[FIC] What Secrets Keep - R - S/R - 10/16+epi

[jenexell]

Title: What Secrets Keep
Series: What...
Author: jenexell
Pairings and Characters:Sirius/Remus (implied past relationship), Harry, Ron, Hermione, Pettigrew (the usual suspects)
Rating: R - Some not so pleasant imagery here and there.
Disclaimer: If this was real, I wouldn't share. As its not, I'm sharing with no personal gain or profit, other than perhaps to feed my attention whore complex. non-recognisable elements are mine! plagiarists will be eaten alive by weasels. Much information has been gleaned from the books (obviously), films, various Wiki's, other internet sources and my font of all HP knowledge ttfan.
Distribution: My Journal (jenexell), and quite a few other places too. (attention whore complex). If you want it, link back to my journal, don't steal its naughty.
Warnings: None for now.
Spoilers: Everything and nothing. Set during Book 2, Chamber of Secrets, but does diverge quite wildly from cannon in some respects. References pretty much everything, although I'm trying to ignore Pottermore because she keeps messing up my backstories!

Summary:Au Book 2. Sometimes there are just too many secrets, and sometimes all it takes to start unravelling them is a failed spell from a broken wand. But with secrets, lies, half truths, mysteries and a giant snake in the pipework, who can be believed?

Previous Parts:
::Prologue::1::2::3::4::5::6::7::8::9


Chapter Ten - In the Hands of a Child

For the first time possibly ever in the history of Hogwarts, there wasn’t a single student relishing the prospect of Saturday. There were no joyous cries of celebration for the weekend, no relieved relaxing of tense shoulders as the burdens of classes were relieved for two days. As the students filed into the great hall on mass for a rushed breakfast before being escorted back to their houses, they seemed to realise the same distasteful truth as one, and the groan almost shook the building.

Professor McGonagall’s tired and pinched face said it all. The lack of food on the tables said more.

Climbing over the bench seat next to the Gryffindor table, Harry took his customary place next to Ron, opposite Hermione. None of them looked exactly on top form this morning, and somehow their casual weekend clothes seemed to highlight the bags under their eyes and the lines of fatigue across their brows. They hadn’t spoken a single word to one another since they’d grunted their good mornings in the common room. Talking seemed like too much effort to their exhausted bodies and minds.

So they just sat, barely taking in the hum of despondent conversation around them until the ringing chink of a knife carefully tapped against the side of crystal goblet drew their attention to the front of the hall.

“Good Morning students.” Professor McGonagall greeted, but despite the pleasant words her tone held an edge of foreboding to it. The Gathered students seemed to sink lower in the seats. “I’m sure you’ve all realised by now that the restrictions put in place for your own safety remain in effect. However, we are aware of the issues that have arisen during the week due to the confined accommodations. Therefore, it has been agreed that the Great Hall will remain open to students throughout the day, both today and tomorrow.”

A relieved titter ran through the assembled students. It wasn’t the news they’d all been hoping for, but it was at least something. It had been bad enough being confined to their common rooms when they’d been able to get out for lessons. The prospect of spending the entire weekend in one confined space had been daunting to say the least.

But Professor McGonagall wasn’t done. “However, I would like to point out that the rules regarding students walking the halls remain in effect. No student is to be walking the halls without an escort. Prefects included. Any students caught out alone will face a severe penalty, as will their house.”

“That is if they don’t get petrified first, ay Harry?” Fred sniggered conspiratorially from where he sat a few places further up the table. Opposite him George leaned forward to so he could catch Harry’s eye and winked.

“Something you wish to share Mr Weasley?” McGonagall asked loudly with a raised eyebrow, drawing the attention of the entire hall to their section of the Gryffindor table. Shaking their heads, the twins sank low in their seats. There was something in her tone that not even Fred and George were about to cross.

Casting one more stern look in their direction, McGonagall refocused on the hall at large. “Well then. If anyone has any problems, there will be members of staff in the Great Hall all day. I know this probably isn’t the weekend you were all hoping for, but let us try to enjoy it nonetheless. Starting with breakfast.”

With a gentle wave of her hand, the empty platters that had sat in the middle of the tables piled themselves with pastries, racks filled with warm toast and baskets with fruit. Tureens of porridge and great bowls of dried cereals appeared along with jugs of juice, milk, tea, coffee and hot chocolate. There were trays of fried eggs, bacon, sausages, hash browns, tomatoes, mushrooms. The list of food was practically endless.

As the students all seemed to dive into the food headfirst looking for all the world like they hadn’t been fed in months rather than a few hours, McGonagall sat herself down with a wry shake of her head.

On the Gryffindor table, Ron had rushed straight to the hot food, as he did every morning. He apparently had some kind of deep seated prejudice against anything even remotely healthy, or green. Picking a banana from a fruit basket, Hermione pealed it carefully and sliced it over her bowl of porridge. She’d almost finished when she finally glanced up and frowned.

“Is there something wrong with your cereal?” She asked Harry curiously, watching him push his breakfast around the bowl with his spoon. Her nose wrinkled as she looked down at her own. “Have they put salt in it again?”

“What?” Harry asked vaguely, looking up. “No. I’m just not hungry.”

“How can you not be hungry?” Ron asked without looking away from where he was already piling his second load of bacon onto his plate. “I’m starved.”

Hermione huffed with an irritated shake of her head and her nose scrunched up even further as she watched Ron pile far too much food into his mouth. “How is it you don’t choke?”

Ron shrugged and went back to shovelling. Harry glanced at him out of the corner of his eye then looked back to his own breakfast. He knew Ron thought he was crazy, but he actually liked porridge. Today though, he couldn’t seem to get his stomach to loosen up enough to eat it, so he just pushed it around, making troughs and mountains out of the sticky oats then watching the contents of the bowl sink back to flat.

He was so tired. Even when he, Ron and Hermione had finally made it back to the dorm, he hadn’t been able to sleep properly. Even now his head was back in Hagrid’s hut; the events of the previous evening rolling through his mind leaving his stomach in knots and his head full of cotton.

He found himself thinking back to the first time he’d heard about Sirius Black’s escape. Professor McGonagall had summoned him to her office before breakfast that morning and broken the news to him in person, feeling Harry supposed, like he had the right to be told away from the crowd in the hall. Since then he’d found himself thinking off and on about what he’d do if he ever came face to face with the man his parents had chosen to be his godfather; the man who had betrayed that trust, that faith, and given them over to Voldermort.

He’d tried to imagine what he would do, how he would react. He’d tried to imagine what Black would be like. He hadn’t needed Mr Weasley’s letter or Professor McGonagall’s stern warning for him not to go looking for him though. Why would he want to go looking for someone who wanted to kill him, godfather or not? Of course he’d been angry and resentful, and yes he’d hated the man, but he wasn’t stupid. He hadn’t been about to go looking for a mass murdering psychopath.

Just because he wasn’t daft though, that didn’t mean he’d trusted his luck not to land him in Black’s lap anyway. So he had thought about it. And just as he’d thought it would, his luck had played out like it usually had and the meeting with Black he’d had no intention of having, happened. Only it hadn’t gone anywhere near how he imagined.

Granted when he had imagined it, the scenario had played out in one of three ways, and in all cases Black had been armed, crazy and very much out to kill him. In his bolder waking moments he imagined capturing Black in various different ways. In his less bold waking moments he escaped and Dumbledore captured Black. In his nightmares he didn’t escape. In his nightmares he never escaped, even when he came close, and then Black would laugh with glee as he killed him, the last thing he would see being Black’s eyes alive with victory.

In reality those eyes hadn’t been nearly as mad as he’d imagined they’d be. Nor were they as dark. It was hard to really see Black’s eyes on the posters or his pictures in the paper; in those images he was always struggling insanely against the ones that held him, screaming and fighting; so at odds with the much calmer reality Harry had met last night. He might have paced a lot, and had at one point gone off on a rather scary shouting rant, but in reality they were haunted eyes rather than insane. They’d been hard to look into, filled as they were with shadows. When he had met them though, he’d been unnerved by them but not afraid.

Black was strange in a way Harry couldn’t really describe. What he wasn’t, was creepy in the way that so put him off Pettigrew. Cautiously glancing up, Harry spotted the man in question at the teachers’ table, messily eating his breakfast as he did every day except when he visited St Mungos.

A shudder ran down Harry’s spine. Last night he’d agreed to listen to what Black and that Lupin guy had to say, and he had. He’d listened to everything and if what they said was true, then the man responsible for his parent’s deaths and the deaths of thirteen Muggles wasn’t the man he’d met last night with the haunted eyes, but was actually sitting not thirty feet away, eating breakfast and flinching every time Snape looked at him.

Pettigrew looked round and found Harry’s eyes then, a very rodent like grin splitting his face as he raised his hand to give the bespectacled youth a little wave. Drawing a quick gasp, Harry turned abruptly back to his porridge, hunching his shoulders.

“You alright mate?” Ron asked as he wiped the last of the egg yolk and bean sauce from his plate with a slice of toast.

“Pettigrew’s looking at me.” Harry replied quietly so only Ron and Hermione could hear.

Piece of toast almost at his mouth, Ron abruptly dropped it to his plate, pushing his plate away as he cringed.

“You have to act natural Harry.” Hermione cautioned in a hushed voice, leaning forward over the table. “Remember what Mr Lupin said? Pettigrew can’t know you know. He might attack you. Or he could run, then...” She stopped herself, glanced around then said her next words meaningfully, “Mr Lupin’s friend, might not be able to convince Dumbledore.”

“That’s only if Harry believes what they said.” Ron reminded them.

“You don’t?” Harry asked, but he wasn’t all that surprised. Last night Ron had been the most sceptical of all of them. He hadn’t wanted to hear them out. Hadn’t wanted to stay and listen and had sat arms folded, scowl firmly in place and wand in hand the entire time.

If anything, Harry was sure Black had found it amusing rather than threatening, and he wandered if the escapee knew that Ron’s wand was next to useless. It would make sense if he did. After all, Black admitted to having followed the three of them about for weeks. But according to Black, he’d only been doing so when he hadn’t been able to follow Pettigrew, and he’d only being doing it to make sure Pettigrew couldn’t hurt them.

He’d seemed so incredibly earnest about that part. When he’d told Harry he couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to him. Lupin had made him back off at that point, and Harry had to admit to being grateful for that. Black was so... intense. It made him uncomfortable. He hadn’t known what to say.

What exactly did you say to a mass murdering psychopath who claimed to be desperately concerned for your safety? Somehow ‘thank you’ seemed a bit inadequate.

“Obviously Harry believes them.” Hermione said with a roll of her eyes, bringing Harry back to the conversation. Her tone implied she felt her statement the most obvious thing in the world.

“Err, why is it obvious?” Harry asked incredulously, eyebrows crawling into his hairline.

“Because it makes sense.” Hermione frowned at him. Her patented, ‘you’re being very thick’ scowl very much in place. When both boys just shook their heads at her, she huffed and raised her hand to tick off her points one finger at a time. “Fine. One. We know Pettigrew already lied about being an animagus. Even Professor McGonagall couldn’t explain how someone could be transfigured like he claimed to be and be sane, and she’s one of the foremost experts on Transfiguration in the world. Two. The only person Mr-Lupin’s-friend, has tried to attack is Pettigrew...”

“That we know of.” Ron cut in.

“That we know of,” Hermione grudgingly added to her own diatribe, “but he’s had more opportunities to find Harry alone than he has to find Pettigrew, yet Harry’s still alive, and Pettigrew wouldn’t be if I hadn’t interrupted them in the library. Three. They let us go last night. He’s already got your parents Harry, Pettigrew and twelve Muggles against his name, he wouldn’t have cared about killing two more to get to his goal, if, like everyone says, he thinks you dying can bring back you-know-who. Four. Not one of the articles I’ve read about Mr-Lupin’s-friend, says anything about a trial. So he wasn’t lying about it. He really was sent to prison without being tried.”

“How do you know that?” Harry questioned, head cocked to one side his brows furrowed, although mostly he was just overwhelmed. Again.

“I’ve been keeping up with the stories about him in the paper since he escaped. You know, just in case.” Hermione shrugged.

“So what?” Ron blurted. “Just because it hasn’t been in the paper doesn’t mean he didn’t have one. The Ministry doesn’t lock people up for no reason. And you know what? Don’t you find it just a bit weird he’s been following us around all this time? And what about that Lupin bloke? He’s been following us about too! If he was such a good bloke, and was such good mates with Harry’s Mum and Dad why didn’t he just visit? And where has he been all these years Harry’s lived with the bloody Dursley’s? Oh yeah, right caring that is.”

“Ron keep your voice down!” Harry hissed, his cheeks flaming. It was bad enough that Ron and Hermione knew about the Dursleys he didn’t need the whole school knowing. Besides, they didn’t need anyone else knowing any of what they were talking about either. “We shouldn’t be talking about this here.”

“Harry’s right.” Hermione nodded firmly. “We should go back to the common room. I don’t think many people are going back there.”

Sure enough glancing around, it didn’t seem that a lot of people were in a hurry to leave. In fact a few had already found books or chess sets to pass the time. There were a few people gathering at the doors however, waiting for the prefects to escort them back to their houses.

“Come on.” Harry sighed, standing up. “I’m done.”

“But you didn’t eat anything!”Hermione worried.

“I’ll eat at lunch.”

*****

If anyone had told Sirius Black when he was nineteen that his fate would lie in the hands of a child he would have laughed. If they’d told him when he was twenty one, he would have smiled fondly at his infant godson and shrugged his acceptance. His life for that tiny child? It wasn’t even a decision to make. He’d been lost from the very first moment he’d held him.

It used to be a joke between them, between James, Lily, Remus, Peter and himself. The others found no end of amusement in just how besotted he was with little Harry, although to be fair, Remus had been almost as bad, if not worse. James used to play up to it, mock lamenting that his son had stolen his best friends, that Harry was the only reason Sirius and Remus bothered to visit any more and that only Peter had remained loyal. Looking back at those memories, the irony of James’ over acted melodramatic pronouncements hit like a physical pain.

That Peter’s ‘loyalty’ stemmed from the fact that Harry would wail like Banshee every time someone put him in Peter’s arms now made Sirius wonder if Harry hadn’t been the most astute of all of them. At the time they’d all thought that Harry merely picked up on Peter’s nerves and awkwardness in holding a baby, but what if Harry had sensed more than that?

Could babies do that? Had Harry felt the betrayal that rotted Peter’s soul and instinctively tried to get away from it each time Lily had put him in Peter’s arms?

It was a strange thought. One he didn’t want to examine too closely. There were a lot of things about that time, mistakes and assumptions he’d made that he’d come to sorely regret. Better not to add to the list. Besides, even with all the regret, he couldn’t help but think of the time he’d spent with little baby Harry with bittersweet longing and infinite fondness.

He couldn’t really explain why he’d fallen so hard for that squalling little infant. Maybe because he’d known that he’d never have children of his own. Not something that had ever really bothered him, but it was something that he had certainly been aware of. Well whatever the reason, he’d sworn he’d do everything in his power to protect the little Pronglet and in doing so had willingly placed his fate in Harry’s hands.

And now he had done it again. Only this time those green eyes so much like Lily’s hadn’t looked at him with the kind of adoration and faith only a baby could project, they’d glared at him with distrust. There had been no recognition in their depths; nothing remained of that tiny baby to call upon. Small for his age, with eyes far older than their years and a face so much like his father’s it was like looking into the past, the Harry Potter he had finally met properly last night was an unknown. He could no more predict which way Harry would jump than he could predict what the weather would be on this date next year.

He’d done all he could to try and convince Harry that he was not the enemy, not the killer that he was painted to be. He would have spent all night pleading his case if he could. He just hoped he’d said enough in those couple of hours. And at least Harry knew the truth now, whether or not he chose to believe it. He’d done his best. He just had to keep reminding himself of that.

Nothing had happened like he and Remus had planned or how he himself had hoped. To be honest he hadn’t even considered the possibility of being found by Harry and his friends. Whether Remus had, Sirius didn’t know but he doubted it. If he had, perhaps he would have remembered about James’ old cloak, and made the not so giant leap of logic that it was now in Harry’s possession.

He wanted to kick himself for that. He couldn’t believe he’d actually forgotten how James’ invisibility cloak, unlike any other that Sirius had ever come across, didn’t just hide someone from view, but hid their scent as well. That was why he hadn’t picked up any scent trails approaching Hagrid’s when he and Remus returned last night. Why they had only realised there was anyone in the hut when they’d seen shadows across the windows and Remus had heard the faint mutterings of voices from within.

Of course the realisation had had them both in a panic. They’d left too much casual evidence of themselves within the hut to just turn tail and walk away. He still didn’t know even now what Remus’ plan had been when he’d whispered for him to go around to the back entrance, but Sirius had to assume it was something along the lines of ambushing the intruders and casting some kind of memory charm. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time in recent months Remus had done something like that. Of course he’d received the shock of his life when he’d snuck in through the back door to find Remus pointing his wand at none other than his godson.

That hadn’t been how either of them had wanted to be introduced to Harry and something inside of him had curled up and whined in agony when Harry had turned to aim his wand in his direction; so much anger, so much hate in that young face.

It hurt. It hurt to see that expression on a face so much like James’. It hurt to see that expression on the face of the tiny baby he’d once bounced on his knee and the almost toddler who had ridden on the back of his animagus form, miniature fingers tangled in his fur as he laughed with unrestrained glee. It hurt to see that face still so young, but so much older now. A solid living reminder of the time he had lost, of the mistakes he had made.

He didn’t begrudge Harry his anger or his hate. How could he? He might not have been the one to betray James and Lily, he might not have ever raised his hand to Harry or anyone he loved, but it was his fault Harry had grown up without his parents. It was his fault James and Lily were dead. It was his fault Peter had been secret keeper. It had been his great idea. His grand plan. His oh so clever scheme. His fault. His fault. His fault.

“Stop it.”

The voice sliced through Sirius’ thoughts like a machete, halting him in his tracks and ending his previously endless pacing across the confined space of Hagrid’s main room. Looking up from where he’d been staring at his restless hands, Sirius turned his head towards the voice’s source, peering at Remus through the curtain of his straggly hair. He hadn’t realised he’d started to speak his thoughts out-loud. But then he wasn’t entirely conscious of a lot of things he did at the moment. Thank Merlin he’d held himself together long enough to appear at least marginally sane last night.

From his place sat on the couch, elbows lent on his thighs and clasped hands dangling between his knees, Remus leant forward and looked up at Sirius with the same passively calm expression he’d worn all day. “You’ve made yourself bleed.”

Looking back at his hands, Sirius realised Remus was right. He’d been picking at his nails and the skin at their edges and his thumb was indeed bleeding. He hadn’t even noticed. Purely out of having no better alternative, he placed the wounded edge of his thumb in his mouth and sucked, scowling at Remus a little bitterly through his hair as he did. If Remus hadn’t pointed it out he wouldn’t have noticed how much it stung.

Besides he felt vaguely justified scowling at Remus right now. How could he just sit there, so calm? He’d even slept. Remus Lupin, the resident insomniac of the marauders twenty four days out of twenty eight - Remus never had a problem sleeping just before and just after the moon, he’d always been too exhausted - had managed to sleep despite the fact that any minute Aurors and Hit Wizards could come bursting through the door.

Sirius didn’t know whether to tear his hair out in frustration at Remus’ lack of concern, or marvel at his apparent faith in Harry and his friends to not turn them in.

“Sirius. You need to calm down.” Remus spoke up again, his tone soothing but weary. “When Harry comes back if he see’s you like this it’ll only frighten him.”

“If he comes back.” Sirius muttered, returning to his pacing.

“Harry’s a smart boy.” Remus reasoned in return. “You’ve watched him with Peter just as I have. He’d already begun to see things weren’t right there some time ago. He just didn’t know why. Now he has more to work with he’ll make the right decision.”

Sirius couldn’t think of anything to say in reply to that. He wanted to have that much faith in Harry. He really did. But he couldn’t, not matter how hard he tried. Harry was his godson, the baby he’d loved from the moment he was born, perhaps even before, but the looming prospect of recapture, the bitter knowledge that Peter had managed to escape justice before clouded his head. And there was a part of him, the very darkest, angriest part of him that didn’t want to wait for Harry to make up his mind; didn’t want to wait for fate to deal him his hand.

No, that dark and angry part of him just wanted to run into the castle and kill the treacherous little bastard right now, everything else be damned. Make the worm pay. Make him suffer. Make him writhe in agony in payment for all the agony he’d given. To him, to Harry, to Remus. And then, then when Peter had no more pain to give, he’d kill him, his life in payment for those taken. For Lily. For James.

Justice.

No. Breathe. Not Justice. That dark and angry part wanted Revenge. That dark and angry part sounded more and more like his mother every-time he listened to it, an echo of the rants he’d endured endlessly as a child.

‘Shame of this house! You’ll pay for what you’ve done! You’ll pay in kind! Every hurt you’ve given me you filthy blood traitor, I’ll take from you!’

Peter deserved to die. To die painfully.

‘Is this what you’ve become Sirius? The very person you spent your life trying not to be? One of them? One of your family? That’s not the Sirius I knew. That’s not the Sirius I can trust.’

Remus’ voice. Remus’ words. That morning in the shrieking shack as he’d begged Remus to help him kill Peter. That was why he stayed. That was why he paced the tiny space of this hut rather than return to haunting the passages and walls of the castle waiting for his opportunity to strike. Because Remus was right. Because if he killed Peter then he would become everything Peter had made him out to be.

Because if he killed Peter now, then any chance he would have had of convincing Harry of his innocence would be lost. Any chance of fulfilling the promise he’d made to James twelve years ago would be lost.

So he would have to wait.

And hope.

*****

At the sound of knocking on her office door, Professor Minerva McGonagall acting Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - and sworn enemy of Ministry bureaucracy as of eleven o’clock the previous evening when she’d woken to find herself stuck by her cheek with drool to page forty eight of an admissions form - looked up and valiantly resisted the urge to growl. She had left precise, concise, and above all else clear to the point of blunt instructions that she was not to be disturbed except in the case of some dire catastrophe, or should the fates smile, the return of Albus Dumbledore. The former of course being the more likely, and the latter the much hoped for; mainly as she wished to hex the former Headmaster and her long time friend into next Thursday. If the last week had convinced her of nothing else, it was that Albus had been dealing with paperwork by casting incendios at it until it went away.

As the door opened she mentally braced herself for the likely pronouncement of incoming doom, folded her hands on top of the table, straightened her back and waited.

She did not have to wait long, as a young nervous, yet unfailingly friendly face peered around the door.

“Sorry to interrupt Professor. But he insisted he see you.” The young woman said with the tone of someone who knew they were going against explicit instructions but had been left with no other course of action other than to be mean. Charity Burbage did not do mean.

“He who Professor Burbage?” Minerva asked with as much patience as she could muster. Instead of replying however, Burbage only opened the door wider to reveal a very familiar young face. “It’s alright Charity.” She sighed with a pinched smile and a beckoning gesture with her fingers towards the small second year. “I will see Mr Potter. You may return to your duties. Well Mr Potter? Don’t dally in the doorway, whatever urgent matter you felt required my immediate attention enough to badger your poor head of house, I assume you would rather not discuss it across the length of my office.”

“No professor.” Harry answered as he hurriedly crossed the space to stand in front of McGonagall’s wide desk. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.”

McGonagall made a sceptical noise and removed her glasses, giving the boy a look that was guaranteed to make the younger students squirm. Sure enough, Harry shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot and continued to keep his gaze fixed on the table top.

Now Harry Potter was a hard one to read a great deal of the time. He was an accomplished liar for a start. Exceptionally talented at keeping secrets, and possessed an enormous amount of cynicism where authority figures and adults in general were concerned. But over the last year and a half, Minerva prided herself in the fact that she had not only earned the boy’s fragile trust but also had reached a point with young Harry where he did not approach her with the initial preconception that something bad would happen if he were to relax his guard. “Mr Potter, despite what the Weasley twins may have you believe, I am not psychic. Nor am I blessed with great amounts of spare time to simply sit here watch you fidget.”

“Sorry.” Harry mumbled, then taking a deep breath he looked up and met McGonagall’s eyes for the first time since entering the room. “Do you remember when you told me all about Pettigrew? About what happened to him and how he was friends with my parents?”

“I do indeed recall that conversation.” McGonagall nodded, brow furrowing as she wondered where Harry was going with this.

“You said if I had any more questions, I should come and talk to you...” Harry trailed off and Minerva sighed, sitting back.

With a wave of her hand she directed him towards a chair. “So I did. Have a seat Potter.” As Harry moved to sit down, Minerva studied his troubled expression and leant forward. “What is it you would like to know exactly? And if you don’t mind me asking, why have you decided to wait to ask me until now?”

There was a flicker. It was so quick she almost missed it, and would have done so had she not been studying his face so intently. A hesitation. A battle. And with the clarity of the psychic she had just professed not to be, McGonagall knew the next words out of Harry’s mouth would be a lie.

“Pettigrew said something to me and it just got me thinking.”

A not very subtle lie either. Minerva knew for a fact that Harry and Peter had not spoken to each other in weeks, something Pettigrew lamented often when she took a moment to check up on him. Either Potter was slipping, which was in its own way a good thing, or he wasn’t comfortable lying to her. More progress? Perhaps. She would have to see what it was Harry actually wanted to know about. “Go on.”

Harry nodded, then he delivered his request with all the finesse and subtlety of the Hogwarts express coming off its rails. “I want to know about Sirius Black.”

Taking a sharp inhale through her nose, Minerva sat back in her seat. “I see.” She had of course told him about Black. At least, she’d made sure he knew enough that Peter couldn’t inadvertently drop a bombshell on him. She had not, admittedly, gone into any great detail. “And what exactly would you like to know about Sirius Black?”

“Anything I guess.” Harry shrugged, looking uncomfortable before his expression turned dismissive and Minerva narrowed her eyes. He’d gone unreadable again. There was something he wasn’t telling her. Something that was the root of his curiosity. After a moment, he spoke again. “I guess, I guess I’m just wondering why my parents made him my godfather if he was...”

When Harry trailed off with a confused and frustrated shake of his head, Minerva took pity. Standing, she walked around her desk until she was beside his seat. "Let me show you something.”

Once Harry was stood she led him across the room to space of wall between two immaculately neat bookshelves. There, also precisely neat, were hung a serious of group photographs, all in chronological order. “I have been a teacher here at Hogwarts for over thirty years, but this year was to be my twenty second as head of Gryffindor house. The first year that I was head of house, was also the year your parents started here.” Pointing, she indicated the first of the many photos and smiled tightly as Harry leaned closer. “There’s your father. And your mother at the end of the row. Do you see who is sitting either side of your father?”

“Well that has to be Pettigrew and... that’s. That’s Sirius Black isn’t it?” Harry asked in clear shock.

“A Black in Gryffindor.” Minerva nodded with a wry chuckle. “Never before or since have I heard the sorting hat make a pronouncement that resulted in such complete silence in the Great Hall. You could have heard a mouse breathe... His family were not impressed. The Blacks had been in Slytherin as far back as there are records. But, there you have it. The sorting hat put him in Gryffindor, along with your father and by the end of their first year they were as close friends as I have ever known. They were both charming, witty, exceptionally gifted and both formidable quiddich players. Black was a beater, although he was fair keeper if we needed a sub. They were also mischievous, oh dear me were they mischievous. They were fiercely loyal to one another too, and I can think of only one incident where a disagreement between them extended beyond a day or so. They were much like yourself and Mr Weasley in fact, although with a far greater propensity for trouble if you can believe it. And they remained close through all of their time here and beyond. No one was surprised when your father asked Black to be best man at his wedding, nor when Black was chosen to be your godfather. That was how close they were.”

Now she sighed, her eyes sad as she took in the smiling faces of the seventh picture on the wall, then they ticked down to Harry. His expression was focussed, thoughtful, intense as he studied the wall of photographs.

“If they were so close...” Harry began quietly. “Why would he betray them?”

Minerva pursed her lips, her hand coming to rest unconsciously on Harry’s shoulder; although who was drawing comfort and reassurance from whom was open for debate. “Why indeed? Black’s betrayal... in some ways it was a shock to those of us who knew him well, but then again, he was a Black. Never has there been a family more fanatical about blood purity, or more enamoured with the dark arts than the Blacks, and they made no secret of their support of You Know Who. Exactly when or why Sirius joined his service, I just can’t tell you, Potter. I suspect the only one who will ever know the real truth is Black himself.”

Again silence fell over the room as Harry studied the pictures. The smiling faces. The laughter and clear affection in the quick sideways glances shared between the friends in each of the first seven pictures. The adoring looks shared between James and Lily in the seventh. The outrage and shock on Peter’s face in the fifth as bottles of water appear from the folds of the robes of James and Sirius and emptied themselves over the smaller boy’s head. The mischievous smirk on Remus Lupin’s face, quickly hidden behind a reproving frown in the same picture.

Perhaps Harry had sensed the focus of her attention, or merely followed her line of sight, but he suddenly broke the silence. “Who is he?”

Her attention drawn away from the pictures, McGonagall narrowed her eyes slightly. There was something off about the question, but she couldn’t place it. She saw no harm in answering however. “Remus Lupin.”

Harry nodded and looked back to the picture. “He was a friend of Dad’s too wasn’t he?”

Now it was Minerva’s turn to cast a curious look at the boy beside her. Harry just shrugged. “Peter mentioned him.”

Again, something didn’t ring true. No exactly a lie, but not exactly the truth either. Words spoken a little too casually, a little too quickly. A question predicted, an answer ready-prepared.

“He was indeed. But also of your Mother’s.” She finally answered. “Even before your Mother would give your father the time of day she and Lupin were friends.”

“What happened to him?” Harry asked curiously, although he at least knew part of the answer. For the last three months at least, Remus Lupin had been stalking him and his friends around Hogwarts.

Now Minerva sighed sadly, a pensive look on her face as she studied Harry carefully. How much to tell the boy. It certainly wasn’t her place to reveal Remus’ lycanthropy not that she would anyway, but was it fair to tell Harry what she and Dumbledore both suspected? That in all likelihood Black had already found and murdered Lupin? Probably not. He was just a boy. A Boy who had seen and heard and learned far too much for one his age already.

Finally she answered. “I don’t know.”

It was the truth, and also a lie. Given Harry’s thoughtful and somehow disappointed expression, Minerva had to wonder whether Harry knew it as well as she did.

Professor McGonagall looked down at her young charge with increasing concern; anxiety suddenly lodging in her chest. Twice now Harry had claimed to have gleaned information from a man McGonagall knew all too well that the boy disliked and spoke to only when forced. And while Harry was full of carefully worded questions, more than once since his arrival in her office, Minerva had been struck with the feeling that Harry wasn’t looking for answers, rather confirmation of answers he already had.

A sudden interest in Sirius Black.

A reluctance to be truthful as to where he had gained knowledge Minerva knew neither she or any of the other staff would have given him.

His obvious frustration and indecision.

Laying her hand back on his shoulder, she drew his attention from the wall of pictures again, offering him a small apologetic look when he startled at the contact. Turning the boy to face her, she stared down at his now defensive expression. “Harry, is there something perhaps you need to tell me?”

*****

Night had fallen. The light of the waning half moon fought valiantly against the ardent shine of stars, but was now too far diminished to win out over those distant suns. Despite the best efforts of the March sunshine to warm the day, the darkness brought with it the crisp reminder of winter’s reluctance to depart.

Behind the closed shutters of Hagrid’s hut, a lone figure sat silently on one the sturdy but careworn chairs around the small table. His shoulders hunched, he absently rolled his wand across the scratched surface. The back door lay slightly ajar, the icy draught curling around the man’s ankles. In front of the hearth, two dogs lay curled against the cold, one asleep and snoring, one only seemingly so.

Remus picked up his wand and ran it through his fingers, sighing deeply. His eyes strayed to the dogs; more specifically the larger, shaggier dog. Sirius had thrown a fit during the afternoon, his frustration, worry and impatience getting the best of him. He’d yelled, cursed, panicked, thrown things and then in a moment of horrified realisation as Remus had been forced to duck the rain of shattered Pottery, he’d dropped into his animagus form. He’d been like that ever since.

As he watched Sirius now, he saw the dog’s ears twitch, then perk up; the large head rising and turning to face the door, expression intent. This was the moment they’d been waiting for all day. The moment that would decide their fate. The moment they’d fought about constantly all day. Standing and moving from the table, Remus took up his wand, even as Sirius cautiously padded away from the fire and closer to the door, sniffing the air.

Someone was coming.

Tbc...