Chapter Text
Deep in the pits of the Ministry of Magic, there is an alarm that goes off every time an Unforgivable Curse is used. They are, after all, punishable in Wizarding law. Sometimes the Aurors monitoring the alarm look at the address where it was triggered and dispatch their colleagues to investigate. And sometimes they look at the address and then look the other way.
Sometimes a second smaller alarm goes off alongside the first one – one that somberly signals that the epicenter of the curse stems from the address where the family of a Hogwarts student resides. And when that happens, the Aurors send an owl to two people: Dumbledore and the student’s head of house.
And then they gather up their wands and their cameras and their brave faces and prepare to either save or arrest a child.
***
When McGonagall receives the frantic owl – which keeps pecking incessantly at the window of her office – it’s half past three in the morning and she’s sleeping fitfully. Spring term is set to start in two days and there’s still so much to prepare – she has to devise an exam on the reading she assigned over the break, finish grading some lingering essays from last term, and figure out what to do about Arnie Rothbarten’s disruptive nose blowing that her stern looks never seem to quell. Poppy keeps inviting her for drinks in Hogsmeade, but she really hasn’t any time, and the guilt of that is gnawing a hole in her stomach that makes sleep elusive.
Annoyed, or perhaps thankful, at the interruption, she pulls on a dressing gown and rushes over to slide open the window, scowling at the bird as it pecks her hand once and flies away without waiting for payment or a treat.
She glances at the seal on the letter and any half-achieved drowsiness departs immediately.
She’s only gotten two of these before – one when Melody McGrath’s mother used Avada Kedavra on an invading adder snake and the other when David Harvey tried to Imperio his younger brother to get him to clean his room. Why David didn’t just use the wand to clean the room himself, McGonagall isn’t sure, but he never was the brightest star in the sky.
But both of those incidents were over a decade ago, the students they concerned long since graduated. McGonagall looks to the moon before she opens the letter, hoping this is just another minor issue like the first two.
She takes a deep breath, unfolds the parchment, and feels her beating heart drop through the soles of her slippers.
***
When she gets to Grimmauld, a swarm of Aurors is already rushing into the house. Walburga and Orion greet the officers at the front door, calm and collected, as if they were expecting this crowd for tea. Orion’s expression is grim, yet his jaw is set and his shoulders are pulled back. Walburga’s eyes seem vacant, in the same way that McGonagall’s soul feels.
She pushes her way further into the house as a few Aurors break off to speak to the parents. She makes it past two massive sitting rooms, an ornate dining room, and into a stuffy library, guided by the heavy footfalls of the rest of the Aurors and the eerie silence of their hushed voices.
As she rounds the corner of a stack of books, every fluid in her body freezes. She feels like her whole being has been submerged in an icy shroud, and her teeth start chattering echoingly loud in the quiet space. She’s breathing in frozen water and it clogs her throat and her lungs and her limbs and she can’t move.
This is what abject fear feels like. This is the end of the world.
She stares.
Regulus is kneeling on the ground in a pool of his brother’s blood, legs turned red and slippery from the fluid. He’s watching the body, unmoving, unblinking. His chest doesn’t seem to be rising and falling. He is a statue. He is a memorial.
And Sirius.
But it’s not Sirius. It’s a body. On the ground. Face down. Limbs twisted in odd ways. Hair matted with red. Neck still sweaty. Skin scraped and bruised and purple in parts. Blood is leaking from the scalp.
This body was never alive. It can’t have been. Something that dead never could have contained life. It’s not possible.
An Auror reaches down and touches Regulus’ shoulder, trying to guide him away from the body, and he starts shrieking. The sound pierces the air, louder than any alarm, and all at once, McGonagall’s body is liquid once more.
He keeps shrieking. It takes five men to pull him up and away and he bites and claws and kicks the whole way.
Put him down! McGonagall wants to yell, but she doesn’t make a sound.
They put a sheet over the body. Someone announces the time of death. Estimated between 2:45 and 3:00. The body is still warm. The blood is still seeping.
She must be dreaming. She must have finally fallen asleep.
She overhears an Auror.
“We checked their wands. Crucio.”
“From which one?”
“Both.”
She makes it back to the front door. Walburga and Orion are gone. Regulus, too.
Dumbledore is there, in the doorway, face upset but not surprised.
He sees her, offers her a grimace. She heads towards him. Her feet are slow, uncoordinated. Her teeth are still chattering.
“It’s Sirius,” he tells her, as if she hadn’t seen the body.
“No,” she replies. Sirius isn’t dead.
Sirius is on his broom, racing laps around the Quidditch pitch just to show off his speed and grace and inspire jealousy in the other houses’ teams and admiration in his own.
Sirius is favoring his left leg over his right with a subtle limp as he exits her classroom.
Sirius is sneaking around the halls at night with Potter’s invisibility cloak, giggling with his dormmates as they enchant the paintings in the Transfiguration corridor to sing obnoxious renditions of Pink Floyd’s Time .
Sirius is falling asleep in class and waking up screaming from nightmares.
Sirius is protecting Lupin’s secret and visiting him in the hospital after full moons with armfuls of candy and books and whatever the other boy requests.
Sirius is skipping the summer reading and lying that he just “couldn’t be bothered” to review it.
Sirius is drinking butterbeers in Hogsmeade with a foam mustache and no cares in the world, surrounded by his best mates and the buzzing warmth of hot drinks on a cold day.
Sirius is hiding a bruise under the sleeves of his robes. She can see it when he lifts his wand in a certain way.
Why didn’t she ever say anything? Why didn’t she send him to Poppy or Dumbledore or question him herself?
He’s sixteen. He’s a child.
He can’t be dead.
The body on the floor was broken, mangled. It can’t have been his.
“It’s Sirius, Minerva,” Dumbledore repeats, and the whole world around her burns to ash.
***
Crisp, fall air greets Sirius as he steps off the Hogwarts Express and onto the Hogsmeade platform. The leaves on the trees are sparkling rust and amber and a deep, vibrant carmine, and the evening air smells of bonfires and comfort.
James jumps off the train behind him, clapping a hand down on Sirius’ shoulder in excitement, and Sirius sucks in a gasp to stifle the pained screech that fights to escape his throat as the palm connects with the deep bruise on the far end of his clavicle.
He breathes in and out rapidly, willing the oxygen to ease the hurt. Today isn’t supposed to be about that. It’s supposed to be about looking forward, starting new, laughing with James, catching up with Peter, and snogging Remus silly once everyone else is finally asleep.
So he breathes, and he searches for something good in every moment.
Unfortunately, Remus is an observant bastard and as soon as Sirius gasps, he shoots him a questioning look, eyebrow raised in suspicion. Sirius rolls his eyes back at him and shrugs off James’ palm.
“Come on,” he says, “I want to unpack a bit before we get to the feast.” He rushes ahead before Remus can reply, jumping into one of the carriages enchanted to move on its own towards the castle. James bundles in next to him.
“It’s good to be back,” the other boy says, grinning widely. His hair is messy and his glasses are askew and Sirius isn’t sure there’s anyone else in the whole world he loves as much as he loves James Potter.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
***
They’re attempting to change into their robes before heading down to the Great Hall when James suddenly grabs the pillow off his bed and lobs it at Remus’ head. Moony’s got his jumper halfway over his face during its removal, so he never sees it coming.
Sirius stifles a laugh at the way the taller boy wobbles wildly with the impact, yelping out an affronted “Ow!”
Remus yanks the jumper off, scowling around at them all.
“Who did that?” he demands.
Sirius tries his very best to look innocent. James just offers Remus a shit-eating grin.
“Fine,” Remus mutters. “Be that way.” But Sirius knows he’s not really angry. The proof comes a moment later when Remus grabs both his and Peter’s pillows and hits James and Sirius over the heads with them, one in each hand.
“Hey!” Sirius shouts as James starts giggling. “Why didn’t you hit Peter too?” he whines petulantly.
Remus considers for a second, then chucks both pillows at Peter who darts away, narrowly avoiding them both.
“I declare war,” Peter gripes, and the whole room dissolves into a whirl of limbs and pillows and laughter.
How lovely , Sirius thinks. He could live forever for moments like these. He can stand anything if it means returning to this.
Once they’ve settled back down, they manage to successfully change into their robes, but not before Remus glances the bruise on Sirius’ shoulder.
“Fell off my broom,” Sirius explains, his voice challenging Moony to call him out on the lie.
“Bullshit,” Remus replies easily. The observant, caring bastard. “They hurt you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Sirius,” James cuts in, his face getting that sad look of concern that makes Sirius’ skin crawl. James isn’t supposed to look like that. James is supposed to be happy. James is supposed to make Sirius happy, not make him think about his father’s hand gripping tight and yanking him around just to assert his dominance.
“If I can handle Moony in wolf form, I can handle being pushed around a little,” he snaps before James can finish. It’s a low blow and he can see the tightening in Remus’ jaw, but he doesn’t really care. They need to leave this alone.
“I’m here now,” he continues, softening his tone. “I’m good.”
“You don’t look good,” Remus answers promptly.
“Well, I’ve gotten worse from you on a full moon, so…”
Remus holds his gaze, eyes intense and disapproving.
It’s fine , Sirius thinks. They’ll snog it out later.
“Just drop it,” Sirius commands. “We’re already late for the feast.”
Speaking of which, Sirius feels his appetite for food fading a bit as he notices the cotton candy colors of the dimming sunset outside, the translucent moon beginning to loom watchful overhead. He wants to see it grow stronger, brighter. He wants to taste the night on his tongue, wants to feel wild and free and unconstrained.
“Or…” he suggests, tone now playful, “we could skip the feast.” He grabs his broom from the bottom of his trunk, glancing at James with a smirk on his lips. “I haven’t flown all summer.”
Remus shoots him a look as if to say “I knew you were lying earlier” but Sirius ignores it.
“We’d have the whole Quidditch pitch to ourselves…”
The concern on James’ face begins to abate and replace itself with a hesitant excitement.
Got him , Sirius thinks.