Warnings: Swearing, mentions of major injury/past trauma, excessive angst, hints of slash/yaoi, Bazz-B in general, all of Yhwach's shit

Pairings: Mostly gen, but implied past Jugram/Bazz

dynasty decapitated

The clock has just struck four, and Bazz can't sleep.

There's no reason the flat should feel emptier than normal, not with Harry snoring in the spare room, an extra set of shoes by the door and a pile of spell books on the rickety old table. Somehow, though, the night feels vast and lonely, like Bazz is the only living person in it, and he curls himself into the window seat and tries to breathe normally.

His arm aches as if it's being crushed, and he clutches the stump of it, tells himself that what's gone can't hurt.

Thinks of Jugram walking away, and knows without a doubt that it can.

Bazz takes another breath, a third, a fourth. Keeps up the rhythm of it, and tries not to let his thoughts slide towards darker things. He was never close to the other Sternritter, learned his lesson from Jugram's betrayal, but—

For a thousand years they were his world. Askin and Liltotto and Bambietta and Meninas—not friends but comrades, and Bazz would have stabbed any of them in the back just as readily as they would have him, but there was a closeness that came with coexistence, a familiarity. In the wake of the invasion, Bazz fled, ran as fast and as far as he could, but he couldn't escape that feeling. Couldn't escape the memory of a world lost, and Yhwach, and Jugram. Being in an unfamiliar world almost made it worse, because Bazz walks down a strange street and thinks of the palace. Thinks of training with Candice, or drinking with the other captains, or even passing them in the halls.

There's none of that here, and sometimes Bazz can be grateful, but…

The night feels empty. That's all it is. In the morning the world will go back to normal—

(No it won't, something in Bazz whispers. It will never be normal again, because Yhwach is gone and Jugram tried to kill you and all of the others are dead dead dead.)

—and Bazz will pick up his feet and keep on moving and focus on anything else, everything else. Just for now, though, he's hurting and angry in a way that's very much like how he felt when Yhwach burned his parents' house down with them still inside. Cold anger, destructive in a way his bursts of temper never are, the kind of fury that looks at a thousand years' worth of biding his time in order to get his revenge and thinks worth it.

"Bazz?"

Quiet and nearly tentative as it is, the unexpected voice still makes Bazz startle. Reishi sparks around his fingers, the outline of his bow starting to form as he jerks around, but it's just Harry standing in the doorway in his pyjamas, watching Bazz carefully.

"Hey," Bazz says, and all the practice he got looking Jugram in the face and treating him like just another Sternritter keeps his voice even, though he can't manage to dredge up a smile. "What's up? Bed too uncomfortable?"

Harry's eyes flicker to his arm, the way his hand is curled around his stump, and then rise to his face again. "The bed's fine, sorry," he says. "I was just getting water."

The apartment's too small for Bazz to be anywhere out of sight unless he's locked away in his own room, which is closet-sized at best and not great for brooding. He really should have thought of that earlier. Running his hand over his loose hair, he forces himself to uncurl, straightening out his back and trying not to groan. "Right, water. Did I show you where the glasses are?"

Harry hesitates instead of answering, looking torn, and then swallows. "I—is this—you said you parents were murdered," he blurts, and then winces.

Despite himself, Bazz snorts, leaning back against the wall. "That was a long time ago," he says, but doesn't deny it. Can't, when he's still thinking about Yhwach and the way he burned their whole country down as he conquered. It's a reminder, though, more or less; Bazz survived his whole world crumbling once, being left on his own without a single person he knew, without his parents or even Jugram. He lasted years before he was strong enough to become a part of Yhwach's army, and he was fine. Right now, like this—

It's different. It's barely been a year and things are already changing.

"I don't remember my parents," Harry says, quick, like pulling a plaster off. "But I still miss them."

Right. Because someone burned Harry's world down, too, just—a little less literally than Bazz's. He takes a breath, tugging lightly on his hair, and then sighs, pulling his legs a little further under him and waving at the far end of the seat in invitation. "Someone burned their house down," he says, and wishes vaguely for a drink. Harry clambers up onto the cushion, and Bazz gives him a bitter, twisted smile, full of teeth and old anger. "They were still inside, and the bastard just watched."

Harry swallows, curled in on himself. Looks down, and then at Bazz again. "But you survived," he says.

With anyone else, it would be a reminder that Bazz should be grateful for that. Even Jugram said it like that, a time or two, before Bazz blew up at him and he stopped. But Harry means it as something entirely. But we survived and they didn't. But that changed anything. But there's no going back now. But we have to live with it now.

"Yeah," Bazz says, and smiles, thin and tired. Thinks of Yhwach stripping the Sternritter's power and leaving them defenseless in the middle of the Seireitei, of the way their village burned and he and Jugram dug through the ashes for enough money to keep living. Thinks of dragging himself up in the aftermath and— "Yeah, we survived."

Harry offers him a small smile in return, leaning against the window. The silence lingers, and Bazz watches Harry's eyes get heavier, the way his limbs go lax. A long day, Bazz assumes, and Harry isn't used to Bazz's hours yet. He sighs, flicking a nail against the metal cuffs on his ear, and then rises carefully. He doesn't have a spare blanket, but his old coat is warm enough, and he tosses it over Harry, then sinks to the floor beneath the window and rests his head against the edge of the cushion. He's got an appointment at the Ministry in six hours, a scheduled visit to Azkaban to go through with, but—well. Looking at Harry right now rather puts it into perspective, doesn't it?

Sirius Black is currently serving a life sentence in Azkaban. He is the reason James and Lily Potter were found by You-Know-Who, and when a friend confronted him, Black killed him and twelve Muggles.

McGonagall was so flat about it, and the words just…didn't quite register. A man ended up being a spy, and he sold out some people, and other people died.

But those people were Harry's parents. Those people had a son who never got a chance to know them. At least Bazz has memories with his mother and father, scattered as they are. Harry never got that, because Sirius Black betrayed them to Voldemort.

Bazz knows what betrayal feels like. Knows it intimately, and desperately, and viciously. So many, many times over the last centuries, he gave Jugram the opportunity to look at him with anything other than coldness in his eyes, to show him some sign that he remembered, that he cared, but—

Jugram gave himself over to Yhwach, cut Bazz down with Yhwach's name on his lips like a prayer, or an oath. And maybe he shouldn't have cared that Yhwach killed his uncle, or burned their village, but Bazz never left him. Bazz never wavered. Bazz loved him without a reason and without ulterior motives, and Jugram killed him.

He splays a hand over his face, wonders if Harry's parents loved Sirius Black, too. Wonders how close they were, and whether Sirius knew that they would die when he told Voldemort about them. Wonders if the friend that confronted Sirius afterwards railed about it, and whether Sirius tore him apart without wavering, and with a dark lord's name on his tongue.

When the sun rises, the light through the window feels like fire on Bazz's skin, and he thinks of flames, of ashes. Curls his fingers into a fist, watching the sparks play across his knuckles, and tries to remember that he's strong enough to get back to his feet.

"Fuck," Bazz says, head and shoulders buried in the refrigerator, as if physically shoving himself inside of it will make more groceries magically appear. Not that Harry will say anything; there's probably a fridge like that somewhere in the magical world. "Uh. Eggs? Everyone likes eggs."

There's one egg. Harry's seen Bazz pull it out to glare at it three times already. He hides a grin behind one of his schoolbooks, out on the table for the sheer novelty of being able to read it out in the open, and says, "Eggs are good. I like toast, too."

"I don't have any bread." Bazz gives the toaster a look like it's offended him personally, then sighs. "Damn it. McGonagall distracted me, and all my stuff spoiled before I could put it away."

"Sorry," Harry says, because it feels like he should, but Bazz flaps his hand at him in an irritated gesture.

"Should have gone shopping," he mutters, more to himself than Harry. Harry opens his mouth to suggest that they scramble the egg and split it, but before he can there's a loud series of thumps from the door, and Bazz huffs. "Great timing," he complains, but slams the fridge shut and stalks to the door, hauling it open with a snapped, "You sound like you're part giant, quit that."

Giselle pushes past him without even waiting for an invitation, rolling her eyes. She's dressed in clothes almost as baggy as Dudley's hand-me-downs look on Harry, long white-gold hair up in a ponytail that's already sliding sideways and half falling out. She still looks almost unearthly, but in a different way than last night.

"You should be grateful I'm even awake right now," she tells Bazz, spins on the ball of one foot like a ballerina, and lets herself fall backwards right onto the sofa, landing with a thump and a groan. "You don't even have a radio," she says, muffled.

"You're so picky," Bazz snaps.

"I'm not picky, I'm German, and your apartment offends my sensibilities," Giselle says without raising her head.

Bazz mutters something uncomplimentary under his breath that Harry can't quite make out, then says, "You're also late. I have to be at the Ministry in ten minutes, harpy."

Giselle waves a hand at him. "Go, then. I'll make sure the apartment doesn't collapse."

"Harry hasn't eaten yet," Bazz tells her, then glances over at Harry and hesitates. "It's just a meeting to work out some details," he says, "but I probably won't be back until late."

"Okay," Harry confirms. He doesn't particularly want to sit around while Bazz fills out forms, since he has a feeling it will be a lot less interesting than watching people at the restaurant was. He might even get an early start on his summer homework, just to shock Hermione. Maybe partly to enjoy being able to do it out in the open, instead of under the cover of his blankets with a flashlight.

Bazz huffs, then turns and levels a finger at Giselle's unmoving form. "Nothing weird," he warns her.

This time, she flips him off. "Go already. Your face annoys me."

"Fuck you." Bazz snatches his coat off the back of the sofa, stalks to the door to jam his feet in his boots, and says pointedly, "Bye, Harry," before he slams it behind him.

Giselle waits until his angry steps have retreated down the hall, and then she laughs, propping herself up on one arm and looking at Harry with a catlike grin. "Let me guess, the cupboards are bare?" she asks.

"Not bare," Harry says, feeling rather like he should defend Bazz.

"But mostly." Giselle swings her legs over the sofa and gets to her feet, stretching with a groan before she wanders over to check for herself. She pokes at a few packages of pasta and a couple of dusty tins, wrinkling her nose, and then snorts. "Merlin, it's a wonder he hasn't died of scurvy yet."

"He says he usually eats at work," Harry defends loyally.

"Fair." Giselle sighs, shuts the cupboard, and turns to Harry. "If I have to be awake before noon on my day off, I deserve coffee. There's a café a few blocks away if you want some real food, and we can get groceries on the way back."

Bazz might object, but he did say his got ruined. Harry wavers for a moment, but then his stomach growls, and—he really doesn't want just an egg for breakfast, after spending the last few months with Hogwarts's breakfasts. "Okay," he says, and slides down from his chair. "Thanks."

Giselle waves that off. "For my own benefit more than yours," she promises, but she's smiling. "Besides, it's good for you to see the neighborhood. Not everything in England is Diagon Alley and neat little subdivisions of the magic and Muggle worlds."

Harry remembers her question about which school he attended, and can't help a flicker of curiosity. "Did you go to Bo—er."

"Beauxbatons," Giselle finishes for him, though thankfully she doesn't sound amused at his lack of memory. "No, I'm a Veela. We don't generally attend wizarding schools unless we're of mixed blood. Beauxbatons has several students of Veela descent, but full Veela are considered creatures, not wizards." She rolls her eyes at Harry, making her opinion on that clear, and Harry can't help a grin at the pure offense on her face.

"Bazz used the Floo in a shop yesterday," he says. "It didn't look like a wizard's shop, though."

"In the spice shop?" Giselle waits while he pulls his trainers on, then ushers him out the door. "Yes, Priya sells to Muggles, too. Large parts of the world don't divide themselves from the Muggles the way the English do."

"You know a lot about it," Harry says curiously. "Is, er, Germany that different?"

Giselle laughs. "No," she says, "but quite a few other countries don't have laws about magical creatures the way Europe does. My family moved to Brazil when I was a child, and my half-Veela cousins all went to Castelobruxo." When she sees Harry's blank look, she clarifies, "Another wizarding school, even older than Hogwarts. It was founded by the indigenous peoples there."

Harry can't even imagine it. He follows her down the stairs and out onto the street, wondering just how many wizarding schools there are, and why no one at Hogwarts has ever mentioned them before. Or maybe he's just never really listened before—what are the odds that it's gone completely unremarked?

"Do you miss it?" he asks, glancing up at her.

Giselle hums, looking away as they emerge onto the street. "I think everyone misses the place where they don't have to hide what they are," she says, and smiles down at him. "You've felt that way about Hogwarts, haven't you?"

That's pretty much precisely what Harry loves about the school, and he nods, surprised that the explanation fits into words. "Do you know which school Bazz went to?" he asks, as the thought occurs to him. Even if he claims not to be a wizard, Bazz is certainly immersed in the wizarding world, and knows how to get around in it better than Harry does.

Brows rising, Giselle gives him a look of surprise. "I don't," she says. "It might have been Mahoutokoro, though. He used to live in Japan, as far as I know. Bazz doesn't talk about his past much, but he's mentioned a place called Karakura a few times."

In light of that, it seems even more bewildering and even more like a stroke of pure good fortune that Professor McGonagall managed to find Bazz in London when she did, Harry thinks. He imagines having to go back to the Dursleys, being stuck at Privet Drive after finding out there's a whole world where he belongs, and has to hide a grimace. "I'm glad he ended up here," he says, and means it with every inch of his soul.

Giselle smiles, and it's soft and a lot sweeter than any of the expressions Harry has seen from her so far. "Me too," she agrees, nudging Harry around the corner and across a street as the light changes. "The minute we met, as soon as I told him my name, he said I knew another Giselle and she was a bitch, are you? I liked him right then. Most people just stare, and it's annoying. Bazz doesn't care about what I am, though, just about how much I irritate him."

"So you irritate him as much as possible?" Harry asks, because he's noticed a pattern to their interactions already.

"Of course." Giselle smirks at him, and Harry has the sudden thought that if she were at Hogwarts, she would absolutely be a Slytherin. It's—startling. He hasn't ever thought of a Slytherin as someone he could like before. "He's cute when he's fuming, and he needs someone to pick on him now and then."

All the time, is what Harry translates that to, but he gets the feeling that if Bazz disliked Giselle even a little, she wouldn't be allowed anywhere near his apartment. Since she is, and since Bazz seems more than capable of holding his own, Harry just grins back and gets the door of the café for her.

Giselle winks at him as she sashays in, and Harry follows happily.

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement gives Bazz a full-blown Auror as his escort to Azkaban, and Bazz is pretty sure that says a lot. He eyes the head of the department, and Rufus Scrimgeour eyes him right back, eyes narrowed behind his wire-framed glasses. Behind him, the tall black wizard who's apparently going to be wasting his time with this trip is politely focusing on a point somewhere over Bazz's left shoulder.

"You realize," Bazz says, more than a little annoyed, "that I'm a grown man and don't actually need a babysitter, right?"

"Do you realize, Mister Black," Scrimgeour returns coolly, "that you have become an important public figure with your adoption of the Boy Who Lived? Sirius Black is a madman, and despite his imprisonment, should the worst occur, I would like to have taken every possible precaution."

Bazz doesn't say I could take out you, all of your pet Aurors, and this entire building to boot with three fingers, and commends himself on the restraint required. "Whatever," he says instead. "Let's get this whole fucking thing over with." Murdering Sirius Black will be a lot harder with an audience, but Bazz can still throw a punch well enough to knock someone out, and wizards don't usually expect physical threats.

Scrimgeour inclines his head, plucking a glass paperweight off of his desk and handing it to the Auror. "Shacklebolt, this is set to return at precisely one. If you miss it, I'll assume something has gone irreparably wrong."

"Yes, sir," Shacklebolt says, accepting the Portkey and stepping around the side of the desk to offer it to Bazz. His gaze is cool but interested, and Bazz meets it with narrowed eyes, but still reaches out, curling his fingers over the glass sphere and bracing himself. He hasn't taken a Portkey since the one that brought him from Tokyo to London, and he definitely didn't miss them. The jerking, wrenching drag is unnervingly like the pull of his Vollständig being stolen, and he grits his teeth and closes his eyes as it ends, trying not to think of Yhwach.

The smell of sea air is the first difference, then the chill. Bazz opens his eyes to a heavy mist all around them, the darkness of late evening even though he knows it's still midmorning. At his side, Shacklebolt shivers, then composes himself with a breath, and says, "The entrance is this way. The guards sometimes appear to inspect visitors, so be careful."

Guards. He means Dementors, Bazz knows that much. Now that he's paying attention he can feel them, the heaviness of fractured souls on the air. It puts his back up, makes him grit his teeth and try not to bristle, but—Dementors feed on souls, steal pieces of them a bit at a time until they can consume the souls entirely, and Bazz can feel it, far worse than any Hollow. He has to breathe through his nose for a moment, trying the control in instinct to form his crossbow. Azkaban is steeped in pain and suffering, full of darkness in a way that Soul Society could never compare to, and Bazz wants to set it on fire.

"Right," he says, feeling Shacklebolt's eyes on him. "Consider me warned."

Shacklebolt studies him for a long moment, and Bazz can't read his expression but it's sharp. He doesn't comment, though, but steps to the side and raps his knuckles against a heavy wooden door. It creaks open immediately, and Shacklebolt leads Bazz through into a narrow landing. Stone steps lead up, and Shacklebolt manages a brief smile as he pulls the door shut again. "I hope you don't mind a bit of a climb," he says. "Black's cell is near the top."

This is one of the reasons an escort is a pain in the ass. If Bazz were along he could form footholds in the reishi and get up in a fraction of the time. With someone watching, though, he's left to stairs. Fantastic.

"Fuck," he mutters, but starts up regardless, trying to ignore the way his skin is crawling. This, he thinks, is what Shinigami are for; they'd be able to extract the souls from the Dementors holding them, and—well. Bazz doesn't have much of an opinion about the shit that went down between Shinigami and the Quincy, because before last year he'd never been a part of the World of the Living and didn't give a fuck about being in the Wandenreich instead of Soul Society. The idea of permanently destroying souls leaves a bit of a bad taste in his mouth, especially after Yhwach killed so many Quincy himself and then turned around and conscripted Arrancar into his army, and whatever bits of souls are left here have suffered a hell of a lot already. They probably deserve the chance to be reborn by passing through Soul Society, or whatever is left of it.

"To your left," Shacklebolt murmurs from behind him, and Bazz turns, stepping off the staircase and onto a bare strip of stone in of a door. It opens on a narrow corridor leading deeper into the tower, and when Bazz steps through Shacklebolt only follows enough to close the door again.

"Near the end," he says, and when Bazz glances back at him suspiciously, he offers a tired smile. "I assume you don't want an audience for this kind of conversation."

"Yeah, thanks," Bazz says, though he can't keep the wariness out of it.

A bit of humor bleeds back into Shacklebolt's expression. "Scream if he tries anything," he offers placidly, and takes up a position leaning against the wall.

Bazz raises a brow at him. "I thought they had to surgically remove your sense of humor when they gave you your badge," he says dryly, remembering every other DMLE agent he met in the office. Their faces looked like they'd crack if they so much as attempted a smile.

Shacklebolt raises a brow right back. "Was that a joke?" he asks mildly. "That wasn't my intention, of course. Apologies for the confusion."

With a snort, Bazz turns away, raising a hand. "I'll take the secret to my grave," he promises, and starts walking. Most of the cells on either side of him are empty, but several have huddled figures curled up inside, muttering to themselves or eerily silent.

Creepy, Bazz thinks, and doesn't pause, even though he can feel the way their souls are fragmented and fading, pieces tearing off. It's awful, and he's killed his fair share of people, Shinigami and Quincy alike, but this is something wholly different. Torture, not just imprisonment, and he wonders how many people know what Azkaban is like, and how they can look at themselves in the mirror once they do.

"Well, well. Come to take a tour?" a voice mocks, and Bazz glances to the side, into a cell where an old arrow slit lets in just enough light and fresh air to be a taunt. There's a man seated on the floor beside the cot, back against the wall, and he's watching Bazz with eyes that are startlingly sharp and focused. His long dark hair is tangled around his face, matted and filthy, and his clothes are tattered. There's blood visible in log scratches beneath the torn fabric, and Bazz can recognize self-inflicted wounds well enough.

That face, though. Fine-boned and handsome, with grey eyes that Bazz remembers from a thousand years ago. House of Black eyes, his mother called them, as she traced her fingers around Bazz's green eyes. She loved his eyes—she always said she was happy he looked like his father, rather than anyone from her side of the family.

"Yeah," Bazz says dryly, turning to face the man and stepping close to the bars. "I was just hitting the high points of the tourism industry, figured I'd get the two-Knut tour. I've got an art museum to get to after this."

Sirius Black barks out a laugh, rough and unpracticed, and sweeps out a hand to offer up the barren call. "Clearly, this will be the most memorable. Sirius Black, at your service. Would you like to start with the view, or the famous occupants?"

"I think I have started with the famous occupants," Bazz tells him, and meets his eyes. "Bazz. Bazzard Black."

Sirius freezes. His gaze flickers over Bazz, from the top of his pink hair to the tips of his heavy boots, then slides back up, narrow and assessing. "Black," he repeats, and it's light even though his expression shows the tone is a lie. "Forgive me, but I don't recall seeing you on the family tree."

"I wouldn't be. You burn off the bad ones, right?" Bazz asks, viciously amused by the thought. "My mo—ancestor would have been one of the first. Iola. She married—"

"A Muggle," Sirius finishes for him, face lighting with recognition. "Bob—Bob something."

"Hitchens," Bazz says. His father was half Japanese, half Dutch, and Bazz never knew him by that name but he was at least aware it existed. "Yeah, that's the one."

"I was obsessed with those two," Sirius tells him, tipping his head back against the wall. He's not smiling, but there's something almost wistful in the set of his features. "It seemed like such a grand way to spite them, when I was younger. Falling in love with someone unacceptable."

Something dark and hot and furious is curling in the back of Bazz's throat, and when he looks at Sirius he doesn't try to hide it. "Oh yeah?" he drawls, as sharp as shards of glass. "I guess you gave that up when you sold your friend out to Voldemort, though. It's so sad when dreams die."

The change is instantaneous. Sirius lunges up off the floor, startlingly swift and sure for a man who's spent the last ten years in a prison cell, and he slams into the bars without hesitating. "I never betrayed James!" he snarls, abruptly in Bazz's face, and there's nothing in his face but fury and conviction. "He was my best friend! I loved him! I never would have sold him out!"

Bazz's breath sticks in his throat, but he doesn't take a step back. Faces Sirius squarely, unmoving, and taps two fingers against his thigh. "Friends can stab each other in the back just as well as anyone," he says evenly, and the beat of his fingers is Jugram Jugram Jugram Jugram.

"Not these friends," Sirius says, holding Bazz's gaze without hesitation. "Not me. Not to James."

He believes it, Bazz thinks critically. If nothing else, Sirius believes his own words, but Bazz has been around too many madmen driven by their own twisted visions to take that as gospel. "Convince me," he says even, and brings his hand up, calling the reishi he's been gather since this morning into shape. Blue-white light shimmers as the crossbow takes shape, an arrow already nocked, and Bazz levels it at Sirius's chest without wavering. "Convince me that I shouldn't go home and tell Harry that his father's best friend is the reason he doesn't have parents."

He can see the moment the words register, the slack shock that flickers across Sirius's features, then the twist of pure, tearing grief that overtakes everything else.

"But I am the reason," Sirius says, so quiet it's barely a breath. "I'm not guilty of those murders. I didn't kill Peter. But I'm the reason James and Lily are dead. I told them. I told them to use Peter as their Secret-Keeper. They were going to make it me, but I convinced them that it was too obvious. And Peter went running right back to his master, and told Voldemort where to find them."

Secret Keeper. Something to look into, because it's not a spell Bazz knows. "Peter?" he prompts.

Sirius tips his chin up, and his mouth is a snarl, full of fury. "Peter Pettigrew. Another friend." He spits the word like it's poison.

Bazz looks at him, hears that tone, sees the hurt that's festered and rotted into something else entirely in his soul. And…stupid, maybe, but he believes the words.

Sirius was betrayed. He didn't do the betraying.

"Your trial records—" he starts.

Sirius laughs, bitter and unamused. "What trial?" he demands. "Crouch threw me in here without even taking a statement. I never got a trial."

Bazz takes a breath, closes his eyes. Thinks, as he tries to slot everything into place. No trial. That's…actually promising. More promising than the alternative, at least.

"Who would have you wanted on the stand for you?" he asks, opening his eyes. "Names."

Sirius's expression is too furious, too grim for hope, but—maybe it's lighter than it was a moment ago. "Rubeus Hagrid. He saw me at the house, after—after. He was the one who took Harry away. Wouldn't let me keep him, but—I had to hunt down Peter. Dumbledore. He knew James and Lily were hidden under a Fidelius Charm, even if he didn't know the Secret-Keeper. Remus Lupin." His expression twists with something like regret. "I thought—I thought he was the spy for Voldemort. But he wasn't. He knew everything about the four of us, though. He was the fourth Marauder."

A cute name for a bunch of troublemakers, Bazz thinks, like they're all innocent. Not traitors and victims and dead. He nods. "I'll think about it," he says, which is a lie by omission. He's going to, but he's already convinced.

Sirius grabs the bars as he steps away. "Peter was an Animagus!" he says, almost frantic. "A rat. He got away, the bastard got away, he's the reason James and Lily are still dead and he's still out there." A shaky breath, and he leans forward, stare boring into Bazz. "You said Harry is with you? Protect him. Peter is a sniveling coward, but if he thinks it will give him favor, or any kind of advantage with the rest of the Death Eaters—"

"I don't need you to tell me that," Bazz says harshly. He lets his crossbow shatter back into shards of reiatsu, pinning just a few pieces to Sirius's hair with a touch of will.

Sirius watches him walk away without saying anything else, just keeps standing there, staring with burning eyes. Bazz doesn't look back, even when he passes out of sight.

Well, he thinks grimly, nodding to Shacklebolt as he reaches the doorway. This isn't anywhere close to how he expected the visit to go, and now instead of a dead traitor he has an innocent man in prison, a traitorous friend walking free, a case that needs to be reopened, and a threat to Harry to go along with it.

Fuck. Bazz much prefers just killing people and getting shit over with.

"How much would it take," he asks, not looking up from the stairs as they descend, "to look into a case that ended in a conviction but never went to trial?"

Shacklebolt shoots him a startled look. "Sirius's case?" he asks.

Bazz raises his head. There's a chill washing over the stairs, and on the next landing is a vaguely humanoid figure in a dark cloak, featureless and radiating cold. It turns its head to look at them, and Bazz feels the way Jugram's sword tore through his chest as if it just happened. He lifts his hand, reishi sparking, condensing, and even as his crossbow forms he squeezes the trigger. An arrow shoots away, blazing like a star, and streaks right over the Dementor's hood. The creature reacts like Bazz actually hit it, lunging sideways through a doorway with a roar of wind following it.

"Yeah," Bazz says into the ringing silence that follows, and he can feel himself smiling, even with the smell of ashes in his nose. "I don't like sloppy fucking work."

He keeps walking, and doesn't see so much as the corner of a Dementor's cloak the whole rest of the way out.