--Forgive me, James. I tried to protect him. I tried so hard…--

The night of the third TriWizard task through Sirius' eyes. What he saw…what he thought…how he felt.

Setting: Goblet of Fire, between chapters thirty-one and thirty-six

Characters: Sirius, Harry, Dumbledore, others

Pairings: Slight Ron/Hermione, if you look hard enough; slight Sirius/Hermione

Rating: PG

Spoilers: Through book four

Brevis Fabula I:

--Through His Eyes--

It wasn't easy, being on the outreaches like this. Not easy at all.

He had been a fugitive now for just under two years…it seemed exceptionally longer, especially when ever fiber of his cursed, guilt-ridden, irritated hide ached for the fortitude of the castle walls, for the safety of the Quidditch grounds…to watch, to referee in his own right…to stand guard.

But he couldn't be a distraction…couldn't. Not tonight. They had to believe he was still stolen away to his cave-side dwelling, in the company of a magical creature that, by all rights, was as much a fugitive as he was. Had to believe that…because otherwise they would all worry, needlessly, stupidly, just for him…and that was something he didn't want, something they certainly didn't need.

Not tonight.

But his own worries, unlike theirs, were not easily sated.

He stole onto the grounds under a cover of quickly-encroaching darkness; he was bone-wearied, exhausted, thin around the ribs and hollow in the flanks. His lack-luster, shaggy coat blended perfectly into the inky shadows of the night, so that only his eyes—pale, glowing, penetrating eyes that had seen far too much death and suffering in one lifetime—shone through the darkness, pierced through the gloom, though the pretense of the night…and he searched, searched desperately for a resting place. A place where he could see, yet still remain, by all accounts, himself un-see-able. A place…

He stumbled upon Hagrid's hut by absolute accident—he was paying little attention to where his instinct-bound, thudding footfalls carried him. He was only dimly surprised when he lifted his head—which had been lowered, nostrils snuffling along the unseeing path he followed, searching out any scent of one who might betray his true self—and saw the faint, reddish glow of the cabin…and beyond its colossal berth, the massive, glimmering curvature of the Beaubaxtons' carriage rising from the darkness like the sinister gleam of an as-of-yet unhatched dragon's egg.

Instant awareness raised the fur along his hackles, set his body to shuddering. He dropped into a crouch and slipped backward into the fringe of the trees—watching. Waiting, as instinct commanded.

After several seemingly endless moments, the large, rutted-faced door to the cabin eased inward on hinges that sounded badly in need of oiling, and the grounds-keeper himself emerged, adorned in a great moleskin jacket that would have seemed better suited as a hearthrug. He chanced a single, furtive glance toward the enormous carriage dominating the western half of his land…and then hastened away into the gloom.

The moments continued to wear on—the shadows seemed to seep forth from the forest, pooling around the massive shape crouched at the treeline. The great, shaggy-haired dog gazed about with its wide, wise eyes—deciding.

And then, softly, he crept forward.

The darkness has ensconced fully upon the distant western horizon as he stole forward into the large, paddock-sized plot of land that was traditionally home to the largest pumpkins any human outside of the wizarding world could possibly have seen…at the present, however, the place reeked with the faintest scent of abandonment, as though it had not been tended to for some time. Indeed, the dark, churned earth was beginning to be suffused by thick, pale-stemmed weeds.

With a final cautious glance toward the seemingly-dormant cabin…Hagrid's boarhound seemed to be immersed in a deep, un-stirring slumber…he settled himself amongst the weeds, keeping one ear inclined aside at all times, detecting the slightest movements in the night—and he set his eyes upon the Quidditch field, a mere silhouette against the rapidly-deepening mantle of the night. Seated, with his haunches brushing the sun-baked loam, his tail curled about his aft-paws, his forelegs ramrod straight, supporting his weight, he honed his senses into the distance…and tried very hard not to think.

Thoughts, of course, are overpowering things, and he found himself entirely unable to numb his psyche for any prolonged period of time; within several heartbeats, he found his mind wandering, to dark notions and even darker, deeper fears.

It was foolish, stupid of me, to get this attached. He mused wretchedly, the tip of his great, unkempt tail twitching at the thought. Thirteen years of caring for no one but myself…and the memories of those I have failed…and suddenly I find a purpose to live beyond my revenge? Dangerous…I've fallen in too deeply…and he deserves a better man, a more able man, to care for him…

He scuffed his forepaw against the dust, a very human gesture of resignation, and turned his eyes toward Hagrid's cabin, briefly. A thousand painful memories flooded over him as he detected the echo of his own features in the reflective glass window. A shiver wracked down his aching spine.

A man…who is not even a man...nor a beast. He realized, despondently. Who walks the line between both…a very dangerous line…

How had he come to care so much? To risk his life for someone he had known for only fourteen years, and for twelve of them, at only a distance? Yet he had cared…for so long. Hearing the others in their prison cells in the dead of night, cursing the name of the boy who had defeated The Dark Lord, as they restlessly slumbered…he had wanted to protect that boy, to shield him from the sinister devices of those whom he, as a mere infant, had cast down from glory.

And yet, he found now, he could do little else but watch, and wait…and pray. Pray to every god he knew that he was wrong, that they all were, that the danger was all imagined and that nothing could go wrong, nothing, nothing…

A great, resounding exclamation of excitement erupted upward from the Quidditch field, seeming to reverberate against the very heavens themselves; his head, still inclined aside toward the cabin, swung around at once, and a new sense of urgency poured through him. His forepaws began to dance sporadically against the soil, in a manner reflective of a human being drumming his or her nails upon any stable surface—it was a gesture of utter abandon, of nervousness personified.

Don't die…don't die…I won't be able to live with myself if you do. His mind seethed the words, forcing him to confront his deepest, most repressed fears. For one wild moment, he considered showing himself before the assembly, if only to catch a glimpse of the one he cared so deeply for…

But he could not risk the distraction…

A second, raucous howling pierced through the night, followed almost instantaneously by a third…and he felt he could bear it no more. Lowering himself to his stomach, head resting on paws, he released a low whimper of agony through his gritted fangs. Already he felt as though a piece of him was missing…as though some terrible, inevitable thing was lurking at the corners, waiting to devour, to kiss, to consume…

How did I get in this far? He wondered once more.

Several flashes of light exploded throughout the stadium, bringing the tumult of the assembly to greater heights; he ached to know, to see for himself, but something restrained him—an invisible hand upon his shoulder, perhaps, a distant voice whispering in his ear.

This is his task. This is what he was destined to do.

Scarcely consoled by the notion, his body rocked with another spasmodic, anxious whimper.

Don't die. Don't die, Harry. Don't die.

The great, echoing cries of the crowd swelled high, and then receded; it seemed the world held its breath, and he with the rest, knowing that the excitement of the moment had faded, overrun by the strain of what was to come.

He was not so far distanced from them all, not so removed from those fortunate souls who witnessed the events firsthand, that his heart, too, did not cease its frantic pounding as a hoarse, agonized cry gashed through the silence of the night. His mind cowered away as his body would not, and he clawed desperately within his heart at the line that bound them…bound him to the boy, as though their souls were somehow entwined…and a sense of release flooded through him, loosening a fraction of the tension the sealed him, immobile, to the earth.

He's still alive.

Unable to bear the pain of the unknown, of the forthcoming, he rose to his great, travel-worn paws and began to pace, his head swinging, his eyes darting once and again toward the distant, shimmering stadium.

The pained yelling was silenced so abruptly, so unexpectedly, that it gave him brief pause. Angling aside, toward the Quidditch field once more, he waited for several silent moments with bated breath.

A jet of red sparks whipped upward from the stadium, hanging suspended in a brilliant array against the night sky, for a moment—before they rained, like bloody, sifted sugar…down, down, down into oblivion.

The thread that bound them told him nothing; he did not know….

Without even consciously making the decision, he resumed his pacing.

Around, and around, and around; his footfalls carved a well-defined track in the untended earth; the weariness seemed about to consume him, after his painful trek, precursor to the harrowing evening…

Nothing will happen to him. He reassured himself, his steps slackening as exhaustion overrode his anxiety-bred determination. Not with the entire force of Dumbledore's finest in attendance. He'll be fine.

A great, many-voiced gasp hissed upward into the night; he slowed to a near-standstill, his footfalls barely more than whispered breaths, carrying him forward several paces amongst the tightly-hemmed weeds. His eyes traced the movements of several vivid, blinding flashes that arced upward from the stadium, livid like bruises against the night sky…spells being cast, the voices that spoke them remaining indistinguishable even to his finely-attuned ears.

After several breathless moments, a single, spindly leg arched upward from the confines of the Quidditch field, just within the parameters of his eyesight…then sank from view, receding once more into the steeply-sloped hold of the stadium. His stomach plunged horribly as he was forcefully reminded of Aragog…the great, ancient spider that he had seen but once, during one of many misadventures into shadowed, dangerous places, in a past so distant it seemed like another lifetime altogether…

He approached the fore-edge of the pumpkin-patch, where the last remnants of what had once been a fence remained, erected with wooden stakes boring deep into the soil. Lurching upward, he rested his forepaws upon the top bar, and gazed away into the night, contemplating.

He was uncertain as to how much time had elapsed since his arrival in this desolate, lonely place. Certainly, it would not last much longer now…what was to happen, would happen, and he would know for certain the outcome, within moments…

A great, blinding sense of pain erupted through his midsection, suddenly, unexpectedly, paralyzing him, doubling him over with his forepaws braced still upon the fencing—just as a collective gasp of fear and denial rippled toward him across the deserted school-grounds. A distant voice screamed—screamed long, and loud, as though in true pain…and then the shocked, disbelieving bellowing began.

A great, rushing wind seemed to fill his ears; he couldn't breathe. It was that night again, it seemed…that night thirteen years ago when he had woken, sweating and shaking, knowing that something terrible had transpired, feeling it—that sense of pain, that agony of fear—scorching through him, to the marrow, to the core…the night that his closest friend had been murdered…

No! The pain ripped through him, the sense of failure, the knowing, the not knowing…that something horrible had come to pass, that the cries echoing from the stadium were a symbol of a great and terrible tragedy, that the mighty, deafening boom of the Headmaster's magically magnified voice meant more than just an announcement of the champion…

Anguish struck a chord deep within his body, in the very heart of the bond…and he knew that something was irrevocably amiss.

No…no…not him…NO!

In his great fury and pain mingled, he crushed his weight forward, shattering the fence into several large, serrated-edged fractions. He thudded heavily onto his forepaws, and for a moment it seemed that his shaggy coat receded, the skin of a man gleaming beneath…and then his luminous eyes shuttered, and he inhaled deeply, several times, regaining his control in a heartbeat.

James…help him…he can't do this alone.

The wind wafted past him—a sigh, a sealing. He cast a final, anxious glance toward the stadium, and a massive shudder of tension rippled through him once more.

It's in your hands, now.

And he began to pace once more.

He reflected—as he circled among the rush-like overgrowth permeating the once-nutrient-rich soil—on how their chance encounter nearly twenty-four months ago had changed him—changed things about him that he had believed instilled forever. How he had thought that revenge was all that drove him…but there was protectiveness, responsibility, too. He had thought that the friend who had betrayed him…him, and his closest friend,for the sake of personal gain…was the only one that mattered. Mattered more than anything…more than eating or sleeping or breathing. But he had learned that he was wrong there, too…because there was a boy. An odd, strangely compassionate, yet still voracious boy, with the face of his father and the eyes of his mother, and somehow, lost even to the dementia of a single, so-near goal, he had known…that boy mattered. He meant something, something more than for simple use, more than just a means to an end. He was important…important to them all, but moreso to him. And he had recognized this knowledge, proved his devotion by sacrificing his revenge on the one that had ruined them all…

How he had come to regret that decision! Yet he knew…even now, consumed by worry, his ears angled toward the distant stadium that reverberated with the distressed cries of the attendees…that boy still mattered, more than all the rest. He would walk through fire for that boy, pass through any doorway, wade to any depths. He would die for that boy.

As he continued to trudge a familiar circle through the vegetation encroaching upon the unattended face of the small land-plot, his trail dragging against the dust, his head bowed beneath the line of his shoulders, he became aware of a much more feeble, repressed feeling of comprehension beginning to burn in his heart; less of a comprehension, he realized, after a moment, and more of a percolation within his gut—as though he had devoured an entire barrel full of flobberworms, and they were currently writhing about in his stomach.

With this indeterminable knowledge came an unshakably watched feeling, as thought the shadows fluting all about him were near to gaining true form. He halted his repetitive pacing, casting swift glances to his right and to his left, scenting the air, tracing, detecting…

And in a flash, it became suddenly, blindingly clear…so clear that he wondered why he hadn't realized it before. The cause of all of this…the source, the meaning.

He had heard them speak of it a thousand times in that dark, forbidden fortress, had heard them wailing and muttering about it in the depths of their restless, tormented dreams. Words whose meanings he had shied—had truly cringed—away from…

Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!...Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master!...Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe!

It wasn't possible!

And yet…

Would it not explain everything?

I'm such a fool! He cursed himself, savagely. It was right before me, all this time! Why did I never realize it?…I heard them speaking of it often enough in that terrible place. Why did I not realize it, that the end…the end was the beginning! It was never over, they were never truly gone, they were just waiting…waiting in the wings…waiting for the opportunity…waiting for him!

A blistering howl of negation ripped from between his teeth as he spun to face the stadium—and a great, blinding flash erupted from the heart of the Quidditch field. The screams arose anew…rending the sky cleanly as far as his resting place…and he felt as though that half of him, that missing fraction, had somehow been restored; certainly, there was a darker taint to it, as there was to the relief that flooded through him…but it was relief, it was wholeness, nonetheless.

He had to know…had to return to the castle, to tell them all that he did know. If he was right…if his mind, clear even in this fatigued form, had truly settled upon the darkest of possible scenarios, and had amply comprehended…then they were facing war.

Hedarted forward several paces, desperation aching in his bones…and then halted, his mind aflame.

Go to him now, and it will only upset him. He realized, tensely. He'll be too worried about my concealment to look after himself. I can't let him do that…not this time.

Restless with impatience, he resumed his pacing, the familiar sound of each footfall ringing like the bell in the High Tower within his ears. Gradually, the leathery flesh of his pads began to dissolve, yielding to the unforgiving earth, opening bleeding fissures in his well-worn paws. Pain ratcheted through his nerves with each step, but he dutifully ignored the it…this weak sensation of throbbing was nothing, nothing next to all that he had endured in Azkaban…

It seemed like a month's time had elapsed—though it could not have been much more than several minutes later—when he saw a darkly-robed shape advancing across the grounds toward the cabin. Instantly he halted—the true extent of the injuries to his feet becoming obvious when he was immobile—and he squinted warily into the night, attempting to discern…

He would have known that sharp-nosed, piercing-eyed face anywhere; Professor Minerva McGonagall, shrouded in a thick cloak which, upon closer inspection, appeared to be a deep, royal shade of maroon, her expression slightly nonplussed beyond the usual stern cast, was descending upon him.

Fearful uncertainty kindled in his heart, giving pause to the relief and even temporary excitement that surged through him—Here's what I need, one of Dumbledore's closest friends to speak with!—the moment he recognized her; warily, he retreated a step, lifting his right foreleg defensively; he would never attack, of course, but of this she was unaware…unless she knew…unless…

But if she knew it was him…if she saw through the pretenses, just as she had done when he was her student, again, in another lifetime…would she call down the fires of Azkaban on him? He knew how mysterious it must seem…so many a strange thing transpiring at the school, and his presence on the night when…if his suspicions proved correct…

Well, certainly, it would seem a strange thing…

Professor McGonagall halted before the jagged ruins of the half-fence; she gazed down at the broken sectionals, an expression of surprise and disgust mingling upon her face. Impatiently—anxiously—he watched her. He waited.

At long last, she lifted her eyes to his, and her gaze, though full of uncertainty, remained somehow still firm.

" Well, you've certainly managed to make a mess of this, haven't you?" She inclined her head sharply toward the ruined fence; despite the urgency that wreathed the entire essence of the eve, he could not restrain a low swishing of his shaggy tail. Seeming to take encouragement from this friendly display—Does she fear me?—McGonagall straightened rigidly, and continued, " Professor Dumbledore has asked me to escort you to his office." Her tone was clipped, stern, with just a hint of disproval flavoring her words. Then, with utmost reluctance, she removed one hand from the neck of her cloak and patted her thigh, stiffly. " Come."

He bristled slightly, at first…he did not take kindly to being summoned like a common cur…and then, abruptly, he relaxed.

She's right…I have made a mess of things. He acknowledged, grimly. The least I can do is be there for Harry…if he needs me…

He trotted forward to Professor McGonagall's side, and gazed up at her, patiently waiting. She held his gaze for no more than a heartbeat; then, squaring her shoulders, she swiveled on heel and marched toward the castle, with him padding after her, limping with each alternate stride.

All was silent, for a time; from a distance, he could see a dark tide of bodies flooding from the Quidditch grounds, could hear their muffled conversation filtering upon the wind. He listened, intent, attempting to discern any recognizable voices…

" It has been a strange evening, hasn't it?"

McGonagall's voice—exceptionally loud, it seemed, after the prolonged quiet—drew him abruptly from his reverie. He glanced upward, saw that she had followed his gaze…and, by pretense, merely canted his head in true canine fashion.

The fierce, elderly witch drew her cloak more tightly about her narrow shoulders, and rocked her head slowly aside.

" Very strange, indeed…Krum's actions…Potter and Diggory's vanishing during the trial…" His ears perked at these words, his muscles growing rigid, " Karkaroff's disappearance…and then Moody, attacking young Potter…very lucky Dumbledore, Snape, and myself arrived when we did…" There was a definite tremor to her voice as McGonagall concluded, and he felt as though his heart would burst with fear.

Alastor Moody…attack Harry? That doesn't make sense…

" Of course, " McGonagall continued, her voice still faintly aquiver. " If Albus is right…and I daresay he is…then we're not dealing with the true Alastor Moody, but rather, an imposter…"

I suppose it makes sense now. He concluded wryly.

Leaning forward, he bumped his nose gently against Professor McGonagall's hand, drawing her from her troubled thoughts. She glanced swiftly down at him, and blinked, seeming to come back to herself.

" How very foolish…how strange of a night it is." She mused. " That I find myself speaking of a witch's troubles to a simple dog…"

He panted up at her, open-mouthed, his heart aching.

What a cruel world…what a terrible fate it was, to be unable to speak to those he had once cared for, simply for the sake of concealment…

They reached the castle moments later, to find that its great fore-doors were nearly overrun with students of all ages, desperate to return to the safety of deeply-beloved familiarity. He noted that the Hufflepuffs seemed particularly anxious to retreat from the cruel, wind-swept grounds, their expressions of numb disbelief echoed equally from eye to eye.

" Excuse me!" McGonagall hailed loudly as she began to wade through the students, the great, shaggy dog bounding at her heels. The bystanders parted readily before him, seeming frightened…he did not pause to pay them notice.

The muffled, overlapping words of the students left in their wake faded into dull background noise as they ascended staircase after winding staircase, side-by-side. He tried desperately not to think of the last time he had been here—when he had still been hunting for that traitorous friend…

If McGonagall's declaration of the boys' disappearance during the trial was as significant as he foresaw…if that betrayer had laid one hand on the boy's head…he swore vehement bloodshed, if only to himself, as they passed through the last of the barriers and ascended into Dumbledore's office.

McGonagall turned the handle of the great oak door, allowing him entrance, but she did not follow him.

" Please wait here, quietly." She added the last word with a severe look, and he made a great show of seating himself, holding her gaze levelly.

He would wait as long as he had to, to see that most-important boy…

McGonagall scrutinized him shrewdly for a moment more; then she pivoted on heel and closed the door softly at her back. His ears pricked, he listened for the sounds of her retreat…heard her muttering, " A useless, Muggle-raised dog! What use will Albus have for him?"…and then the low shuddering of the shifting stone gargoyle signaled her absolute departure.

A great, canine sigh erupted from the massive, shaggy dog—and morphed, as he did, becoming a low, human moan.

He was on his feet, brushing his overgrown hair, pitch dark as a raven's wing, from his forehead before the last of the canine fur had faded from his flesh. A smear of blood, silvered by moonlight, traced a path along his temple as he pulled his hand away; his palms and the soles of his feet were ripped raw and bleeding. Paying no mind to his injuries, he approached the window at the far end of the room—passing the desk, aclutter with the odds and ends required in executing the tasks of a Headmaster—and, with his arms crossed over his chest, he surveyed the grounds.

He could scarcely see the Quidditch field, even from this distance, nearer than his previous dwelling had been; clouds had amassed upon the distant horizon, veiling the moonlight; he was only dimly aware of the fact that his hands were burning with pain, and that he was completely and utterly exhausted…there were other, more pressing things to dwell upon…

He's back. It was a grim, undeniable notion, one that brought a shiver whispering through him. I can feel him. I know what he wants, what he's after…

In a movement of anguish, swift as the lunging motion of a canine, he rested his fist against his forehead, convulsive shudders clawing down his spine.

Forgive me, James. I tried to protect him. I tried so hard…

A soft, warm note…like a nostalgic melody, the voice from a happy memory…wafted toward his ears. He glanced sharply upward as, in a flash of crimson and aurulent wings, a phoenix glided forward to perch itself on his shoulder. It lowered its head; he ran his fingers wonderingly over its soft plumage.

" I remember you." He murmured. " James and I found Snape trying to transfigure you once…on a dare from one of his friends. We saved you, didn't we?"

The great fowl blinked gently at him; and a single, glistening tear dripped from its fierce eye, onto his palm.

Instantly, the ache of the injury vanished; he could not repress a strained smile, touching the bird lightly upon its throat.

" Thank you." He murmured.

The phoenix merely crooned—once, softly—and turned aside, rising from his shoulder, gliding noiselessly into a shadowed corner of the room.

The seconds passed in silence, leaving him to his disorganized thoughts, one blending effortlessly into the next. He conjured up plans…outlandish, wishful plans…of how he intended to defend that boy, the son of his deceased friend. How they could vanish…disappear, never to be seen unless they willed it so. He wiled the minutes away in unachievable musings, slaking the pain and desperation that gnawed against his insides—until, at last, the door swung open soundlessly behind him.

He wasn't certain what compelled the ceasing of his breaths—perhaps the fear that, even now, it had all been in vain, that the one who mattered most, his reason for living, had been torn away by their enemies—but there was a wonderful sort of release in seeing them both behind him…Albus Dumbledore, his usually serene face contorted in a mask of indecision and worry, his eyes aglow with thoughtfulness…and there, at his side, head bent, shoulders slumped, looking for all the world as though he was a thoroughly whipped cur, was…

" Harry." He could hear the relief saturating his own voice. How did I get in this deep? He hastened to the boy's side, resting his hands briefly on Harry's shoulders, searching for his gaze, powerless to hold it…then guiding him to a chair, pushing him gently down into it, all the while unable to properly voice the relief and anxiety that burned hot as flame within him. " I knew it, I knew something like this…" He hesitated, unwilling to express the shadowed depths to which his fears had hastened him, and he simply concluded, " What happened?"

Dumbledore, gliding with a grace belying his years, to stand behind his desk, began in a low, rumbling voice, " As Minerva no doubt informed you, however unwittingly, Sirius, the Alastor Moody we have known for the past months is no more an Auror nor a loyal wizard than Rita Skeeter…and I daresay that's no compliment." His mouth turned up slightly at the corner, then slid almost at once back into slack. " No, the man I hired…rather foolishly, I might add, how could I have been so blind?...is none other than an imposter by the name of Bartemius Crouch."

As Dumbledore explained, the weary man pushed his dark hair from his forehead once more and continued to watch the boy…to watch him as his head sank lower and his eyes grew darker with exhaustion, with memories, and every few moments he would shift, wincing as though he was in physical pain…

In a rush of wings, the phoenix glided past him, and landed on Harry's knee. A spark of life seemed to enter the boy's eyes…and it was something of a relief, to witness as much. So much so, in fact, that the man was better able to focus, to turn aside and face Dumbledore as the ancient Headmaster concluded his speech.

" And so, we come full circle." Dumbledore murmured, his tone strangely bitter, heavy with timeless sadness. " The wise Headmaster who thought he was deceiving his enemies was himself deceived. Nearly poetic, isn't it?" Once more, his features relaxed into a docile half-smile, and he lowered himself into his chair opposite the boy. His voice strangely business-like, he continued.

" I need to know what happened after you touched the Portkey in the maze, Harry…."

And so it went; words exchanged, tales told, and all the while the man and the boy grew equally more exhausted. There were strange lurches and dragging, aching lulls in the story, while occasionally something penetrated through the thick haze of disbelief and distance surrounding him, piercing him through with a thousand daggers…

" And then he unwrapped the blankets, and I saw…I saw him, Professor…"

" I'd never seen anything like it, all of them Apparating there…"

" And he was just staring, staring, and I couldn't believe he was dead…"

The boy spoke in a monotonous voice, as though describing things seen through the eyes of another, and all the while the man grew more concerned, more strained, more powerless to control the hatred of the enemy as it flooded through him. How much easier it was to sort these emotions in his other form, he mused wryly, when everything was as clear as the night before his eyes and the ground beneath his paws…

" And then he took out this knife, and…I don't know what happened, Professor…I just couldn't fight him, and…he cut me…"

The words burned into the travel-weary man as the boy spoke them, and he swore loudly, the face of the betrayer fresh in his mind. His grip on Harry's shoulder tightened—I'll kill him, I swear I will…he'll die for this—as he watched, as if from afar, Dumbledore's approach; the headmaster spoke, distantly, his expression becoming strangely satisfied…but he heard it all, saw it all through a haze of red.

It was all he could do not to give over to his instincts, to transform, to hunt down that traitor…

And then Dumbledore retreated, returned to his seat, his face a carefully blank mask as the boy continued.

" He told them that he wouldn't forgive, that he wouldn't forget…"

" They were throwing themselves all over him, begging…it was really sick…"

" He gave me my wand, and we…well, we started to duel…"

" I hid behind the gravestone…"

" We attacked, and our wands, they…connected…"

Silence wreathed around them as his voice tapered into a whisper; the boy stared downward, and the man watched him, and Albus watched the man…and the man spoke, lowly, wonderingly, his mind unable to comprehend…

" The wands connected? Why?"

More words, more answers, many of which did not register; he was only dimly aware of a faint numbness coming over him, protecting him, shielding him from what he knew was coming. Words swirled, spat through his mind, never fully plausible…

Priori Incantatem…

The Reverse Spell Effect?

A feather from the tail of the same phoenix…

What happens when a wand meets its brother?

One of the wands will force the other to regurgitate spells it has preformed…

The hazy numbness was fluctuating, coming and receding in odd intervals, and he knew that something, something was coming…something horribly painful…and still he could not truly hear all that was said, not even those words which came from his own mouth…

Which means…that some form of Cedric must have reappeared…

Diggory came back to life?

A shadow would have emerged from the wand…

An echo…

And then the boy was speaking, and he fought against the haze, because the boy mattered, and what he said mattered…

" An old man." Harry whispered. " Bertha Jorkins, and…"

A pause.

" Your parents?"

" Yeah."

His hand, resting upon the boy's shoulder, constricted—and then, abruptly, released. Agony washed through him, nearly crippling him—crippling him for the sake of the loyalty beyond the grave, that his request to James in the deserted garden had been heard, crippling for the loss of two people he had loved above all others, crippling for his own failure…

He buried his face in his hands, futilely attempting to block their faces from his mind; their faces as he had seen them last, cold as the stone walls of the castle; Lily's eyes staring, James' wide with shock, both of them rigid, both of them seeming desperate, even in death…

Was that how the boy had seen him…the boy who mattered so much? Had he suffered through such agony, through the torture of seeing them as they had been when last any living soul had laid eyes upon them?

He had failed them, failed them all…his final promise to James, as he knelt with his hand on his friend's shoulder—I'll protect him, James, I swear it on my life. Voldemort…wherever he is…I swear to God, James, he'll never touch Harry again—his last words to Lily, as he stroked her flyaway hair from her face—I won't let your sacrifice be in vain—and every single vow he had made to Harry of protecting him…all of it had been rendered vain, naught, ruin.

All because he couldn't murder a backstabbing, turncoat rat…

James…Lily…I'm sorry…he's back, and I can't stop him…I'm not strong enough…I didn't escape from that place soon enough…what have I done?

"…You will come with me to the hospital wing." Dumbledore's speaking drew him suddenly from his tortured thoughts. He lifted his head from his hands, and he spied the Headmaster standing near the partially-ajar door as he addressed Harry. " I do not want you returning to the dormitory tonight. A Sleeping Potion, and some peace…Sirius, would you like to stay with him?"

A swift nod; he rose to his feet, and then, swiftly, succumbed to the familiar sensation of the fur spreading in swathes across his barrel-chest, his aching arms, his gaunt flanks, bringing forth to light the hollow-ribbed, bright-eyed canine that had watched the third task from afar what seemed like so long ago...

Side-by-side the three abandoned the solitude of the study; Harry's hand rested lightly, unconsciously, upon his ruff as they walked, and he leaned against the boy's leg, offering what little comfort he could.

There were people waiting for them in the hospital wing when they arrived—the Weasleys, he recognized—Bill and Molly—with Harry's closest friends, Ron and Hermione. The eyes of the latter darted to him swiftly, then away…grateful for their lack of attention, he forced his hackles—arching with anxiety—to lower once more, and he dipped his head.

Dumbledore spoke, his voice seeming no more than a wheedling rumble. Molly answered, her tone strained, though the words again drifted past him. He surveyed his godson keenly as Harry disappeared behind one of the curtains to change.

The moment Harry had vanished from sight, Hermione approached the large, wolfish animal, tentatively. He wagged his tail low, encouraging her, and she knelt, resting one arm across his withers. She met his eyes—wise, unafraid—and half-smiled.

" There was a dog in Hagrid's pumpkin patch." She whispered. " He saw it while he was leaving." She glanced furtively toward Molly, toward Bill, and then turned back to him and lowered her voice. " Somehow, I knew it was you…watching over him." Timidly, softly, she added, " Thank you."

He thought he liked this witch; there was something very Lily-like about her.

Molly Weasley summoned them all to the bedside then; with a swift glance his way, she began to pull up chairs for those gathered. He seated himself at the bedside, near the boy's head, and set his eyes vigilantly upon Harry's drawn, tense face.

" I'm all right." Harry assured them all, his voice still curiously flat. " Just tired."

The potion took affect almost immediately after Madam Pomfrey administered it—" You'll need to drink this all up, Harry, it's a potion for a dreamless sleep."—within moments, the boy was silent and slumbering.

Molly Weasley—her arms crossed upon her ample waist—began to nod off, as well, after the first hour passed; Hermione had slumped sideways, her head on Ron's shoulder, a trickle of spittle dribbling from the corner of her mouth as she dozed. Ron seemed acutely embarrassed at their contact, his neck shining red, but after several minutes of enduring Hermione's closeness, he, too, began to grow heavy about the lids.

Bill rose, after some time in silence, and, seeming to find no reason to justify his actions to what he assumed to be no more than a mere Muggle-pet, he departed.

Left alone to his own thoughts, the massive dog simply watched Harry, and thought.

The times in which he had considered vanishing for good had been numerous, of late; he knew that the Ministry was still searching for him with vengeance, and that, by drawing Harry and the others into his presence, he was endangering them as well. If they were caught in association with him, they would likely be tried for treason to the magical world…harboring a known fugitive, or in the least keeping secret his whereabouts…it was a dangerous line they walked, even more dangerous than his, as half man, half beast.

And yet he knew…knew in the deepest part of his soul, where he was still entirely human and untarnished by the cruelties of the world…that he owed this boy more than he could possibly express. The boy was his reason for living…his revenge unattainable, his friends gone, his life in ruins. This boy…this remarkably strong, fearless boy…was the key to everything; to defeating the Dark Lord, to bringing peace, to his own redemption.

But could he truly keep his promise to James, when he himself was a danger? When his name and Voldemort's were still spoken intertwined by the greater portion of the magical world?

He wondered.

Would it be better for the boy if he was simply no more? If he ceased all correspondence, abandoned all communication…withdrew from all of their lives forever?

No. He decided at last. I promised James. I promised. They'll need every able body to go to war against Voldemort. There's no turning back now…I've come much too far. Harry is my charge…I swore to James that Voldemort would never touch him again. I've already failed once…I won't fail them again.

He rose clumsily to his feet, shaking himself heavily.

There were things to be done…plans to be made. He would present himself to Dumbledore as a resource. He would do anything they asked…anything to bring Voldemort back down to his knees. And…Wormtail. He bared his teeth at the name. He was going to rend that traitor limb from limb.

With a final glance at Ron and Hermione—and Molly, soundly asleep—he turned toward the door.

" S…Sirius…"

The low voice was barely a breath, barely a whisper…but he heard. He paused, glanced over his great, shaggy-furred shoulder.

Harry was watching him, seeming to be nearly-asleep, his bright green eyes shadowed beyond his glasses.

" Sirius." He repeated, his voice muffled, as though he spoke in the depths of slumber…yet still, his tone pleaded, pleaded desperately. " Sirius, don't go…"

Compassion swept through him in a choking, suffocating tide. With a swift glance toward the door…checking for Bill's return…he transformed soundlessly back into his human form. Moving swiftly yet still silently past the chair where Molly Weasley slept, mumbling lightly to herself, he sat gently on the edge of the bed, and touched Harry's shoulder…gently.

" I'm not going anywhere." He assured the boy. " I'll be right here when you wake up…I swear."

Harry's face relaxed.

" Yeah…"

He was silent once more.

Shaking his head as he rose, Sirius removed Harry's glasses from his sweat-dampened, ashen face, placing them upon the bedside table—and, compelled by a notion stronger than any he had ever felt, he leaned forward and gently embraced his godson.

And then he stepped away, and transformed; not a moment too soon, it seemed, for no more had his fur completely covered his face than Bill's head poked into the room. He surveyed the situation—analyzed—then nodded, satisfied, and retreated.

Sirius crept back to the bedside, knowing—somehow, with an intuitive sense, perhaps born of his own experiences with the forgetfulness-inducing tendencies of the sleeping potion —that Harry would not recall what had transpired in the past few moments when he fully awakened, at a later time.

Seating himself at the side of the bed, Sirius lowered his great, shaggy head onto the edge of Harry's pillow…and shifted slightly with surprise as, unconsciously, Harry's hand came to rest against his massive shoulder.

Relaxing within a moment, Sirius gazed unblinkingly into the slumbering face of his godson…the closest thing to a true son he had ever had.

Sleep, Harry. He spoke the words within his mind. I'm watching over you.

All around him, people—people that he had come to care for, in strange ways, throughout the past year—continued to breathe in silent sleep. For the moment—for one blissful moment of redemption—he was their guardian. In this dark, dark night when it seemed nothing would ever be right again, he alone stood vigil here.

The thought exhilarated him, driving all manner of weariness from his body.

This is my task. This is what I am destined to do.