What did the paper say? 'Home accident'! Sirius insides churned. Ha! As if he hadn't heard that one before. As if he hadn't told his teachers for years that he had fallen, run into a door or got into a fight with another boy, because he was too afraid and ashamed to admit what his father did to him. How he got the bruises. Although many things his father did wouldn't even leave any. Was that what was happening to Harry now? Before his inner eye he saw the small slumped form from his dream. He would never forgive himself, and neither would James and Lily, if he let Harry endure the things he had endured as a boy.

It didn't really strike Sirius how much more coherent his thoughts were becoming. He was still shaking from the cold, while he sat with his knees as closely drawn to his chest as possible, slightly rocking back and forth, mumbling to himself.

He was desperate. He needed to help Harry and he didn't know how. His heart was aching when he thought of the little boy in the clutches of his vile relatives, so small and so helpless... None of those were happy thoughts and therefore they remained with him. They gave him a desperation he had never felt before. He didn't belong here... He had not committed the crimes for which he was imprisoned, even if James and Lily's deaths were ultimately his fault. And he had made a promise. A promise he wasn't keeping by sitting in Azkaban.

To desperation came determination. James and Lily had died because of him and he could never erase that guilt. But he would not be the reason Harry suffered as well. And if he had to do what nobody had done before, he would. He would break out of this place and he would find Harry. Or he would die trying. Not because he didn't deserve to be here. But because he was needed somewhere else. Because Harry needed him.

***

Harry had been out of the hospital for three days now, and things had only got worse. Uncle Vernon had been in a rather foul mood. Having to answer the questions of the doctors about how Harry had obtained his injuries had not sat well with him. He had been outraged at any implication that they might be his fault to even the slightest degree. How could he be blamed for the boy's clumsiness? So the embarrassment of being the target of such an inquisition had only stirred his anger at Harry.

When they got home from the hospital Harry had been punished for that, as well as for being a nuisance and for causing expenses and curious looks and inquiries from the neighbours who had seen the ambulance.

It had not been pretty.

Harry had gone straight to his cupboard with a kick in the back from Uncle Vernon and had not been allowed to come out until this evening. He hadn't got any food or water in that time either. The Dursleys had obviously just wanted to forget Harry existed at all.

After over a day had passed without a word or any sign, Harry had become really afraid. It had been the longest he had been shut in since he could remember. Besides the hunger and thirst that were gnawing at his insides, there was the fear that they would really just forget about him this time and he would starve and die in the cupboard. Still, Harry was too afraid to make a sound. He knew how much his uncle hated it when he made a sound while he pretended Harry didn't exist.

But it became more and more difficult to not at least beg for some water. Harry was horribly thirsty and exhausted. He only really dared to cry at night when he was sure that they were sleeping and couldn't hear him. During the day he pressed the towel that substituted as his pillow against his face to stifle any sobs he couldn't suppress.

He was near to fainting when his aunt finally opened the door on the third day, and actually welcomed the slaps she gave him. She dragged him in the kitchen and slammed a glass of water in front of him, next to a plate with some dry toast and a banana. Harry downed the glass and gorged on the food and almost cried with joy and relief when his aunt filled up the glass a second time.

Then his uncle entered the kitchen and Harry stopped any movement, pausing in mid-chew, stilling like a dear caught in the head-light. But Uncle Vernon only glared at him.

"Tomorrow you will make up for your misbehaviour!" he declared. "There will be a lot of work waiting for you and you better not dawdle if you know what's good for you."

Harry nodded, his eyes wide as saucers, not daring to say a word. He felt too weak and too afraid to even think about arguing. He seldom did. It never ended well. He had no idea if he would get through tomorrow. There was no end in sight to his ordeal and he was so tired... but what else could he do than try?

***

In all the agony of darkness, cold and nightmares, Sirius Black had learned one thing. Dementors fed on the human mind, human emotions, all the happy memories you were trying so hard to preserve. But they were only interested in humans. And that might just be one of the reasons that he still hadn't gone completely insane after seven years in hell. Because there was one thing that was different about Sirius. One thing that set him apart from all the other prisoners. One thing nobody else knew. Sirius was an Animagus. He could turn, at will, into a big black dog. It was the only magic he could actually perform without a wand. Sirius had never contemplated if this was saving him. Most of the time he wasn't in the state of mind to contemplate anything more than that it was all his fault. So maybe it was only a strange instinct, but when he turned into the dog he felt just a little better, a little safer. He still suffered from the cold, but the misery was less overwhelming. He seemed to hold less appeal to the Dementors and they weren't lingering as much. It was slightly more bearable. But it also was tearing at his strength. Being in animal form was magic after all and it needed a certain degree of concentration and energy. He couldn't keep it up for too long nowadays.

But Sirius knew if there was a way, this was it. He didn't stop to calculate the chances. It was all or nothing, and he had nothing left to lose anymore. If he failed in this, he knew the rest of his mind and soul would not be able to hold on any longer. He knew the chances were slim, he knew it was crazy, but maybe the Dementors couldn't really sense him when he turned into his animal form. He had to try. Determination was filling him up, burning, not like warmth, not even like fire, more like acid.

He closed his eyes and concentrated. Concentrated on this consuming feeling and willed himself to change. It was slower than usual, and when he finally completed his transformation he was panting heavily and shaking like a leaf. But when the door to his prison cell opened the next time, and the meal of a stale piece of bread and a cup of water was delivered, instead of staring numbly in the other direction he gathered all his strength an sidled through the small gap, and the Dementor didn't notice.

He crept down dark and filthy corridors. There were other cells and other prisoners. There were shrieks and crying, but mostly there were just low mumbles and moaning, filling the place around him, surrounding and drowning him in hopelessness and despair. He did not really know where he was going apart, from forwards. Everything looked the same. Sometimes there were stairs and he would descend. Often there were dark, hooded figures gliding along and spreading a thin coat of ice around them. The trembling dog would press against the wall then, trying to stop his panting and keeping as still as possible.

He had no idea how long it had been. It could have been a day, a week or just a few hours when he finally reached a barred, rusty gate. It was closed and it was locked, but the bars were not very tight, and Sirius, the dog, was very, very thin. He didn't even feel the rusty poles scraping his skin, he just pressed forwards, wriggling, and then he was through.

There was nothing else, no more guards, no more spells. No one ever made it this far, in fact, no one ever made it out of their cell or could even get up the willpower to try. No, all that stretched between him and freedom now was the icy depths and swirling waters of the North Sea.

The skinny, shaggy dog hobbled out over the cliffs and was met with a cold and biting gust of wind. The waves that crashed against the rocks were high and the spray had him drenched within a minute. It was freezing, but to the dog it felt almost good. It was not the numbing, dreary coldness that surrounded the Dementors but rather like a chill that shook you up to the very mark of your bones, and he felt more awake than he had in a long time.

The coast of the mainland seemed to be nothing more than a faint line on the horizon. Maybe it was nothing more than an illusion, a fantasy of his broken mind. But the dog didn't hesitate. He jumped into the swirling waters and he swam. He swam with the same determination that had brought him this far. He was drowning in the waves and he struggled and he fought. He swallowed large gulps of water and the salt was burning his eyes and nose. The coldness of the sea became numbing now, but he didn't give up. He wouldn't. He needed to get to that coast if it was the last thing he ever did. He had a promise to keep. He had to make it.

Sirius didn't know when the struggle became too tiring. When his limbs became too heavy. He wouldn't give up... he could see it... he was almost there. The cold waves washed over his head and he fought. He fought for breath but couldn't really feel his lungs...

Finally it was too much and his last thought was that he had failed.

Then all there was, was blackness.

TBC