Chapter Text
He was going to kill Black. He had to kill Black. This was his chance.
Only faintly could Harry remember his mother’s voice now. Instead, there was his own, whispering furiously to do it—to kill the man before him. It didn’t even occur to him how to do it; he only knew that he must.
Black stared up at him.
Why wouldn’t Black beg for his life? It would’ve made killing him easier. Black’s silence was disarming; the rage was trickling from Harry. His appetite for blood waned, and he wished that Black would start blubbering to be spared.
Do it! Do it now!
Everyone watched him. Harry’s arm was stiff, his wand trained on Black.
Hours might have passed. Why couldn’t he do it? Black hadn’t spared a second thought for his parents, had he? He didn’t hesitate to tell Voldemort where to find the Potters, knowing fully well that he had condemned his best friend’s family to death, so why should Harry hesitate to pay Black back?
Soon, a grin would grow on Black’s face again; he would sneer up at Harry and taunt him: You can’t do it, can you? And maybe then Harry would find his fury again—and maybe then he could avenge his parents— But then, maybe Black knew he couldn’t do it—maybe he understood that Harry didn’t have it in him…
“Harry,” said Black. He spoke so quietly that Harry could hardly hear him.
Harry opened his eyes—when had he squeezed them shut?—and tried to summon the hatred he’d felt when he overheard the story of Black’s betrayal in The Three Broomsticks. The laughing, handsome man from his parents’ wedding was nowhere to be found on Black’s wasted face. Instead what was left was a specter, the corpse of that man. It should’ve been easy.
His wand arm trembled.
“I…”
Black pushed from the floor until he was sitting against the wall, dislodging Crookshanks from his chest. Crookshanks must have known, too, that Harry couldn’t murder anyone, because he finally crawled off of Black and slinked back to Hermione, rubbing his squashed face against her leg.
“I can’t…” Harry gripped his wand. He couldn’t admit it. He couldn’t tell Black he was incapable of killing him.
“I know,” said Black.
The gentleness in his hoarse voice smothered the last embers of Harry’s fury. Eyes blurring, Harry tried to keep his wand steady, tried to aim for Black’s heart, but a filthy, skeletal hand closed over it.
“No,” Harry said weakly. “Don’t move.”
Black stood, his fingers curled over Harry’s wrist, easing the wand out of his grip.
“That’s it, easy now,” Black murmured.
Harry couldn’t look at him; he couldn’t look at Hermione or Ron, knowing that his cowardice was the reason they were all going to die. The shack creaked with the wind and Ron breathed harshly through his pain, but all Harry could hear was his mother pleading for her son’s life. Shame filled him. I couldn’t do it—I couldn’t avenge her—
Black wrapped an arm around Harry’s shoulders; Harry held his breath as Black spoke in his ear.
“You’ve no reason to be ashamed,” Black whispered. “You’re not a killer, Harry.”
“Get off,” Harry hissed, leaning away.
Wandless again, Harry knew he was dead. Hermione was aiming at Black with two wands, but her arm was trembling and tears streamed down her face while Ron was white with pain as he tried to stay upright. It was going to be quick work for Black to slaughter them all.
Harry went rigid as Black drew him close, pinching his arms to his sides.
“Your father would’ve been proud of you,” said Black. “I know you must hate me—and I don’t blame you. But let me show you something…let me explain… No, don’t move,” he told Harry who tried to shift away. Fingers dug in painfully.
You should have killed him, you should’ve ended it , but you were too weak, a voice in his head was taunting.
“You, boy,” said Black, looking at Ron. “The rat in your pocket—take it out, please.”
Everyone stared at Black. Ron’s jaw hung open.
“What? W-what do you want with Scabbers?”
“Save your questions. Do what I say.”
Ron looked desperately at Hermione and Harry. “But—”
“Now,” Black ordered.
A frantic squealing pierced the room as Ron, miserable, dragged Scabbers from his pocket.
Scabbers writhed. Feral desperation gripped the rat; he squirmed and squealed and jerked as if possessed. Ron yelled as Scabbers bit down, sinking his long teeth into Ron’s hand.
Black flicked the wand, and Scabbers lifted into the air out of Ron’s grasp, levitating as if held aloft by a string. Scabbers was squeaking in panic, scrambling for purchase, but Black seemed entranced by the sight.
Harry shuddered as Black unhooked his arm from his shoulders, reached, and snatched the rat around the middle. He squeezed his skeletal fingers and the rat’s eyes bugged as a grin spread across Black’s face. Hermione gasped, and Harry realized with horror what Black was going to do.
“No!” Ron shouted. “Don’t hurt him!”
“You’re sick,” Harry snarled at Black.
But Black noticed nothing else in the room—he was fixated on Scabbers, his pale eyes hungry as his fingers convulsed. Without thinking, Harry rushed forward; he yanked on Black’s arm.
“Don’t—!”
Several things happened at once—Black’s elbow jerked into Harry, sending him stumbling backward when a jet of light flashed—Hermione had shot a hex at Black, but he ducked, and it slammed into Harry instead.
The feeling of a dozen fingers poking into his abdomen made Harry collapse; he was laughing uncontrollably, writhing on the floor, curling into himself, begging it to stop between guffaws. There was another burst of light, and Hermione went down, the wands clattering out of her grasp. Harry grabbed the hem of Black’s ragged robes, chuckling madly as the Tickling Hex gave no reprieve, but Black darted from him, and the end of his ragged robes ripped away in Harry’s grip.
Ron made a dive for the wands—Black kicked them away.
“Enough!” Black shouted. “This ends now!”
Harry’s abdomen hurt—couldn’t sit up, couldn’t fight as Black strangled the rat, squeezing hard.
And then, the rat was gone. Through his tears, Harry couldn’t see where he’d gone, but then he saw scuttling across the floor a small, terrified, balding man—
“Sirius, no!” he cried with a high-pitched squeal. “Please—please, Sirius, it’s me. It’s Peter—your friend—”
Black stared at the wizard with loathing, his teeth bared in an ugly snarl.
“That won’t work twice, Peter,” growled Black.
Harry wheezed. He couldn’t breathe—Hermione’s hex was too strong, he was laughing so hard, twisting on the floor. Black glanced down at him. The wand twitched, and the invisible hands stopped prodding Harry, but Black had no time for Harry now—he turned back to the small man who was cowering, his back pressed to the wall, eyes swiveling from Black to the door.
“Sirius—p-p-please! I-I didn’t mean to!” cried the man. “He would’ve—he would’ve killed me!”
“So you killed James.”
“I didn’t want to—I didn’t mean it. He—he forced me! He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named tricked me—!”
“Don’t lie,” spat Black. “You spied on James and Lily for a year before you sold them to Voldemort! I should’ve known it was you—should’ve seen it. Always hiding behind me and James and Remus—always a sniveling, miserable rat— ”
Watery eyes flitted toward the door. The small man tensed as if he were about to pounce, about to scramble away. Black rounded on the small man, raising Harry’s wand.
“Don’t you dare—” Black thundered as the whimpering man lunged for the wands on the floor.
A boom ricocheted off the walls, rattling the shack. Harry yelled, throwing up his arms as floorboards exploded, his ears ringing. Ron flew backward, his back hit the wall, and he slumped, eyes half-open. Black had been knocked onto his back, but the other wizard—Peter—was grasping a wand, pointing it at Black.
There was a finger missing on his wand hand. Harry’s heart thudded. Ron’s warning from months ago swam back to Harry: “You know what Pettigrew’s mother got back after Black had finished with him? The Order of Merlin, First Class and Pettigrew’s finger in a box.”
“Stay back!” cried the man. “I’ll blow the whole shack, Sirius! I swear I will! You know I can!”
Between Black and the wizard, broken floorboards had crumbled, leaving a large hole that dropped into the room below. The floor groaned under the small man’s feet. Hermione was sprawled unconscious near the hole—Harry saw Black’s eyes flicker to her and back to the wand pointed at him.
“If you move,” Peter Pettigrew warned, losing his stammer as he jerked the wand suddenly, turning its point, “I’ll kill Harry.”
Black’s face contorted with hatred. He opened his mouth to retort, but Pettigrew interrupted him, his eyes wide and wild.
“Don’t try it, Sirius! You underestimated me once, and look what you’ve done! This is your fault—James is dead because of you!”
It happened too quickly—Harry didn’t see Black’s mouth move, and Pettigrew had no time to react. Blood sprayed from Pettigrew’s chest as if he’d been slashed with a blade, and he paled. Blinking rapidly, Pettigrew wobbled and fell to his knees, staring dazedly at Black.
“Sirius—Sirius—I didn’t mean to—” gasped Pettigrew.
Black got to his feet. He flicked Harry’s wand again, and the air seemed to leave Pettigrew’s lungs. Pettigrew’s eyes widened, and he clawed at his throat. His face had drained of blood—his hands were scarlet and slick. Black watched coldly as the wizard sputtered. He lifted the wand and was about to strike again—
“No!” Harry cried.
His cry distracted Black who turned to Harry; Black opened his mouth to say something when Pettigrew, gasping for air, raised the wand over his head. A curse was forming on Pettigrew’s lips, and something in Harry snapped—instinct spurred him forward, propelled him to close the gap between him and Pettigrew. Arms outstretched, he collided with Pettigrew, shoving him hard. The wand slipped from Pettigrew’s hand, clattering to the floor, and rolling into the black hole in the floor.
Pettigrew pitched forward with a choking gasp but the floorboards couldn’t take the weight. They cracked and Pettigrew fell, tumbling through the gap, disappearing into the shadowed room below.
There was a hard thud .
The shack went silent. There was only a thunderous heartbeat in Harry’s ears, and the thud replayed in his mind. Harry stood frozen, horrified, staring at the black hole that had swallowed Pettigrew.
The floorboards groaned.
Black was covered in blood. His nose was still dripping, but his robes were saturated with the spray from Pettigrew’s chest. He’d turned to Harry, a vision from a nightmare, his eyes over bright and shining out of his starving mask.
The air was cold and dry in Harry’s lungs. Numbness spread from his chest to his fingers and toes.
“Harry,” Black rasped. “Harry, are you all right?”
Harry, dazed, didn’t move in time to escape Black. There were hands on his face, tilting his head up, and Black was searching him.
“I killed him,” Harry blurted.
“No—no I did, Harry. I hadn’t meant for you to see. Please, forgive me…”
“No,” said Harry, blinking hard. He wasn’t sure what he was saying no to, but he repeated it several times, shaking his head, and dislodging Black’s hands. I killed him, I killed him.
“Pettigrew,” Harry choked out, his eyes falling back to the gap in the floor. “He— you—” He swallowed hard, the air pushing raggedly out of his lungs. “He’s the one—he was the one. He was the one who—”
“Yes. But it’s done. He’s gone.”
“But he was dead. He was dead. But he was Scabbers. And I…” Killed him, killed him, killed him.
“You didn’t do anything,” said Black. “It was me. It was me, Harry. I killed him.”
It was so easy. A shove and down, Pettigrew was gone. Thud. Not even a crash, not even an explosion. Just a hard thud and then nothing.
“No,” said Harry. He was still saying no, and it poured out of him. Black hushed him, stroking his hair.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Black croaked. “It’s not your fault.”
Black enveloped him with a crushing embrace, squeezing Harry into him. Harry couldn’t breathe. He buried his face against Black’s chest, shuddering, unable to stop thinking about the feeling of Pettigrew’s small body pressed against his palms, the sharp gasp of fear, and then—
“You’re not a killer, Harry,” Black had said.
It wasn’t true. It wasn’t true at all. Harry hadn’t even hesitated.
His knees buckled. If Black hadn’t been holding him, he would’ve plummeted to the floor, perhaps even followed Pettigrew through the hole, but Black lowered him down carefully. Harry grasped his robes.
I killed him, I killed him.
“Shh, Harry, you didn’t. I did. I did it.”
“No,” Harry said. “No, I pushed him. I pushed him through the floor. He’s dead, isn’t he? He’s dead.”
A hand rubbed his back in an endless circle. Black’s voice was rumbling, but it seemed to be coming from far away—too far for Harry to hear what he was saying. And Harry felt as if time had suspended him—as if he were no longer tied to the world to which his body was tethered.
Black shifted, but Harry dug in his fingers. Beneath him, Black’s hollow chest expelled a deep sigh.
“Expecto patronum!”
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. The hum of a Patronus hung in the air. Black was speaking quietly, and then the warmth of the Patronus was gone.
There was something broken in Harry—he didn’t cry. He didn’t wail or sob. He couldn’t move, and he wouldn’t let Black move either. The stale smell of unwashed robes pinched his nose, and the pressure of Black’s hard cheek weighed down on his head. It seemed like he was returning to his body for a few seconds and then drifting back out of it to travel back in time and shove Pettigrew through the hole. Again. And again.
Black gave up talking to him. Perhaps his voice had finally failed. Each time Black tried to coax Harry off of him, Harry clung tighter. But he didn’t know why. He only knew that if he let go of Black, Harry would fall through the open maw of the floor and plummet after Pettigrew and keep falling forever.
After some time, he thought he heard voices. Black’s body stiffened at the sound of a sharp gasp that emerged from the room below, but he didn’t shove Harry off of him. Then there was an explosion of sound—
“Good heavens!”
“Who is that?”
“But is that—no—no, it can’t be—”
“Good God, is he dead?”
The voices stirred his memories. He knew them. Harry couldn’t breathe. Everyone was going to find out—they would know what he did.
Suddenly, Black spoke wearily yet clearly. “Upstairs.”
The people downstairs hushed immediately, though there were lingering whispers. Then, following a hesitation, Harry recognized Albus Dumbledore’s voice.
“Sirius?”
“Yes,” said Black.
“Are you alone?”
“No. Harry’s here. His friends too. Please come upstairs.”
The floorboards creaked as the voices were muttering to each other, but it was the Minister of Magic whom Harry heard most clearly.
“Albus, it could be a trap. This is why you should have let me bring a dementor.” Fudge said irritably.
“Then perhaps you should remain down here, Cornelius. Minerva, Severus, will you follow me, please? Filius, guard the Minister. Poppy, please prepare to join us once we determine it is safe.”
The shack filled with the sound of their footsteps as they rushed from the gap below in the ceiling to climb the staircase. Harry heard them in the corridor and then the slam of the door flying open into the wall. The floorboards rattled in their approach.
“Oh—my—” It was Professor McGonagall, her voice choked.
Black tried to move, but Harry gripped his robes so tightly that his fingers started to puncture the threadbare cloth.
“Unconscious,” Black was saying quickly. He must have been talking about Ron and Hermione. “His leg’s broken—badly. Concussion likely. She’s taken a Stunner. And Harry—he’s—he’s a bit—I think he’s in shock. He won’t let go…”
They were speaking to each other—he heard Dumbledore’s voice, gently but firmly, asking Black what had happened, and Black’s deep voice vibrated through his chest into Harry’s ear, all the while a hand was stroking rhythmically up and down his spine. Harry tried to shut out his words—he knew what had happened, he knew what he’d done—but to hear it from Black’s mouth—Black, who was lying, who was claiming Pettigrew’s death as his own fault—
“It was me,” Harry sputtered. “It was me. I killed Pettigrew. It was me.”
“No, I did it,” Black said urgently. “Harry doesn’t remember right—”
“I pushed him—I killed—”
A renewed smoothing of a hand against his hair and a fresh round of hushing made Harry swallow his words. Humiliation didn’t occur to him—his mind wouldn’t work at all. He was grasping Black, but his fingers were numb, and so he held on, knowing that if he let go he would fall and he would never stop falling…
“Poppy,” Dumbledore called gently. “Please, join us upstairs.”
“Albus, what’s going on up there?” Fudge demanded.
“There is no emergency, Cornelius. Black is unarmed, and he is cooperating. I beg you not to fetch the dementors until necessary.”
“Now, see here, Albus, this all could be a ruse—”
“Minister,” said Professor McGonagall, “there is no threat from Black at this time. What we need is a healer.”
“Is someone dead up there too?”
Harry’s heart hammered anew. Black held him close. “No one else is dead,” he whispered to Harry. “Your friends are fine.”
“Did they check?” Harry asked. “Is—is Pettigrew— dead?”
Had Pettigrew, by some miracle, survived? Perhaps there was a chance that he hadn’t bled out, that the fall from the second floor hadn’t killed him, that Harry hadn’t killed him.
Harry couldn’t lift his face from Black’s chest. There was movement around him—Madam Pomfrey must have been looking after Ron and Hermione because she was telling the others what to do with them. Harry hoped to be left alone. He wanted to dissolve; he wanted to stop thinking about the sharp gasp and the dull thud .
“Harry.”
It was Dumbledore. His voice was too close.
“Harry, it’s time to let go,” Dumbledore said gently.
“No,” said Harry. “No—no, I can’t—you don’t—I can’t—”
“Perhaps it is best to let him take a moment, Headmaster,” said Madam Pomfrey.
There was a sharp scoff. Snape.
“Headmaster, if I could interject, it seems highly likely that Black has Confunded Potter. Perhaps it’s best if we separate them lest Potter becomes violent in Black’s defense.”
“Shut up. What are you doing here anyway?” Black spat.
“I am a Hogwarts professor. I’ve come to assist in apprehending a dangerous fugitive and deliver him to the dementors.”
“Severus,” said Dumbledore, “please help Poppy bring Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley to the hospital wing. I shall call for you when I need you.”
Perhaps Snape was pulling a face, or maybe he’d even said something back to Dumbledore, but Harry didn’t hear it. There was a flurry of movement, the groan of the floorboards, the prickle of magic, and all around, people were in motion but Harry was still.
Black shifted.
“Come on, Harry, let’s move a little, all right? Stay with me, now.”
Harry protested. He realized he was quite sore as Black pulled him to his feet—from the Whomping Willow’s branches, the tussle with Black, Hermione’s errant hex. The arm around him supported him.
Blearily, Harry looked around. Ron and Hermione were gone. Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall stood with their wands aloft—Dumbledore looked exceedingly calm, his bright blue eyes clear and hawkish. McGonagall was rather pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. At some point, Fudge had stomped up the stairs; he was speaking quickly to Dumbledore, his face red and consonants spraying spittle.
“I’ve already signed the order for Black to receive the Dementor’s Kiss! I can’t very well take it back, Albus. Do you realize how that would look? Nearly a year we’ve been after him! And you—you’re letting him escort Harry back to the castle? I daresay, headmaster! This isn’t like you—this is exceptionally troubling—”
“Cornelius,” said Dumbledore, “please consider all that you are witnessing now. Peter Pettigrew lies dead below our feet. Sirius Black has called upon us for help, despite the certainty of his arrest and surrender of his soul. I realize the embarrassment this may cause, but you must look around and see that all is not as we believed.”
“Do you hear yourself, Albus?” sputtered Fudge. “Are you suggesting that Black is innocent? I was there! I was there when Black was arrested. The massacre, Albus, you can’t imagine it, the destruction, and among it all…Black stood there, laughing…”
“I am familiar with the details. I do not claim that Black is innocent, but I beg you, Cornelius, think about this. Peter Pettigrew was alive an hour ago.”
“So that’s one death out of thirteen,” said Fudge. “I hardly think it exonerates Black!”
The fog was lifting slightly. With Black’s arm around his shoulders, pressing Harry against him, Harry eased his grip, uncurling his fingers from the holes he’d made in the prison robes. Everyone was looking at him. Heat flooded his face as the eroding shock made room for humiliation.
“You can’t have him,” said Harry, his tongue feeling heavy.
Fudge threw up his hands. “Clearly, Black’s tampered with his mind—made him think he’s killed Pettigrew—”
“I did! I killed him. I pushed him through—”
Black interrupted. “Could we please get Harry to the castle? Look at him, Albus. He’s half out of his mind. I don’t care what you do to me, but for God’s sake, this isn’t helping him.”
“Yes, I quite agree,” said Dumbledore. “However, I do not think Harry will agree to separate from you.”
Harry looked away in shame. He felt like a child cowering behind his parents' legs. He was thirteen—almost fourteen —but he was acting like a child. A weak, pathetic child. Never in his life had he been so terrified to be separated from someone; deep down, he knew something terrible would happen if they tore Black from him. Something would break inside him.
“No, I don’t think he will,” agreed Black.
“Harry’s not in his right mind!” Fudge thundered. “He’s in no state to make decisions for himself. The longer he’s in Black’s presence, the more delusional he’ll become!”
Dumbledore ignored the Minister. “Will you continue to cooperate, Sirius?”
“Yes.”
“Then you won’t mind precautions to ensure Harry’s safety?”
Although Black must have agreed perhaps with a nod, Harry missed his affirmation. Black held out his arms, and Dumbledore conjured manacles that appeared out of thin air and fastened them to the bony wrists.
Fudge was grumbling, but no longer demanding that Dumbledore change his mind. Harry, however, did not like the comforting smile that Black offered him—there was a spark of worry in Black’s eyes that made him uneasy.
The journey back to the castle brought clarity to Harry’s mind and left room for anxious, fearful thoughts to infiltrate. No part of Harry could explain why he was compelled to cling to Black’s arm. Black clanked with each step, his chains a reminder that he was not Harry’s to keep. McGonagall led the way up to the castle followed by Black and Harry. Behind them were Dumbledore and Fudge who was furiously telling Dumbledore that things were going to change around Hogwarts, mark his words.
Humidity misted off the lake, curling over the grounds. The sun had almost completely set, and the grounds were cast with a purplish gloom. The moon was still hidden behind the Forbidden Forest.
“Where‘s Pettigrew?” Harry asked.
“Flitwick brought him back to the castle,” said Black.
“Am I…” Harry could hardly speak. “Will I go to Azkaban?”
“No!” Black’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat and said quieter, “No, of course not. It wasn’t your fault. You were…you were protecting… ” He broke off.
“I thought you k-killed Pettigrew,” said Harry. “Years ago. All that was left was…was a…a finger…A whole street full of Muggles witnessed it…”
The stub of Pettigrew’s missing digit flashed in Harry’s mind. He stumbled over a rock in his path, and he was glad he was anchored to Black.
Black glanced over his shoulder at Dumbledore and Fudge before leaning in close.
“They didn’t see what they thought they saw,” whispered Black.
“But you—did you kill those Muggles?”
“Harry, it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. What Peter did—what I did—none of it matters now. Peter is dead, and you’re safe. That’s all I care about.”
Harry stopped suddenly, staring up at Black. Surprised, Black blinked down at him, his haunted, pale eyes bemused. He shoved lank hair from his face with his manacled hands.
“You’re innocent,” Harry breathed.
Black smiled very sadly but said nothing. When Dumbledore and Fudge caught up to them, it was Dumbledore who nudged them into moving again. The moon was rising over the tree line and cast a pale, cold light across their path that they traced back toward the castle, and Harry was trying to understand, his thoughts spiraling as they approached.
A tall and muscular man with a thin mustache was leaning against the door and puffing on a cigar. It was Walden Macnair—the executioner. Immediately, Macnair shot up and stood straight, but when he saw the mix of newcomers, the cigar tumbled out of his mouth in his shock.
“M-Minister?” stammered Macnair. His eyes swiveled from Fudge to Black, bugging slightly. “Is—that’s Sirius Black! What’s—what’s he—?”
“Mr. Macnair, please stand aside,” said Professor McGonagall.
“Wait a minute,” said Macnair, gaping. “That’s Sirius Black. You’re bringing him back here?”
“Momentarily, Macnair,” said Fudge irritably. “He won’t be here long. Meanwhile, you’ll fetch a dementor to escort him back to the Ministry.”
Macnair’s surprise slipped. Suddenly, he looked almost gleeful about his assignment, as if this were precisely why he got into the execution business. He shot Black an oily smile. “Yes, of course, Minister,” he simpered. “My pleasure.”
The doors swung open for them as Macnair went off in search of a dementor, and Harry tightened his grip on Black. But as soon as they crossed the threshold, a pale hand with long fingers rested on Harry’s shoulder, holding him back from Black.
“Harry,” said Dumbledore kindly. “I think it would be best if you followed Professor McGonagall to the hospital wing. I believe Madam Pomfrey is expecting you.”
“No,” said Harry. “No, I’m not leaving Black.”
“Potter, you’ve suffered an emotional shock,” said McGonagall. “You are in no state to do anything other than rest. Please, let go of Black and follow me.”
But Harry saw Fudge's look—it was one of triumph as if he were glad to have caught Black, as if this were finally good news. Macnair would return with the dementor. Perhaps they really would bring Black back to the Ministry, but what if the dementor was hungry for his soul? What if Black never made it?
“Black’s injured,” blurted Harry. “His—his nose is broken. He—he’s got to see Madam Pomfrey.”
“A broken nose is the least of our worries, Harry,” snapped Fudge.
Dumbledore paused, looking down through half-moon spectacles at Harry then to Black, and then to Harry again. Finally, he nodded gravely. “I agree, Harry. Minister, if Black is hurt, I do believe it is only ethical to see that he is treated.”
Fudge rounded on Dumbledore. “This isn’t a joke, Dumbledore! If I let Black slip through our fingers again—through my fingers—I’ll never hear the end of it! Black’s a murderer, Albus! He belongs in Azkaban, not the infirmary. Have you completely lost your mind?”
“My mind is as sharp as it ever was, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore. “Perhaps Black will cooperate with our investigation if his injuries are addressed. I daresay, there are many details that I believe we have missed in our initial investigation of Black’s alleged crimes.”
Fudge gripped his bowler hat with such ferocity, that it seemed like it was what he’d like to do to Black’s head.
“Then I want him chained to something,” Fudge snapped. “If he’s going to be near children— children, Dumbledore—then I have a certain duty to keep them safe!”
“You have my word,” Dumbledore promised. “We shall match his weight in chains.”
Madam Pomfrey, however, was far less keen on the number of visitors when their odd group entered the hospital wing. She barked at anyone who was uninjured to leave, save for the headmaster who guided Black to a chair beside a bed. While Dumbledore fixed a long chain from the floor to Black’s ankle, Madam Pomfrey urged Harry to change into pajamas behind the curtain.
He was trembling so much that he fell over trying to take off his jeans. Madam Pomfrey rushed to help him, but he told her he was fine, he’d only tripped.
“You’re still in shock,” said Madam Pomfrey. “You need rest, Mr. Potter. Perhaps a bit of something to eat. And then sleep.”
“I’m not hungry. How are Ron and Hermione?”
“They’ll live. Go on, get in bed.”
Harry caught Black’s eye as he emerged from behind the curtain. Black was sitting in a stiff wooden chair, his wrists still manacled but now his ankles were cuffed too and chained to the floor. The blood had dried on Black’s face, and he looked worn, but he smiled at Harry.
Madam Pomfrey barked at Harry to rest before she turned her attention to Black. It was quick work for her to wipe his face clean and fix his broken nose with a tap of her wand and a swig of Skele-gro. She made him scrub his filthy hands in a levitating basin, declaring that he was far too unsanitary to interact with her patients. The water was a murky grey by the time she allowed him to stop.
Dumbledore conjured another chair that he brought to the empty side of Harry’s bed. He must not have trusted Black to be alone with Harry, but it didn’t seem to matter to Black who slid his chair across the floor until it was touching the bed.
“Sirius,” said Harry, settling back against the metal bed frame. The name felt strange to say. “Sirius, did someone double-check to see if Pettigrew survived?”
Black tilted his head, frowning. “Harry, maybe Madam Pomfrey’s right. We can talk about this later.”
“But if Pettigrew’s still alive—we could save him, right? Maybe I didn’t kill him at all.”
Black’s hands were cold from the water when he laid them over Harry’s. The chain from his wrists draped over the bedspread.
“Maybe,” Black said slowly. “It’s possible. Flitwick’s looking after Pettigrew now. You don’t have to worry about him, all right? All you’ve got to do now is breathe and try not to think about it.”
“But if he’s seriously injured…”
“Harry,” said Dumbledore. “There is no need to worry about Peter Pettigrew.”
“Sir, but if there’s a chance he survived—”
“Then I will have Madam Pomfrey look into it.”
Dumbledore excused himself and strode across the hospital wing to tap Madam Pomfrey’s shoulder and speak to her quietly. Harry didn’t miss the way her eyes swiveled back to his bed, her discerning look, and then, finally, a dutiful nod at the headmaster before she retreated through the double doors. When Dumbledore returned, he exchanged a meaningful look with Black who nodded his understanding.
“She will attend to Pettigrew now,” assured Dumbledore.
Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. He’s telling the truth, he tried to convince himself. Pettigrew isn’t dead. I didn’t kill him.
“Rest, Harry,” Black murmured. The chain clinked when he moved his bound hands to smooth the hair from Harry’s forehead.
“Don’t leave.”
“I can’t,” said Black, smiling, rattling the chains.