Chapter Text
Sirius spent the next day sending out letters and caring for Harry. He would manage the funerals tomorrow. Today, they needed somewhere to stay. Frank and Alice were the most likely to allow them quarterage. Although, Kingsley was close with Remus, thus he had owled the man additionally. Sirius soon received a letter from his parents, resulting in a mental debate of going unplottable before reading the contents of the assertion. It was an invitation—nay—a demand of appearance for a celebration of his Natal Day coinciding November Third—the first one since his sixteenth, the year he had run, his face burned off the family tree. If said confirmation of the inevitable, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black wanted their Heir back. It was decrepitude to believe they would emancipate themselves from him forever. It was only logical that Walberga and Orion disallow such a notion as freedom or peace following his inattendance.
Sirius found out the hard way Harry did not care for eggs. He liked the chopped up banana the house elves had put on the side when he had asked for two plates of scrambled eggs. They had pasta and tomato sauce for lunch, which also ended up in Sirius’ hair.
“Just like the fucking eggs. Damnit, Prongslet. Really?” Sirius scurgified them and the floor for the third time that day. “What do you want?” the man pleaded with the 15 month old. He was at wits end between his parents, Remus, Harry, and the boy's parents’ deaths. He had enough mental breakdowns in the past 24 hours. Sirius just needed Harry to eat something.
“Mamma!” Harry shouted at Sirius, his chubby face pouted angrily. The illegal animagus backed himself into a wall, sliding down—he began to cry. The child joined in with his own banshee-like wails. It took him many moments to stand once more to take the boy into his arms to sooth him. Everything felt so pointless in that moment. How was he supposed to do even half as well as the woman who had given her soul for her son as a man who had such wonderful examples growing up. Sirius was immature—he had never wanted to grow up or have kids of his own. He was selfish. He should’ve been their secret keeper, not put the responsibility on Peter. He was cruel, just like the rest of his family. Something was wrong with his brain—He was impulsive and never thought of the consequences. How was he to raise a child? To raise their child? He wished, not for the first time, he had an affiliation for The Mystic Arts instead of the Dark ones.
Sirius sat Harry onto the old wooden floor before he shifted into his animagus form, letting the world fade, in a way. While his senses sharpened, his mind seemed to dull partially. The weight that was held up in his chest dispersed minutely. The giant Great Dane dwarfed the toddler—his head alone was almost equal to the size of the child. Harry showed no fear, tears drying up as he laughed at the dog, standing precariously to pull at the black dog's ears. Sirius let Harry poke and pet him for a while, observing the child as he took this moment to breathe. For such a young child, he was very gentle, besides the slightly painful tugs on his ears that reminded him of when Harry was only a few months old and liked to pull on hair. Although, if Sirius thought about it, he wasn’t quite sure if Harry had diminished that habit yet. When his attention finally drifted away from the large dog, Sirius shifted back.
“Time for a nap? Or are you still hungry?” Harry stared at Sirius for a long moment before making a gurgling noise that could pass as requesting for food. Pressing a hand to his face, the man nodded before scooping Harry up. “It’s a good thing I have ‘lady hips’ isn’t it?” Sirius mumbled to Harry with a smile and a soft laugh as they began their third trip to the kitchens.
“Mr. Black is back again!” said at least three separate elves at once.
“So soon?” began one in a confused tone.
“The baby must not have liked the spaghetti and meat sauce,” an older one said amicably.
“But it was made with farfalle! How could he not?” Another elf seemed to be confused as well.
“I just-I just need apple sauce or something. Or—what’s something calming? He missed his nap, and it's better late than never.” Sirius felt as if he could take a nap as well. His eyelids felt heavy and it was only 12:48 in the afternoon.
“He isn’t going to be needing something so sweet if you are wanting hims to nap, Mr. Black. Some yogurt is what you wills be needing,” said the older elf. He had no recollection of her name, and while he briefly felt bad, he truly was too tired to care. Sirius took the bowl of yogurt without so much as a passing thank you, strolling away with intent to get back to their temporary quarters before lunch was over for the students.
“Yum, yogurt Harry, you can eat this then we nap. I have found myself tired too, so I hope you won’t mind if I nap with you?” Harry gurgled in response to Sirius, then continued to make noises with intent as if he were properly contributing to the conversation. Sirius nodded along with the unintelligible babbling of his godson.
“You know what you’re saying, and that’s what’s important.” Sirius muttered before setting Harry down. “Here, have a bite” The disgraced noble put the spoon to the infant's mouth, to Sirius’ immense relief he ate. Harry only ate half of the yogurt. Sirius had no energy to encourage him to eat more, especially when he nodded at the question of a nap.
—
The sound of the shower running startled Sirius awake, panic flowing through his veins immediately. Finding Harry next to him, he calmed momentarily before realizing someone in the bathroom conjoined to the bedroom was still abnormal. Sirius grabbed his wand, made sure Harry wasn’t going to roll off the bed, and started towards the bathroom with caution. It was likely a ghost but one could not be too careful.
“Peeves?” Sirius called out hesitantly before spotting the outline of a person behind the frosted glass. Defensive spells ran through his brain at lightning speed, Harry his first priority.
“Cachu hwch. No. Still completely corporeal. I was tryin’ not to wake you.” The sound of Remus’ voice caused a sudden churning of Sirius’ stomach and the worry he may regurgitate his lunch. He had thought he cried all of his tears that day, but the grief, the fear—a storm of emotions crashed against his very soul, winds tearing at it. Sirius’ wand clattered to the floor, followed by his body. “Sirius?” A sob worked its way out of his throat at Remus’ hesitant murmur of his name. Wet arms wrapped around him as he hyperventilated. “Cariad, it’s over. We’ll be okay,” Remus whispered, his voice low, resigned, shaking with emotion.
“They passed through the veil, Remus. We are the ones entrusted to raise Harry, alone.” Sirius’ clothes were becoming drenched from Remus’ soaked form.
“Lily hasn’t, remember? Her soul will forever watch over her son. The war is almost over,” said Remus earnestly, stroking the back of Sirius’ neck. “Come, get in the shower with me? We’ll rinse off then talk more later.” The thought was nice, Remus’ words and presence were a comfort, although none of the words seemed to quell the typhoon inside him.
“Do we know what happened to Peter?” Remus asked. Sirius couldn’t suppress his flinch.
“I went to check on him and he was gone. I think whoever the traitor was in the order must have came to give him food, or visit. He must have been so lonely and proud I had him as the secret keeper. He probably mentioned this is why he was in hiding, and was taken. It’s all my fault.” Sirius began to break down once more. Remus hushed him, pressing kisses to his cheeks.
“No, it’s not. Whoever took Peter and preyed upon his weakness is the one to blame—not you.” The werewolf held his partner close. They were quiet for a while, neither daring to break the silence. “I just don’t understand,” Remus whispered as they laid down to sleep, sounding truly shattered for the first time that night, “why them? Why Lily? Why Harry?” The werewolf’s breath hitched.
“I wish I knew.”
—— FlashBack a year or so prior.
Sybil had been avoiding the war, but she knew others were making a difference. Pandora had encouraged her to find something to do with herself. She just knew that teaching her calling to the next generation of Wixen was right. Maybe her gifts were guiding her. She was oh so nervous for this interview, but she would do well—she had checked her tea leaves before arriving. She got the job.
Everything was going horribly—she’d broken several things and answered questions wrong. She was good with tea leaves, but maybe she was having a bad day? Halfway through her scrambled attempt at reciting the Hogwarts motto, in English, her head began to ache. And really, who paid attention to their Latin school motto enough to memorise it? It was a dead language for Morgana’s sake!
“Are anyone else’s ears ringing?” The pain was starting to become unbearable. She began to feel faint, and as the deputy headmistress asked if she was okay, the world around her faded away. Sybil stopped, gasping for air before letting out a scream of pain, clutching her head as she fell from her chair to her knees “A—ahhhh-a child!” she was breathless, a flash of white, it’s a hospital room. “A woman is screaming—the cry of a newborn!” She’s giving birth, and it’s a boy. There’s a cake, a party. Then a haunting, gaunt face, red eyes, terror. She was screaming again, her red hair in her face as she screamed, begging. “A refusal! She refuses him!”
“Who?” Headmaster Dumbledore shook her shoulders, his head in her face. She closed her eyes once more.
“The Dark Lord! She will not back down!” Sybil screamed out, she wanted help, wanted the pain to stop, she saw red—blood. The brunette ripped some hair out. There was a bit of blood.
“Who is ‘she’? When will this happen?” Trelawnney couldn’t respond, could barely hear his words as lights flashed and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named put a wand to the child’s head. The lights were blinding. “After scaring the child, he fades away!” she screamed. You-Know-Who disintegrated in a beautiful blue. “A powerful magic! Ancient! Powerful!” Sybil gasped out, voice wrecked as her thoughts began to sew themselves together. “Death! The Death of The Dark Lord approaches in the form of a child, a baby, and his magic,” she summarised frantically, struggling to breathe as she looked up into Dumbledore’s wide eyes.
“What else?” The old man croaked, shaking her, McGongall pulled Dumbledore off of her before sending a patronus to Poppy Pomfrey, the school nurse, for Calming Draught. “No. She needs to be sound of mine. She needs to tell us everything she saw—in great detail.” The headmaster helped Sybil back into her chair as he spoke to his second in command.
“I-uhm.. a woman, I don’t know who, gave-she gave birth. I saw her, heard her screaming, her baby cry as someone yelled he was a boy,” she began to explain, “I-it was also fast, and it hurt, I don’t know what happened.”
“You had a vision. Now back to what you saw. It’s imperative to the side of light that you continue." He dismissed her pain with a simple wave of his hand, looking to her imploringly, his blue eyes sharp with intrigue and desperation.
“Uhm. I saw the child’s first birthday, the end of July or January, I’m unsure. Then I see her, bleeding as she begs You-Know-Who to spare her child. He kills her. Then when he tries to do the same to the boy, he-there’s this light—and-he-he just… turns to ash.” The room quieted the moment she stopped speaking, filled only with the sound of Sybil’s heavy breathing, the others holding their breaths in shock. A knock at the doors startled all three of them. The seer let out a scream—Madam Pomfrey rushed in.
“What’s wrong? Minerva, why do you need Calming Drought?” The Head Deputy only pointed at Sybil, who gratefully accepted the potion.
“Is there anything else you can remember, Trelawney?” the woman asked her. She thought hard—it hurt, but the potion made it a little easier.
“She had red hair. The mother.” Sybil said airly, slumping in her chair as the potion took effect.
“You have the job. Poppy, please guide Professor Trelawney to your infirmary, and check for further injuries.” Sybil’s jaw dropped and she began to weep with joy as the medi-witch helped her from her chair and down the stairs. Her tea leaves were never wrong. And even more, she was a real seer. She finally had a vision.