Chapter Text
The Weasleys weren't supposed to be so bloody kind-hearted.
Peter panted, frozen in fear, as a pudgy little hand clumsily traced his fragile spine. There was some jam stuck to little Percy Weasley's thumb, and it dragged on his fur.
"Mama!" The child whisper-shouted for the fifth time. "Mama! Look!"
"She's coming, Perce." Peter squeaked in distress as an adult-sized hand came down and carefully pulled his paw out, the one missing a toe. "Look at this poor guy," Arthur Weasley cooed. "He's handsome, isn't he? Maybe he was someone's pet."
"Someone's pet? Pet what - AIEE! RAT!"
"MOLLY! Molly! It's fine! He's tame, see?"
"Arthur! Oh...Arthur - NO! Don't you dare, don't you dare make that face at me! A rat?"
"But look at Percy..."
Peter trembled, shrinking into the child's hands, who showed absolutely no reaction to his mother's reaction to having a rat in her perfectly nice living room.
"S'okay," the child whispered, the words soft and rounded and filled with love. "You're safe, little rat. I'll take care of you, I promise."
"See?" Peter heard Arthur hiss to his wife. "Look at him."
And when Molly sighed, Peter let out another, quieter, helpless squeak. No, please! He begged, chase me out! Let me go!
"Awh," she tutted, "he is good looking, I suppose."
"That's what I said!"
"What are you going to call him, Sir Percy?" She lowered her head and kissed her son's cheek.
"Scabbers," Percy said decidedly. "Cause, cause, cause he..." Percy stuttered for a minute, completely missing the deadly look Molly shot her husband. "Cause he came into the house, even though he shouldn't. And that's what scabbers do, dad said."
"Been complaining about the strikebreakers, have you?" Molly growled at her husband. In a normal tone of voice, she said, "Alright, dear. Your father will get him set up with a nice little house, how does that sound? And, here," she conjured a magical barrier that surrounded a small patch of floor. "Why don't you let him run free?"
"What if he gets away?"
"Don't worry." Peter squealed as he felt a tight magical net settle around his belly. "There. He's ours now. Yours, more accurately. Even if he gets lost, we'll find him."
"THANK YOU MUM!" Percy shouted happily.
No, no, no, NO! Peter wailed, scrambling all four paws helplessly in the air as Percy whirled him around excitedly.
The Weasleys took good care of him, and, selfishly, Peter enjoyed it.
Even worse, he didn't feel bad about it. Not one bit.
Despite his age, Percy was a diligent caretaker. He kept Peter's cage (or "home" as Percy called it) in good shape and often made new toys for him or scavenged chews made of thick roots and old pieces of bark from the garden. He carried Peter around in his pocket and showed him all the secret places in the Burrow, and the garden, and his little village school.
Molly never warmed up to him, too disturbed by his long, fleshy tail to ever attempt to hold him, but everyone else seemed to love Peter. He pretended to learn tricks for them. He found their lost little toys. He even chased a rogue gnome out of the cupboards, once.
All in all, it was a good life, one that lulled him into the forgetful bliss of the animal world. Everything that he was running from faded to the background. For a long time, he even forgot his name. He was just Scabbers, or, sometimes Wormtail, though even that name was growing distant.
And then, six years after he was caught by precocious little Percy Weasley, it all came crashing down.
"Then Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain fought together again, striking down that great stinking dragon, Bellowing Blusterbus, and restoring peace to the land. The end..."
There was a long pause, where the only sound in the room was Percy's scratchy breathing. "Dad..." Percy picked at the old quilt on his bed, bottom lip jutting out. "How could it be so easy?"
"Hm?" Arthur slipped the book back on Percy's shelf and then touched his forehead, checking his temperature. "What do you mean? It wasn't easy, they struggled mightily against Blusterbus, didn't you hear?"
Percy sniffed wetly. He was on day four of fever, and no amount of potion or tea or home remedies that Molly brewed were making it better. Peter pawed the blankets nervously. Molly and Arthur were talking about bringing him to a healer, tomorrow, if he didn't break his fever in the night, but would they be able to afford any medicine?
He was so worried that he missed the first half of Percy's question.
"- they hated each other so much. How could Gawaine forgive him after what he did? I mean...it was his brother that Lancelot killed, not just some squire, or something."
"I'm sure it wasn't smooth sailing," Arthur sighed, crossing his arms and screwing up his face to seriously consider the question. "It seems unforgivable to us, but it was a different time, then, you know? A knight's honor was valued above his life, and Gawaine's brother dishonored Lancelot, and Arthur, really, who they were sworn to protect. So...I guess Gawaine probably came to understand why Lancelot did it, but that doesn't mean he forgave him."
Percy grumbled under his breath. "But..." he sighed, sounding more forlorn than any newly-turned eleven-year-old had a right to. "Doesn't family mean more to him? To anyone? I just don't see how anyone could forgive another person who killed their brother..."
"Oh," Arthur said simply, looping his arm around his son's shoulders and pulling him close. "I see."
The two of them had their moment, while Peter felt like he'd been summarily launched straight off a towering cliff, and now he was plummeting back toward the earth. All at once, memories he had repressed for years and years came rushing back to him.
"Brothers," James declared, once all their bloody thumbs were pressed together. "From this day forward, all of us are brothers."
"Does that mean you two will have to share your inheritance?" Remus asked coyly, winking at Peter.
Sirius smirked, "Please, at this rate, I'll be disavowed and penniless like the rest of you. James will have to take pity on us all."
"That's what big brothers are for," Peter offered, triggering a gale of hollering laughter from the other two. He grinned, lapping up the attention, but deep inside his chest, a vulnerable, aching feeling was taking root. This ceremony of theirs was the realization of a very old want. A childhood wish. To have siblings. A family. People...who cared about him.
James winked, "I always knew you three only liked me for my money."
"Well, it's not for your personality," Remus jibed. "I'd take a little more money and a little less of the James Potter experience, if I'm honest."
"Whether you like me for my money or my heart or my underpants, it doesn't matter. We're stuck together now. For better or for worse."
"For better, obviously," Sirius said, licking the blood of his thumb. "We were meant to find each other, the four of us. Why would magic lead us together if it's not for something great?"
James's eyes lit up, like he knew exactly what Sirius was talking about. Peter glanced uncertainly at Remus, who merely shrugged indulgently. But when Peter looked back at the other two, loud and certain as they were, he felt a twin resonance with their excitement.
'Something great,' he thought, holding that precious feeling in his chest. 'I think they must be right.'
"It takes a strong person to own up to their mistakes, and take responsibility for all the hurt they've caused," Arthur was saying, when Peter faded back into awareness. "The strongest, actually. Even I struggle with it, and I must be the strongest person you know, hmm?"
Percy laughed, which quickly dissolved into hoarse coughs. "Mum's the strongest," he managed to choke out.
"Your mum is strong, you're right," Arthur did a good job of masking his concern, but Peter could smell his fear as Percy's coughing continued. He shrank back toward the foot of the bed, feeling like his heart was going to burst out his chest. The echoes of his friends were in his head.
All of a sudden, he did not feel like he belonged in the Burrow. He was not Scabbers. He was Peter Pettigrew. He sent the Dark Lord after a man he once thought of as his brother.
"Even your mum has a tough time admitting when she's done wrong. Everyone does. The important thing is to remember that as bad or as guilty as you feel....or sometimes even as righteous as you may think you are, to put yourself in the other person's shoes. Imagine the amount of pain they're in, and think..." Arthur paused meaningfully, "Will a minute of discomfort, embarrassment, or shame on my part put an end to their hurt?"
Percy nodded thoughtfully, eyes fluttering shut as he leaned into his father's chest.
"And just know, that even if you make mistakes and stand in the wrong for longer than you should," Arthur continued softly, as if talking more to himself than Percy. "We're always here for you, to help you along the way. You're never alone. We want you to grow up to be proud of yourself, Percy, for who you are..."
The room filled with quiet, labored breathing as Percy fell fully to sleep. It was too much for Peter. He wiggled his way out through the series of secret cracks in the wall he'd exploited over the years until he was racing out of the Burrow and down past the garden wall, sprinting along the dirt and grass until he was outside their wards and deep in a neighboring copse of trees.
There, in the dark, Peter Pettigrew transformed back into his human body for the first time in six years. He was shivering, squeaking, more rat than man. A horrific monster one would not want to stumble across in the night.
"James," he croaked, digging his fingers into the grass and pulling up handfuls of it. "Remus. Sirius. James. Remus. Sirius..."
The blows just kept coming.
He tried to settle back into life as Scabbers, beloved pet and occasional test-subject for the twins, Fred and George, but only days passed before he heard a name that sent him racing under the couch.
"What in heaven's name did you do to him?" Molly yelped at her boys.
"Nothing!" The twins cried in tandem. "We were sitting over here!"
"He's been like that lately," Percy supplied sleepily. He was resting on the couch. Percy was on the mend, but the potion he was taking made him fall asleep every three hours, like clockwork, for nineteen minutes exactly.
"Oh, nevermind," Molly sighed, "where was I, dear?"
"You said Minerva told you about -"
"YES! Harry Potter!" Molly's voice dropped to a whisper. Pandora Lovegood was standing in the airy kitchen, slicing rainbow radishes for sandwiches. Distantly, Peter could hear little girl shrieks of laughter coming from the front yard, and, even more distantly, the irritated roar of little Ron Weasley, ganged up on again.
But Peter only had ears for Molly. He crept closer to the edge of his hiding spot, listening.
"Minerva was in her cups, I think."
"At this hour?"
"She came back from a funeral in Glasgow."
"Ah," Pandora cleared her throat and did a perfect impersonation of McGonagall's voice, "they send 'em off in a barrel where she's from."
Molly tittered under her breath, continuing in a rush, "We got to talking about the kids, of course, and then all on her own she just sighs so heavily, like she has the most terrible news, and says..." Molly paused dramatically. "That Harry Potter is growing up with his muggle relatives!"
"What?" Pandora hissed.
"I know! Awful, isn't it? And she said they're not like Lily at all. Said they bear no resemblance. She wasn't even convinced that they were related until she did some digging at Lily's muggle town."
"Well, that's how magic is," Pandora mused. "It manifests in the most unexpected of places."
"She said the sister's name is Petunia."
"Petunia? That's pretty..."
Peter was sweating. Drool dripped from his mouth onto the floor as another memory forced itself to the front of his frayed mind.
"No, I haven't taken him to meet my sister's boy. Petunia would hate him," Lily said sadly, rocking Harry back and forth. He was refusing to nap, just staring up at her and then over at Peter with his huge eyes, as if he were following their conversation.
"How could anyone hate him?" Peter asked, outraged by the thought. "And she's your sister. Aren't babies supposed to...I don't know, soften people up?"
Lily smiled ruefully, meeting his gaze. "You'd think so. But Tuney hated me more than she loved me. They say it's a fine line, you know, but...I could never subject Harry to that. I don't ever want someone to look at him with hate. Not ever."
Peter escaped the house and ran back into the woods, transforming again so he could properly vomit in the bushes.
It was Percy who broke him in the end. Unintentionally, of course. He was just so excited about going to Hogwarts in the fall that he would not stop talking about it.
And thus, for months, Peter endured a deluge of memories, triggered by every little story that everyone in the house was excitedly feeding Percy. He could hear his own stories echoing them. He dreamed of roaming the halls as a Marauder, proud and happy and laughing.
Those dreams always turned to nightmares.
For the first time ever, he thought of Sirius. Sirius, who was afraid to be alone. Sirius, who hated the dark so much, he slept with a glowstone on his bedside table. Sirius, who had loved all of them, even Peter, even though Peter never felt like he fully deserved it.
What was it he said that day, on the street? Just before Peter unleashed that dark spell he had read about but never cast.
"I know you hate yourself for what you did, Peter. Let me be the one to end it. I'll make it quick. Painless. That's the one and only mercy I can give to you. Do you think Voldemort's Death Eaters will be so gentle when you go crawling back and tell them it was your information that led to his downfall?"
Is that what I want? He wondered fitfully. Mercy? Or deliverance?
On April 10th, six years and six months after Lily and James died and Sirius was taken to Azkaban, Peter stood just inside the lobby of the Ministry, frozen to the ground.
He was a man. Wizard. Monster. Murderer. All of those things, yes, but, a coward no longer.
He touched the fake tooth in his mouth with his tongue. Still a coward, he thought, resisting the urge to giggle. Cowardly lion. Only ever do the brave thing when I'm too afraid to think straight.
Peter had been standing there for well over twenty minutes, and no one so much as glanced his way. Granted, it was not terribly busy at ten-thirty, but the fact that he could do this for so long and not be noticed added to his borderline hysteria. He dug long fingernails into the skin of his wrists, scratching red lines down his skin. He jerked his head down instinctively every time one of the fireplaces roared to life. He was too scared to move, so he just waited there, for someone to do something.
He was lost in a spiral of his own thoughts for so long that he didn't even hear the witch until she was right in front of him.
"Sir?"
Peter flinched and looked into the eyes of Amelia Bones, Deputy Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Her eyes widened in shock, recognition flooding her face. Before he could blink, she wrapped him in binding cords from shoulder to ankle.
"Who are you?" she demanded harshly, conjuring a silver horn that hovered close to Peter, ready to record his answer. Peter's vision was starting to go black around the edges as shock took over. "Declare yourself!"
"I'm - I - I am..." Wormtail, one of the four great Marauders. My brothers and I were going to take the world by storm, just like we did at Hogwarts. But the Dark Lord ruined all that.
"I'm Peter Pettigrew," he said, rasping the words so quietly she had to lean in to hear him. "I killed James and Lily Potter. I betrayed them to the Dark Lord."
Amelia flicked her wand and his left arm was thrust out by the bindings. She shoved his tattered old robes up to reveal a faded Dark Mark branded on his skin. Cries of horror began to ring out across the marble floor. Apparently there were others watching, but Peter was blind to them. Blind to everything. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
I don't want to DO this, part of him screamed. Not here! Not where other people can see me! He wanted to run. He wanted to be a rat again and wait out in a field, somewhere he could get swept up by a hawk or a cat and eaten, inside out, right in the back garden at the Burrow. He wanted to rot in the earth and be forgotten, like he deserved.
That would be better. Safer. A fate of his own choosing. He moved the fake tooth back with his tongue and rolled the little packet of powder, wrapped in dissolvable jelly-eel hide, to his cheek.
"I framed Sirius Black," he continued, looking at Amelia. Her face was a mask of horror and disgust. "I cut off my finger to frame him. I killed all those muggles, and transformed into my animagus form, a rat."
Distantly, he could hear the distorted sound of Sirius's voice, "Rats are so cool, Pete! They're smart and clever and fast. You can go literally anywhere, sneak into any house. Just think about how useful that is. You can be like...a super spy."
"I did it all," he moaned. "It should be me in there, not him."
The powder came loose, spilling over his teeth and tongue. He swallowed it back, choking at the chalky taste of it.
"Bring him to a holding cell immediately," Amelia ordered. "And someone get Black out. NOW!"
Peter heard a rush of footsteps. The world was starting to spin. If not for the ropes holding him up, he would have fallen to the floor.
"Where have you been hiding?" Amelia asked, stepping closer.
Peter obediently opened his mouth to answer and felt something warm and sticky and viscous start to pour out from him, gushing over his chin and spilling onto the floor. He gasped, choked, and felt something vital in his chest tug and give way. He gagged and spilled out more fluid, more blood, and pieces of himself that hadn't even dissolved yet.
He heard shouting. Pounding footsteps. Maybe even felt some magic trying to help him, heal him, but Peter's eyes had already gone fixed and dead. His soul inched slowly from the world.
Coward, he whispered to himself, slinking into the formless realm of death. The world is better off without you.
When he thought that old refrain, one he'd cultivated and whispered to himself long before Hogwarts, he did not have the knee-jerk reaction to dismiss it that was instilled in him by his brothers, his friends.
This time, the words were a beckoning, a confirmation, the last breath of the dark before it swallowed him up.
Yes, it seemed to agree. The world is better off without you.
"Quickly! Quick! Hurry it up!
Sirius's ears perked up. The dementors began to draw back, floating to the lower floors as was their custom when the Minister, or anyone from the outside world, came to visit. Footsteps pounded on the damp stone corridors of Azkaban. Prisoners all around him kicked up their murmurs and moans, filling the prison with shrieks and garbled lunacy, all excited by the prospect of new blood.
But Sirius didn't participate. He transformed back into his human self, leaning lazily against the wall as if he didn't mind the conditions of his cell, listening.
"Here!"
That shrill voice was definitely the one and only newly-minted Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. Sirius felt a scowl coming on and tried to repress it. During his tour of Azkaban in the first few months of service, he spoke to Sirius a little, surprised by his apparent sanity. But he also made it very clear what he thought of Sirius.
Got what you deserved, didn't you? He said, with a sneer.
No, Minister, I think not, Sirius smiled back. I think I deserve to die.
That wiped the sneer right off Fudge's face.
Keys jangled loudly as a crowd of dark figures stopped outside his cell. Sirius blinked at them, not understanding what was happening even when the bars between them melted away.
"Mister Black - I mean, uhm, Lord Black, is it? Now?"
'Now' what?
The nervous, rotund shape of Cornelius Fudge actually walked into his cell. Sirius stood up.
"Easy there!" Fudge yelped, cringing back.
Sirius swayed a little on his feet, dizzy from being upright on two legs instead of four.
Fudge cleared his throat and seemed to remember himself. "I mean - of course, you're just, uh, ah, getting up. Right. Well, I...um, there's been a matter come up recently, you see, that's led to your release. So, I am here..." Fudge stuck out his chest a little, "to release you."
A cold silence took hold of all Azkaban.
"Release me?" Sirius repeated, his voice thin and creaking, yet in the quiet it sounded as loud as thunder.
"Peter Pettigrew turned himself into the Ministry today, in a manner of speaking," Fudge twirled a cap over and over in his hands. Sirius's eyes were beginning to adjust to color again. As a dog, he never saw color at all, not in Azkaban at least, and even when he was human, there was not much color to see.
But, vaguely, it was coming together. Navy. The Minister of Magic was wearing a woolen, navy cloak with a matching hat. A light smear of blue against the black walls.
Sirius blinked, mind catching up to what he'd just heard. "Peter did what?"
"He's dead now," the Minister said, somewhat nonsensically. "But before he died, he confessed. Confessed to everything. Got it all recorded, our Amelia Bones. She's ordered your immediate release, and the acquittal of your sentencing, and now we're here to take you out of Azkaban, Mister, er, Lord Black. Soon as we could."
Sirius looked away from him, examining the empty air between him and the halls where dementors roamed. A contingent of aurors in their crimson red robes waited for them. Not as if to bind him, but turned away. As if...to guard him.
He wanted to laugh. That broken part of him that was filled with maniacal laughter teased at the edge of his brain, echoing in that empty reservoir where his family used to be - James, Lily, Remus, Regulus, Harry.
"Come on," the Minister said, gesturing at freedom. "It's time to leave."
"Even if you are tricking me," Sirius rasped, edging toward the border of his cell, "even if you're taking me to be executed, or tortured, or to throw me in some new prison, anywhere is better than here."
He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the aurors. Despite his emaciated frame, they shuffled nervously, as if afraid of him.
"Here," the Minister said, draping his own wool cloak over him in a gesture no doubt planned from the very beginning. "Take this. Let's go. Now."
The other prisoners watched, wide-eyed and furious, as he walked out. The higher they climbed, the lighter he felt. It wasn't until he passed through the door of the administrative wing of Azkaban, the only place one could portkey on or off the island, that the shouting, howling, rampaging shrieks of injustice began to shake the very foundations of Azkaban.
Sirius chuckled low in his throat. He could feel a whisper of magic curling around him. New magic. The magic of fresh air, of freedom.
"Here we go," Fudge pointed at a set of silver scales standing on a pillar in the center of the room. "Touch this, and we'll go back."
"Go where?"
"To my office," Fudge said, meeting his gaze with more mettle than Sirius expected. "And from there, to the hospital, where you can recover. And after that...well...you can go wherever you like. I'll personally guarantee that the rights you are owed as a wizard in this country will be fully restored as soon as possible. Immediately, even."
Sirius licked his chapped lips, hand hovering over the scales. "I want Harry," he said, staring into the man's eyes. "I want to raise my godson, like I promised I would."
Minister Fudge turned sickly white. Nevertheless, he nodded. "Done."
Sirius was in a private hospital for two months.
During that time, his every need was tended to. His malnutrition was cured through regular doses of nutrient potions, appetite stimulants, muscle tonic, and five small meals a day. He went for strolls along the wide river to recover some stamina, disguised, of course, with his personal attendant by his side.
He had a mind-healer who appeared to only have one client - him - who was available round the clock. Healer Waras had tiger-striped eyebrows and gave no indication that he had ever even heard of Sirius Black, Harry Potter, or Lord Voldemort before Sirius walked through the doors of his clinic. Waras coached him through meditations and occlumency exercises, and sometimes just listened to him talk and talk and talk, all in an effort to repair the fracture between his mind, his soul, and his body.
That's what Azkaban had done to him. Fractured his very being.
"You are very lucky," Healer Waras said during their final session. "Seven years in that place may have severed your mind and body forever."
Sirius looked up from the drawing he was working on. Waras encouraged him to sketch during their sessions, seeing as Sirius was so often jittery with energy, even when he was at his most sleep-deprived.
"Excuse me?" He drawled, spinning the pencil in his fingers. "What does seven years have to do with that?"
Waras leaned over, his eyebrows high on his forehead. "Seven, as you know, is a perfect number. It is the combined power of our spirit and our body. There are seven spheres of consciousness, seven principles of magic, seven lay lines that cross the earth. That number lives on across magic, across reality, across time."
"Fan of numerology, are we?" Sirius grunted, feigning disinterest. "I'll bite. Hit me with your wisdom, doc."
"If you completed your seventh year of internment in that place, it would have become part of your spirit, you see? Because, as we already established, Azkaban imprisons a wizard's soul moreso than his body. We are always reforming our self in cycles of seven, and you were imprisoned just before your twenty-second birthday, correct? You were still twenty-one when you crossed through those doors?"
Sirius stilled, some magical theory tickling the back of his head.
Waras hummed, "You understand, yes? Seven years in prison would have been a perfect cycle." He made a circle with his hands. "It would have cemented you, made you part of it. In your own words, the essence of Azkaban is cold. Well, if not for luck, or magic, or destiny, or whatever you want to make of it...you would have felt cold forever, Sirius Black." Waras held his gaze for a long moment. "You are a lucky, lucky wizard."
With effort, Sirius pulled his gaze back down to the dog he was sketching. The shape of a deer's antlers was scratched out next to it. He wasn't quite ready to draw that one.
"Lucky," he echoed, tasting the word.
"Yes," Waras insisted, in a tone that meant he wanted Sirius to really think about what he was saying. "Or, perhaps a better word would be, blessed."
He bought a house as far inland as he could find. If he never smelled the ocean again, it would be too soon.
Fudge came by just a day after he settled in. It was true summer in the country. The sun was high and hot, the grass dewy and green, and all the little lambs in the pasture across the way were fat and kicking and racing up and down the land on which they were born.
Sirius's house had been prepared for him by a team of ward masters and interior designers of the highest quality, vetted and hired by his severe new solicitor, Madame Dove. Sirius didn't know her first name and didn't care to know it. She scared him, and he paid her to scare others off for him.
He knew she wouldn't let him down but he still walked the corners of his property with his new wand in hand, checking the magic. The new wand was chestnut and unicorn hair, a wand with a desire to set things right. That wand wants to seek justice, Ollivander said, after a great rush of magic swept rows of boxes off the walls of his shop. It is thirsty, Sirius Black. The more magic you pour into it, the more powerful it will grow.
So far, he quite liked the wand, though they were still getting used to each other.
"Nice place! Gorgeous property," Fudge chirped admiringly as Sirius led the way up the long path to the front door. It was an old stone cottage with three swooping eaves covered in vines of blue and purple morning glories.
"I must say, I'd never heard of Eston, but when I realized that was just the magical side of Ilton I had quite a laugh. It's a miracle the muggles don't know about us, honestly."
Sirius said nothing, letting the Minister stew until he asked for what he wanted.
"Are you...um...enjoying yourself?"
Sirius finally turned and looked him in the eye. Fudge winced.
With a great eye roll, Sirius waved the kettle on. "Tea? Coffee? I'm afraid there's no alcohol. Too dangerous in my condition to pick up that particular hobby, not until the next solstice, at least."
"Oh?" Fudge tapped his fingers on the table. He had perfectly manicured nails, Sirius noted. "So...you still have some recovery ahead of you."
Sirius gave him a flat look. "Nearly seven years in Azkaban takes some time to recover from."
"Right, right..." Fudge leaned back a little. "So...about your request."
Sirius turned away to hide the expression on his face. At the hospital with Healer Waras, he did a lot of thinking, and talking, about Harry. About his idea of Harry. His expectations for Harry. His hopes. His fears.
If he's been living with the Longbottoms this whole, I don't want to take him away from the only life he has. But...maybe Augusta doesn't give him the same love and attention that she does Neville. I don't want Harry to stay where he feels he's a burden, or a second thought. At the very least, I can make him my priority. It's not like I have anything else to do.
"You see, er...well, the situation's not as easy as I thought it would be. You have the claim to him, of course, being his godfather, but..." Fudge sighed deeply and waited until Sirius served him tea in a brand new teacup before saying, "Albus Dumbledore doesn't want him to leave."
Sirius froze, the tea sloshing back and forth in his own cup. "Pardon?"
"Exactly what I've said." For the first time, Fudge looked at him evenly, equally, like he was not a monster or a half-mad prisoner. Fudge had a glint of something in his face. "Albus wants to keep him at his aunt's house."
Sirius set the cup down, slopping burning tea over his fingers. "His aunt? You don't mean Lily's muggle sister?"
Fudge swallowed nervously. "Why, yes, Petunia Dursley, is it?"
Sirius gaped at him in shock. Fudge started to ramble, talking about all the many reasons Dumbledore said it wasn't safe for Harry to leave, starting with the fact that Petunia was his blood relation, as if that meant anything!
Sirius and Lily did not have much in common most of the time they knew each other. Even after she and James started dating, she treated him coolly, and hated his mean streak, which was a mile wide by seventh year. But, as it turned out, the biggest reason she despised him all that time was based on a misunderstanding.
"I thought you were like my sister..." Lily curled her fingers together, squeezing tightly. Sirius sat an arms length away on the stairs, feeling uncertain and lost. Lily had never spoken to him with such...openness before. "I thought you were torturing your brother. Hating him so openly, putting him down, starting fights in the halls, it just...reminded me of Petunia. How she treats me. And I hated to see you do that."
He swallowed, feeling like he was on some very thin ice. "But, now you get it?" He offered, gesturing at the empty corridor in front of them where she'd just stumbled across him begging Regulus (literally) to run away from home that summer so he didn't have to take the Mark. "It was just an act. Always was. To keep him safe from...our family. Friends. Allies. Better for him if the world thinks we're enemies. Lot of good any of that did..."
"You're trying," Lily said, sliding closer to him. She touched his shoulder, gently. "You're sacrificing so much for him. He knows that you love him, I can tell. Trust me."
Sirius blinked, and he was back in the kitchen of his new house.
"- see, and there are wards he mentioned too, though what kind or where they came from is a mystery. I tried to..." Fudge trailed off, silenced by Sirius's long, cold glare. He gulped, audibly.
"You're telling me that you cannot move my godson out of the care of his muggle relations even though I am perfectly able, capable, and wanting to take him?" He said in a low tone. "Or are you saying you will not bring him to me because you're afraid of Albus Dumbledore."
Fudge turned an alarming shade of puce. "Afraid?" he barked, "I'm not afraid! I'm telling you that it could be quite a fight! The Supreme Mugwump might raise a case against you! I'm warning you!"
"I would win," Sirius said assuredly, feigning confidence. "They could never take him from his rightful magical family. The blood of the covenant is thicker than the waters of the womb." It was one of the oldest magical laws, and it cracked Fudge's will to fight right down the middle.
"Yes, yes, you're right." He finished off the tea in one long slurp. "But this is going to cost me, and you!"
"Neither of us have Dumbledore's favor," Sirius said, repressing a shiver of disgust to lump himself in with this man. "I'm not going to let him carry about like he's the King of England. Are you?"
"But, can you even care for him?" Fudge asked, too boldly.
Sirius drew himself up, lifting his chin and gazing at Fudge with all the cold arrogance he had been born with. "You forget yourself, Minister," he growled. "Our society has rules and laws for a reason. The great magical houses of this land that made the office you now stand in are entitled to the protections of the kith and kin. Harry Potter is my godson, my blood relation, the recognized Heir to House Black, orphaned son of my best friends and my brother, James Potter, and you will bring him to me, or I will force the weight of my hand through the systems of our government instead and make a nice, loud show about it. Is that what you want?"
Fudge was many things - a snake, a liar, a politician, and a coward, but he was not stupid.
"I'll bring him to you right away," he breathed, bowing deeply. "Of course. Soon as I can."
Sirius shook his head disgustedly, "You stay out of it. Just tell his relatives to bring him to Ilton. Then we can meet and clear the air before Harry moves in with me. We'll handle the matter...personally."
"Of course, of course," Fudge was still bowing and scraping as he slowly edged toward the front of the house. "I'll have my people arrange it. No! I'll tell them myself. I'll take care of it, and then if Dumbledore -"
"If the Supreme Mugwump has a problem with me, he can take it up with my solicitor," Sirius snarled, opening the front door for him.
"Right-o! Take care! Thank you for the -"
Sirius slammed the door in his face. He covered his mouth when he heard Fudge squeak tea! on the other side.
Still snorting with laughter, he headed back into the kitchen to clean up the mess and make a fresh cup. Along the way, he started to draft a letter to Dumbledore in his head.
"First you let me waste in Azkaban for seven years with no trial," he muttered viciously, "and then you think you can keep Harry and I apart? Not on your life, Albus. Not in a million years would I ever let Harry stay with Petunia Dursley, of all people."
In the back of his mind, a new question took root, among the many unanswered questions he was still grappling with.
Why would you send him there?
Knock, knock, knock!
Aunt Petunia muttered under her breath and muted the telly. Harry, locked inside the cupboard, quietly eased up to peer through the tiny slats. She glared right at him as she crossed the room and made a violent shh motion with her hands.
Harry knew that face. He'd be working 'til his hands were raw if he disobeyed.
"Hello?" Aunt Petunia said sweetly as she opened the door.
"Yes, good afternoon, madam," a man's sonorous voice replied. "My name is Cornelius Fudge. I've come here to talk about a rather urgent and personal matter that concerns your family."
"Cornelius...Fudge?" Aunt Petunia repeated uncertainly. "I'm afraid I don't..."
Harry heard the man whisper something, but they were too far for him to hear. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and wondered if this man was actually a burglar in disguise.
If he was, what would Harry do? Use his strange, secret power to open the latch of the cupboard? (Which he knew he could do, as he'd done it several times before, when he urgently needed to use the bathroom at night). If his Aunt were in danger, could he sneak around the house and free her? Phone the police? Run to the neighbors?
Or maybe I'll just stay in here until the burglar finds me, he thought cynically. Maybe he'll even take me with him.
Oh. Now that was an interesting thought.
Half-distracted by his new fantasy of being abducted (and saved) by a gentleman robber, he missed the part where this strange man apparently was let inside.
"I don't know what you're doing here, or why you're asking for him. I thought we had years before any of this came out!" Aunt Petunia hissed, sounding quite irate.
"Well, this could be somewhat shocking, even upsetting. Would you like to sit?"
"Tell me why you're here!" Aunt Petunia barked shrilly, "Is my family in danger?"
Harry stilled, his heart beating loudly with excitement.
"No, no!" The man replied, trying to calm her down. Harry could almost see him through the slats. "It's about Harry's godfather, Sirius Black."
Harry just about shot through the ceiling. Godfather? He mouthed.
"He's...he's not supposed to be..."
"He's innocent," the man said swiftly. "I say, woman, you better sit down. This is a lot to handle."
"Innocent?" She repeated, waving him off. "Innocent how?"
"He was framed for the crimes," the man said. "And now he's out of Azkaban, and fully recovered. He bought a nice cottage out in the countryside, just west of Ilton, you've heard of it?"
"No..."
"No? Well, no matter. It's far from here. And, Sirius is ready to take Harry in. Excited for it. Thrilled. Overjoyed. He wanted me to tell you, personally, as his...well, I suppose you could call me a friend. Confidant, really."
"He wants to take him?" Aunt Petunia said sharply, catching on now that this was apparently not a joke.
"Well, I can see you've grown quite attached, of course, of course! And Sirius knows that, too. So he suggested you all take a little family holiday to Ilton and meet up for a spot of dinner. Let the two of them meet and see what Harry thinks. Don't want to uproot the boy from his whole - er - life, here? In your lovely home?"
Harry grimaced.
"It would be good for him to be with his own kind..." Aunt Petunia said slowly, sending a thrill of fear down his back. My own kind? He wanted to shout through the door. What does that mean? Who is this man? I never even knew I had a godfather!
"Yes, yes! Quite right. After all, Harry Potter is the Boy-Who-Lived. He's one of the most famous wizards of our age." Aunt Petunia made a high-pitched noise in her throat that this man mistook for a sob. "There, there," he cooed, comfortingly. "I'm sure Sirius would be happy to arrange for you to visit. With our kind of travel, it only takes a second to get from Ilton to here. Truly! Quite incredible what magic can do."
Harry sat down hard on his bed, heedless of the noise he made. His eyes were blown wide with shock. He didn't think he'd ever be able to close them again, really.
Magic. Wizard. Godfather.
My own kind...
He was in such a deep reverie that he didn't even hear the front door close again. Didn't notice Aunt Petunia's steps marching back and forth in front of his cupboard, muttering to herself under her breath. He didn't register a thing until the door to his cupboard flew open and a black garbage bag fluttered down over his face.
"Pack up your things," his Aunt demanded, a cold little smile on her face. "You're leaving."
Harry stared at her for a second, his heart jumping nervously.
"What do you mean?" He asked, hating how scared he sounded. He didn't want to be scared - he should be angry. Clearly, his Aunt and Uncle had been lying to him his whole life! Had known vital information about him, information that explained all the weird stuff that happened around Harry all the time. Things he was relentlessly punished for, even though he never did it on purpose!
But his anger was burning deep within him, some place inaccessible. For now, all he could really feel was fear. What if it isn't real? He wondered. What if she faked all that to punish me? What if they drop me off at an orphanage somewhere instead?
"Fine," she intoned, still looking at him with that detached expression that made him want to squirm under the bed. "Don't pack. I don't care. Whatever you leave behind will be thrown away or burned. Once you're out of this house, you're never coming back. Understand?"
But this is my home... He thought petulantly
"We will drive you to Ilton as soon as Vernon comes home. I've already called. He's taken off work early." Harry jerked to his feet in surprise. She's really serious about this. He crinkled the garbage bag to his chest, watching her back on him to wait in the kitchen.
For the first time ever, in his entire life, he heard Aunt Petunia begin to sing as she prepared some tea. It was a happy little ditty. Something that he thought he heard on the telly sometimes. The sound of it was a knife through the heart.
He turned, slowly, and looked at his room. The cupboard under the stairs. His place. Would he even have a place, tonight? Would he have a bed? A roof to sleep under? Would he be in some stinking hovel full of other unwanted orphans? Would they leave him out in a ditch somewhere to be eaten by stray dogs?
Harry swallowed back the mounting fear pickling behind his eyes. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry, not if it was an elaborate trick.
As he packed, Harry Potter thought through the many likely scenarios of what was about to happen, but of all his plans and worries, not once did he consider that the mysterious man who upended his life in Number 4 Privet Drive could have been telling the truth. Harry may be magic, may be a wizard, but he did not believe in fairy tales. Not anymore. He knew, as certainly as the sun rose every morning, that no one wanted him.
He did not plan for what would happen if someone did.