Chapter Text
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Sirius Kills Vernon
A night shift worker at the institution took pity on the ragged animal. The thing pawed at the doors, whimpering in the cold rain, somehow having bypassed the gate and security. It pleaded with large, innocent eyes. Only a monster could deny such a docile, suffering creature — monsters like the inmates here.
In the end, the worker wouldn’t regret his decision to give the creature refuge, despite the disastrous consequences, for the simple fact that he wouldn’t even remember he had done it.
Once the sopping animal was inside the doors, and kindly dried off by the guard with his own warm wool coat, it promptly bolted away. “Shit-” the worker lunged after the dog, but it was too fast, surprising considering its behemoth size. It sped down the hall, through metal detectors and other security measures shut off at this time of night, and arrived at yet another locked door. No matter, the creature could get past it. It was too late for anything to stop him anyway. The thing hopped up on its hind legs, transforming mid-motion. It grew into a tall man with a grown out beard and feral look in his eyes.
Sirius took out his wand. Perhaps he had grown too used to performing magic behind the safety of Grimmauld’s wards, but he was going to do this as quick and efficient as possible, the Trace be damned. The aurors wouldn’t be able to track his magic that quickly anyway. He sprinted down the hall, and peered into each speed-blurred cell passing by. No alarms went off, and no inmates were woken. After all, what did the guard he had fled from have to worry about? It’s not like a regular dog could get past the door.
Finally, the passing blur of sickeningly familiar bars slowed to a jerking stop in front of a cell where laid a blobby pink lump in a grey jumpsuit.
He blew the door off his hinges. The spell was merely designed to open the door, bu his rage and eagerness were overwhelming him, urging his magic along in pursuit of his revenge. He’d never felt so powerful. He supposed it was true that desperation breeds progress.
After seeing his best friends’ corpses all those years ago, he had been desperate. He had sought vengeance, only to be thwarted when he was a hair away from it. Hesitation had been his hamartia. He was desperate once again for vengeance, but, this time, he was through with hesitating. He would do this quick and dirty. Perhaps it would have been satisfying to experiment with the Unforgivables like the rest of his no-good family, but time was of the essence. The aurors would be on their way soon at the alert that the trace of his magic had pinged in Surrey of all places. So he slipped silently inside the cell and closed the door quietly behind him.
Eager hands pulled out the stake he’d previously conjured. Maybe it was unnecessary, since knew he was going to die anyway, but he figured he would make things easier for Kingsley and Mad-Eye’s lot. There was no need to involve magic in the death of this disgusting excuse for a man. Not when Sirius wanted to feel the life leave his body by his own hand.
He poised the weapon above the throat of his godson’s murderer, bringing his wiry arms up to achieve the momentum necessary to penetrate the man’s blubber-insulated neck. He slammed it down into the soft flesh, not allowing himself to think beyond the moment. As the fatty tissue gave way, blood spurted over the faces and bodies of both men. The supine whale jerked his whole body, and hands reflexively came up to protect himself. His frantic eyes stared and seemed to plead, though it was already too late. He seemed to overcome immediate instinct and removed his hands from the stake protruding from his neck, flailing to grip the wrists holding it instead. A gurgling sound escaped him; whether it came through his mouth or the exposed artery was unclear. Black tasted the sweet blood of his victim as it spurted from the wound and opened his mouth in welcome. The fragrant liquid was a burst of flavor that made his stomach rumble. He drove the stake deeper and twisted it to the side. The inmate’s dying body convulsed, but his eyes remained wide for another few seconds before fluttering and dimming, body going completely still. The blood fountaining from the wound slowed to a steady trickle, as the puddle beneath Black’s bare feet grew. The hot blood grew sticky as the man stepped back to view his work. His vision was blurred with red, and he rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands only to spread the blood around more. He growled animalistically and transformed into his canine counterpart, beginning to lap up the pooling blood before it congealed.
The sound of footsteps rushing down the hall came to him now, but the creature, dripping with rosy, copper-scented gore paid them no attention. He had known his fate even before he’d started forming the plan. At least he wouldn’t be going back to Azkaban, he thought grimly. Two uniformed aurors arrived at the closed cell and gasped. Wands at the ready, they whispered furiously at each other, “You said it was probably a false alarm!”
“Enough of that!” hissed the evidently more experienced auror. “Where’s Black? What’s that dog? How did it even get in the cell?”
“I dunno. Do you think Black had a familiar? Should we kill it?”
“Better safe than sorry, I think; it’s not supposed to be here anyway.”
At this, the dog looked up. A wand aimed at his body while the holder’s partner looked nervously down the hall, respective wand poised nervously at her side. “Disecare,” uttered the red-robed man. At the flash of white light, the canine body on the ground erupted in a deep laceration cutting through his sternum from neck to belly.
Black bled out on the floor of the cell, much slower than his plump-bodied victim. Maybe he deserved this agonizing death. He felt no guilt, however, already having paid his recompense with a twelve year sentence in Hell.
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Harry Hears About Sirius and Vernon
“Harry!” A call rang out through the common room. “Has anyone seen Harry?”
“I’m here!” Harry quickly made himself visible while his “heart” happily skipped a beat at the realization that someone other than his previous roommates was seeking him out. He’d been coming to breakfasts in the Great Hall to hang out with everyone before their classes started, but this was the first time someone had actually sought him out to talk to him. When he was in the common room, he mostly milled around invisibly, or quietly “sat” and talked with Ron and Hermione.
The prefect calling his name was someone Harry didn’t often see at all, since she seemed to live on a permanently ahead of schedule schedule. She must’ve been the only Gryffindor in the Great Hall before she came back up to the tower.
“I got my mail early from my owl!” she exclaimed, a somewhat frantic look in her eye.
“Ooookay?” Harry felt like he was missing something.
“You should really look at this.” She tossed a copy of the Daily Prophet toward him, and it fell right through him. “Oop. Right. Sorry.” She sheepishly reached through his body and held up the paper in front of his face. Though it was more than a bit awkward, Harry was grateful that she held it so close, his glasses in their perpetually broken state.
He stared at the paper. “HARRY POTTER’S MURDERER KILLED BY AZKABAN ESCAPEE” the headline read. He blinked, dread trickling down his limbs. The rest of the text was too small to read, but he didn’t think he could have focused on the words even with perfect vision.
“What?” He could barely find his voice. His strangled croak seemed to be interpreted differently by the prefect in front of him.
“Isn’t it crazy?! It says it was Sirius Black! Y’know, the guy who got your parents killed. Well, not You-Know-Who, obviously, but, y’know. I can’t say I’m too sad about it, but you must be pretty happy, huh?”
Harry didn’t know what part of her excited rambling to focus on. Sirius had killed someone? “Who?” was all he managed. He could barely remember the night he died. Had it been Uncle Vernon who killed him? Perhaps it was actually Aunt Petunia; he had no idea what happened after he passed out.
“Sirius Black! Apparently he escaped from Azkaban; isn’t that crazy? I think he’s the only prisoner to ever escape. It’s kinda scary. I’d be really freaking out right now, if it didn’t say he was killed by aurors right after he killed your uncle.”
Harry’s heart stopped… Er. Well, y’know.
The excited girl continued, “Apparently he was an unregistered animagus the whole time! Y’know, like McGonnagal? I wonder how he managed that; he was so young when he got captured.”
By now, the whole common room was gathering around, and Harry’s brain felt numb.
Hermione snatched the paper from the older girl, and quickly skimmed the article. “Oh, Harry…” She looked to her friend, who seemed more translucent than usual. “Are you okay? She tried to grab his arm and herd him away from the crowd, but quickly realized her mistake and switched tactics. “Let’s go up to your old dorm,” she said. Her words sounded like they were coming from underwater, and they didn’t register to Harry. He was staring at a spot on the floor and found himself remembering others he’d lost. He remembered his parents from the Mirror of Erised. He could’ve been with them right now. But, instead, he’s stuck here.
“Okay, Harry. Let’s sit down and talk about this. Don’t get lost in your head. Ghosts can’t really intake information the same way living humans can. I’m sure this is really confusing to you.”
Harry looked up at the reminder that he wasn’t alone in the room. Although, as did so, he found that he actually nearly was. It seemed that, instead of getting Harry away from the crowd, Hermione got the crowd away from Harry.
“I shooed everyone away to an early breakfast,” she explained at his blank confusion.
He nodded silently. His face felt heavy and slack. He drifted towards the couch the three friends had always sat on back when he was a regular student. He sat down where Hermione patted the worn out cushion, but no impression was made. The cushy fabric didn’t seem to hug him the way it used to. He looked to the fire crackling in the hearth, where Sirius had talked to him last year. He couldn’t feel the warmth, couldn’t smell the woodsmoke. The orange light emitting from it passed straight through him to the cushion behind.
He sat blankly and waited for Hermione to direct the conversation, as she often did.
“Harry? Are you listening to me?”
He nodded, and noticed but couldn’t feel the cushion on his other side dip down and Ron sat facing his friend, a worried expression on his face. He gripped the paper between sweaty fingers and tried to hide the photos on the front page. He didn’t succeed.
“So… Vernon’s dead?”
“Yes, Harry,” Hermione stated definitively.
“...What about Aunt Petunia?” He was anxious about what the answer could be. He knew Dudley wasn’t exactly alive, but he still needed someone to take care of him. Harry hated the thought of there being another orphan in the world.
“I don’t think your aunt went to jail. In an article I read last week, it sounded like she was actually the one who called the coppers on your uncle. They didn’t print her statement, so I don’t know if she did it because she felt bad or if she was just protecting herself from prosecution, but Sirius only broke into the jail by the looks of it, not the Dursleys’ home; I think she’s safe.”
“Ah. Good… I guess…” Harry wasn’t actually sure how he felt about that. Aunt Petunia hadn’t been the one to kill him apparently, but she had still been pretty bad when he’d lived with them. She’d been the one to deny him things like food and sunscreen most of the time. Harry remembered the long days in the garden, desperate for water or anything to offer some relief. He suddenly scowled, “I wish she had die—” A gasp left his mouth before he’d finished speaking that thought. “Oh. What a horrible thing to think! Enough people have already died because of me!” Harry tugged on his hair and scrunched his face up. What an ungrateful, good for nothing freak. He groaned, “First, my parents, then Quirrel, then Cedric, and Dudley, and Vernon and Sirius.” He gasped in deep breaths and tried to calm down. It’s not like he could swallow a calming draught like Madame Pomfrey might’ve given him before.
“What are you talking about?” Hermione’s voice pulled him from his anxious reverie.
“They’re all dead. Because of me.”
‘Harry, I’m sorry but that’s ridiculous.” Hermione’s factual voice nearly made him believe it.
“But—” He started to defend his self-condemning reasoning.
“‘Mione’s right, Harry,” Ron’s innocent voice chimed in, “Your parents wanted to save you. And there was nothing you could’ve done for Cedric.”
Harry’s groan showed what he thought about that.
“Oh, honestly, Harry. You’re not responsible for those deaths. Especially not Sirius’ and your uncle’s.”
Harry looked up at her, sometimes Hermione was the dumbest smart person ever.
“If I hadn't let Dudley get attacked,” he said slowly, trying to get her to understand, “then Uncle Vernon would never have killed me, and Sirius wouldn’t have gone after him, and they’d both be alive right now! It's all my fault!” He exclaimed and resisted the urge to storm off.
“Harry.” She spoke firmly but kindly. “You’re not responsible for other people’s actions. Vernon shouldn’t have killed you. And Sirius shouldn’t have sought revenge. They alone have control over their reactions, even to incredibly stressful events. None of this lands on you.”
“But he didn’t deserve to die,” Harry groaned, wondering what would happen if he threw up; would it just sink right through the floor?
“No one’s saying Sirius deserved to die, Har— “
“NOT HIM!” Harry roared. He knew he was being erratic and irrational right now, but he couldn’t stop. “Vernon!”
“Wait, what?” Ron seemed just as confused as Hermione. “How did we make our way round to pitying your piece-of-shit uncle? I thought we were talking about Sirius?”
“Yes,” came Hermione’s serious voice. “This conversation had become wildly derailed, Harry. What are you talking about?”
“I DIDN’T WANT HIM TO DIE!” Harry practically screamed, the frog that had been in his throat was now nowhere to be found. “HE WAS A FATHER! HE HAD A WIFE! AND HE WAS GOOD TO THEM! Even if not to me! I at least deserved what I got! I—“ Harry’s nonsensical rambling came to a rapid halt as he seemed to realize what he was saying. “Ugghhh,” Harry threw his head back in his hands. “Why does it feel like everything’s my fault?” He whispered, worried his friends would think his question was ridiculous.
“Oh, Harry—”
This time it was Ron who interrupted Hermione. “Mate. You have a problem. They raised you to hate yourself. They told you that everything was your fault; that doesn’t make it true. I know you’re a ghost now, and you can’t really…”
“Evolve?” Hermione suggested, helpfully.
“What?” Ron stared at her in confusion,
“Oh. Are wizards not taught about that? Whatever; it doesn’t matter. Harry, the point is: none of this is your fault. Sirius was responsible for his own actions. Maybe your death was the catalyst, but he’s responsible for how he copes with his anger. Not you. This was not. your. fault.”
“But what if it was? Maybe some part of me did want Vernon dead. I know that doesn’t mean it was my fault, but I'm still— I’m still a—”
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione’s comforting hug surrounded his cold misty body, and he melted into it, thinking it was wonderful that such a literal-minded girl was willing to play pretend for him. Ron joined in, opting to rest his hands on Hermione’s arms, rather than let them float in air.
“We’ll get through this, mate. It might take a lot of work to change your way of thinking, especially since you’re a ghost now, but we’re always gonna be here to talk you out of it when you start doubting yourself.”
“Ron’s right,” Hermione’s firm voice confirmed, “You are amazing, Harry. We see it, and we’ll keep telling you, no matter how repetitive and tedious it gets.” She lilted the last words, and Harry chuckled at her rare joke.
“Thanks, guys,” his whisper was hoarse, and he hovered his hands above his friends’ arms, reveling in the comfort of them.
He could almost believe what they had told him.