Padfoot?
by
Padfootz-luvr
A/N: To those who have beared with me throughout the years, I thank you, and I apologize profusely. To those just joining us: Welcome! This story has been a big, fat, work-in-progress for almost three years now, and I almost abandoned it. ALMOST. Then I sat down, re-read what I had written, and, before I knew it, I made the conscious decision to correct all grammatical and punctuation errors, and to add to it a bit, give it more dimension and depth. So now here we are, reader and author, ready to embark on a new, perilous journey. This time, I primise to not abandon the wheel of the ship. Thanks a great bunch to all of my reviewers! This is sort of a two part chapter. Thankfully, these two chapters are the ones you have been waiting for!
Disclaimer: :le sigh: I don't own Harry Potter or anythign else you recognize, blah, blah, blah, etc.
Chapter Nine:
The Truth Pt. 1
"I tears my heart open
I sew myself shut
and my weakness is
that I care too much..."-Scars, Papa Roach
He reacted to the name, he reacted to the name! The only comprehensible thought that was scrolling across the marquee of Harry;s mind was that one sentence. He reacted to the name! What could that mean? Does he know that Sirius man? Or was he just being a dog and reacting to my voice...?
Harry finally decided on the last option. But there was stilla flicker of doubt in his mind, and, especially, in his heart. For some reason he just knew that Sirius and Padfoot were connected, if not one and the same...
'One and the same'? Harry's nasty little voice of reason hissed. 'One and the same'! That's impossible! Now look at you, Harry, you're going just as mad as Uncle Vernon.
Uncle Vernon, in fact, was now to the point where he was muttering inaudible things incessantly under his breath, taking the sharpest tours and sticking to only the most scenic of routes that led to who-knows-where.
Aunt Petunia's thin lips were pursed into a tiny, invisible line as her bloodshot eyes strayed from the window to shoot increasingly worried looks in her husband's direction. Every now and the she would open her mouth as though to say something but then would simply give a short sigh, knowing that whatever she said would have no influence over Vernon.
Dudley, meanwhile, was becoming oddly docile and even challenged Harry to an almost friendly game of "I Spy". Harry reckoned that Dudley was just so sick of staring at the passing view (Tree...tree...tree...bird!...tree...) that he has actually become delirious. That, coupled with his television withdrawal, was resulting in his tolerance of Harry.
Harry and Dudley eventually settled into a surprisingly intelligent (by Dudley standards) conversation, one which unconsciously moved from one thing to a next until it settled on dogs; Padfoot in particular was the subject of many thought-provoking questions such as "Why do dogs sniff each others' hind quarters as greeting?", "Why does Padfoot not participate in this canine ritual?", and "Why don't female dogs lift up their legs to urinate?"
The topic finally shifted to all of Padfoot's oddities, including but not limited to his ability to understand almost any command (when said by Harry), his very human-like personality, and his eyes.
Padfoot, meanwhile, lay asleep on the faux leather seat, his grey eyes shut off to the world. His legs would twitch every now and then and he would whine, as though in pain.
"Padfoot?" Harry murmured as Dudley ceaselessly chattered on. "Padfoot?" Harry very tentatively nudged his dog on the paw, but was his skin made contact with the soft, coal-colored fur, another wave of memories identical to those he had received when Sirius' hand had touched him sent his mind reeling.
With a quiet cry, Harry drifted off into unconsciousness just as his dog woke form a fitful dream about his best friends, Harry's parents, being murdered.
Everything was black. Blacker than the last time he had passed out. But there was noise around him...indiscernible noise, yes, but noise nonetheless. Low rumblings, almost sounded like voices...but they couldn't possibly be human. What human had such low, slow voices as the ones around him?
Harry blinked open his eyes, startled by more darkness. Where was the light?
The voices were becoming clearer now, not so low and not so slow. Actually, someone was talking quite quickly. Yelling, actually. The voice sounded familiar...male, younger than Vernon and not so rumbly:
"I am his guardian! I will take him and take care of him!"
"How dare you threaten my family, you...you, bloddy magician!"
"'Bloody magician', is that the best you can come up with? Honestly...muggles," the unknown owner of the voice snorted derisively, and Harry heard footsteps come nearer. They were not the thundering footsteps of Uncle Vernon or Dudley, nor were they the pittering click of Aunt Petunia's heels. They were light and precise, nearly soundless from years of sneaking around.
The owner of the footsteps knelt down beside Harry, affectionately, ruffling his hair a bit.
"For now let's let him sleep," the unknown voice whispered from beside Harry. "Poor kid's been through hell with you, he deserves some rest."
"'Been through hell', has he? If you are the almight guardian why didn't you take him instead of staying in my house, eating my food that I paid for!"
"He would have died!" The Voice snapped, but he considerately kept his voice quiet so as not to wake the "sleeping" Harry. "He needed to stay in the same house as Petunia so the blood she shared with her sister would protect him."
"I share no blood with my sister!" Petunia's shrill voice came. She sounded muffled, as though she were behind something very large: a couch, a wall, Uncle Vernon, etcetera.
The Voice did not respond to Petunia's outburst but Harry could feel the anger emanating from the Voice's body. The intense energy was as palpable as the hard floor beneath Harry's back, and the from the oppressive silence Harry guessed that the Dursleys could feel it as well.
"From hereafter, no matter what school he goes to (and he will be going to Hogwarts)," The Voice paused, waiting for another routburst which would not come. Then, he continued, "Harry will stay at your house for the summers until he is seventeen. As will I. And you will permit it."
"The hell we will!" came Vernon's roar. "If he's a freak like you and the rest of your freak friends, I want you as far away from my family as possible! Beginning...immediately!"
Harry heard The Voice stand, and there was a rustling of cloth before complete silence. A tense moment, and then: "If you comer any nearer I swear on James' grave that I will blast you and the rest of your family, as you wish, as far away form 'us freaks' as possible. Unfortunately, that could be someplace like a live volcano, so I would watch my step if I were you, Dursley!" The last word had a distinctive sneer to it.
"He is going to Hogwarts," The Voice said with studied calm. Harry barely had time to wonder what on earth a 'Hogwart' was before The Voice began again, "and he will stay at your home during summer holidays. Is that clear?"
Harry could only assume the Dursleys nodded, because they made no noise whatsoever.
"Good," The Voice said with false pleasantness. "I suggest we all get some sleep, then."
There was a shuffling of feet as the Dursleys scuttled off to their beds or wherever they would go to sleep, and then Harry felt himself lifted easily by someone—he could only assume that it was The Voice, and was soon set back down on something softer, like a sofa. The Voice kneeled beside Harry and brushed his hair back again before he did something that sounded like laying down on the floor.
From beside Harry on the floor, The Voice sighed, "I'm so sorry, Harry. This shouldn't have been how it turned out at all. You should be living with your parents in a nice home with a Quidditch Pitch out back and enchanted rooms and little Wizard friends like—oh, I dunno...the Weasleys, perhaps. The Bones...That little Longbottom fellow, he's about your age." Another sigh, this time more choked. Harry wished that he knew what the hell The Voice was talking about so maybe he could comfort him a little bit... "But instead you're living with the worst Muggles in the world in a sterilized house with hand-me-down clothes from the only eleven-year-old boy that I have ever mistaken for a small elephant."
Harry almost laughed, almost, but stopped himself at the last minute as The Voice choked back a sob.
"I guess you can blame me for that," The Voice mumbled, almost inaudible. His Voice was turning nasally, as though he were crying. I sounded like he was crying, in fact. How terribly sad...Harry wished he could say something to make The Voice feel betetr, though he wasn't sure why for the life of him he would wish to comfort the voice of a person he didn't even know. After all--
Harry's mind went blank. Absolutely blank as all that Dursley had said and all that The Voice had said sunk in. The Voice had lived with them...how? Magician? Wizard friends? Guardian? Quidditch?...Blame?
Harry's breathing hitched slightly; he hoped fervently it went unnoticed by The Voice. Thankfully, The Voice's breathing had grown deep and even; he was asleep.
The Voice killed my parents, Harry thought frantically. And now he wants me to go to Hogwash or something like that—it's probably an orphanage or-or...a slaughetrhouse! For children whose parents had been killed by the stupid, haunting voice...But no. The Voice's voice was lower than the voice that Harry sometimes recalled in dreams : the high-pitched screech of a Voice, almost a falsetto, accompanied frequently by a horrible cackle that made Harry's flesh crawl.
But The Voice blamed himself...for a car accident? Maybe he was the offending driver?
Harry's head began to ache from all the theories, the questions...and not one single answer to put his trouble mind at ease.
As quietly as possible Harry sat up, feeling to make sure his glasses were in place. They were, good. Not that he could see anything, but Harry felt thoroughly reassured at the feeling of something familiar weighing down at his ears and nose slightly.
Harry stepped around where he thought the voice was, then stopped. What time was it? Harry wondered. Without a further thought the boy leaned down to where he felt The Voice—or, rather, a very long, tall man lying on the floor fast asleep. Harry very carefully felt The Voice's left wrist for a watch and, to Harry's happiness, he found one.
Harry felt for buttons on the side but found none, and in frustration he tapped the glass that covered the face. To his amazement, a pulsing purple glow lit up the face; however, there were no numbers, only some strange symbols which the curling, crooked hands pointed to haphazardly. Sighing loudly, Harry dropped the watch (and, incidentally, the wrist with it) to the floor.
"Ouch!" The Voice exclaimed.
Harry gasped, moving away. The Voice sat up, his silhouette illuminated by the purple glow.
"Ouch," The Voice repeated more quietly. He rubbed his wrist and stared at Harry slightly; Harery could feel the penetrating gaze. "Harry? What were you doing?"
The Voice took on a kinder, gentler tone than it had ever had previously and Harry recognized it as belonging to the regular-sized (in comparison to the giant) man.
"...Sirius!" Harry asked in surprise.
"Glad to know you recognize me," The Voice-no, Sirius-muttered sarcastically. Then he repeated, "What were you doing?"
"I-I was just...trying to...the time?" Harry stammered, unsure how to phrase it. No matter how he said it it sounded odd, looking at a complete stranger's wristwatch, but Harry decided that anything would have been better than how it actually came out in the end.
"'The time'?" Sirius echoed, perplexed. He soon came to realization with a mild jolt. "Oh...Oh! Yeah, yeah, the time. It's...um..." The dark-haired man mutetred something in another language to his watch, then continued: "It's, er...Eleven fifty-eight at night."
"Do you by chance have the date on that thing?" Harry asked, surprised at his own boldness.
Sirius didn't seem to notice a thing, however, and said another odd word to his watch. "Yeah, it's, uh...Thirtieth of July."
"I turn eleven in two minutes," Harry murmured softly to himself.
"What was that?" Sirius asked absently. "Nox." The purple glow dissipated, leaving the pair in utter darkness once again.
"Oh, it's, uh, my eleventh birthday in two minutes," Harry repeated.
"So it is," Sirius confirmed, and Harry could swear that he detected a slight smile in the voice. "Well, happy early birthday, Harry."
"Thanks," Harry answered. How was it that a complete stranger was kinder about his birthday than the Dursleys, who were not only family but his caretakers since he was a baby, had ever been? Harry opened his mouth, about to spill out all the questions he had for Sirius that were burning in the back of his throat, but they all disappeared as there were three ear-blasting knocks from the door.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
There was a thump from the next room and Harry strongly suspected that someone had fallen out of bed—and he secretly hope that it had been Uncle Vernon.
"Ah, Hagrid's here," Sirius managed to say before three more great booms sounded at the door.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOO-Crash! As Hagrid knocked the fourth time, the already rickety door came flying off its hinges and the great hairy giant stood in the doorway, his impressive silhouette completely filling it up.
A/N: Love it? Hate it? Somewhere in between? Let me know! Everything from suggestions to squees to flames are welcome!