Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter franchise or its universe. I just play around in it, free of charge.

Notes: This is part of the backstory to Time of the Turning, although it goes well with Canon. Enjoy, R&R

Runaway

By DracoNunquamDormiens

"You ran away from home?"

"When I was about sixteen," said Sirius. "I'd had enough."

"Where did you go?" asked Harry, staring at him.

"Your dad's place," said Sirius. "Your grandparents were really good about it; they sort of adopted me as a second son. Yeah, I camped out at your dad's in the school holidays, and when I was seventeen I got a place of my own. My Uncle Alphard had left me a decent bit of gold - he's been wiped off here, too, that's probably why - anyway, after that I looked after myself. I was always welcome at Mr. and Mrs. Potter's for Sunday lunch, though."

- Order of the Phoenix

Part One: Winter Solstice

They sold me out. They sold me out.

Merlin's balls, she sold me out-

He ran, that one thought racing through his head as wildly as he raced across deserted streets, bare feet splashing in icy puddles, slipping and sliding in the frozen mud, his breath coming out in ragged, steaming gasps.

What a way to spend a holiday.

Sure, there weren't many Muggles who celebrated the ancient Yule festival anymore, but Wizards did. Particularly those of ancient blood, who clung to the old ways like a lifeline. Families such as the Blacks.

It was no coincidence that his mother had picked today to hand him over. It was a day of great power, if you went by the Ancient Calendars. A day in which the most weighty of decisions were made; fate-changing decisions, as it were.

Not that this fact was currently helping him at all.

He ran faster, his legs felt like they were on fire - but he had to get away, as far away from the Black town house as he could—as far away from his cousins as he could. Because they were following, and gaining on him.

How he had survived the fall, he wasn't sure; he might have transformed in midair, might have scrambled away in dog form - even if he wasn't in his dog form now. All he knew at this moment was that he wasn't dead, his legs were still, incredibly, working even if one was likely broken, even if he felt quite close to falling apart, thus proving to him that, whatever all was wrong with him wasn't impairing his movement; that his head was spinning, and that he had to get as far away from them all as he could.

They sold me out. Why? Why?

He slipped around a corner, tripped, fell, scrambled in a frozen puddle to regain his footing, chest heaving as he sucked in burning breath after burning breath, forcing his limbs to work in his frantic bid for escape.

How had it come to this?

His family life, if it could be termed such, had never been anything to boast of; ever since he was Sorted into Gryffindor, it became nothing short of pure hell, coming to his parents' for the Summer. Sirius never came to London unless it was unavoidable, or if he was 'required' by some stupid obligation or other, such as some of his parents' dinner parties, or his naming as 'heir apparent' by his father last Spring, or his dad's funeral a couple of months ago.

Sirius didn't really miss him all that much. There had been no parting words, not a shred of emotional attachment—just a formal letter telling him he was to step in as the head of the Blacks now Orion was gone.

Sirius hated the arrangement. His mother hated it even more, having always wanted Regulus to be in Sirius' place instead, but they were subjected to the rules of the Old Houses, and they all played the game; even Sirius had.

But no more.

There was one regard that the entire family seemed to agree in, though; they saw as little of each other as possible, getting together only when it couldn't be prevented by any means—only this time, it had been different.

I should have seen it coming.

Sirius had toyed with the idea of leaving more than once. Ever since his first holiday back home, he'd spent hours daydreaming of forging himself a life of his own, away from his family's tyranny, their cruel yoke and the obligations they insisted on shoving at him - petty, unnecessary demands of cruelty towards a world he had always found fascinating, one that they despised beyond anything.

The Blacks, one of the High Houses of old, were Dark Wizards par excellence, priding themselves in their mastery of a kind of magic as dark as their name. That was where Orion and Walburga had encountered a wall with their eldest. He would never go Dark; he had fought it inch by inch for as long as he could remember, had rebelled against them and their ways for years, had paid for it dearly already.

Apparently it hadn't been enough to get his point across.

And yet, despite all the signs that pointed towards it, Sirius had never thought that it would end like this.

Not too far behind, he could hear - or was he imagining it? - the echoing footfalls of the Death Eaters in pursuit. Could hear Bellatrix' and Narcissa's angry mutters as they were forced to join them, rather than carry on with the 'festivities'. Had he had half a mind for the irony at the moment, he'd surely have appreciated it far better. His cousins were hot after his blood, and the worse it ended for him, the prouder the family would be... The prouder his mother would be.

They sold me out. She sold me out.

How could she?

Skidding to a halt around a corner, Sirius pressed his back against a red brick wall, putting a hand over his mouth to still the ragged noise of his breathing and muffle a wince. He had one chance at this - just the one. And he knew what would happen if he messed it up; the same things that had happened so far, the same things he was trying to escape from.

"Imperio! Bow before your betters, you insolent blood-traitor!" The floating sensation had been so nice... so warm, enticing... Emboldening. He could do anything in this state, anything he wanted.

Sirius snorted, derision and contempt seeping out despite the spell that was holding him – but, as it was, he wasn´t held by it. He never was anymore. "There are no betters of mine here. Just..." He shrugged one shoulder. "Just you lot." The floating sensation of being in a dream vanished with a quiet pop.

What followed was a long string of threats, curses, both known and unknown to him, which he tried to dodge as best as he could - to a most mediocre effect. In his defense, there was little to be done in a room packed with people, all of whom had their wands all but shoved up his nose, all of whom were angry at him—quite possibly due to something he had said or done to taunt them during the last handful of minutes— all of whom knew a whole range of most interesting spells - and most of whom had been itching to use them on him for months.

Some hit. Some didn't. Others yet ricocheted off the walls and hangings of Sirius' room and cracked the windows into bits. For a few moments, there was only a confusion of yells, harsh laughs, incantations, and screams.

Most embarrassingly, those last were exclusively his.

"Imperio!" A screech this time.

Sirius didn't care; he was in a warm, floating bubble again, there was no pain, no weakness here. There was no fear...

No fear.

Such a delightful feeling, washing off the pain, the shakiness... He looked at the group assembled before him, eyes glazed over and unfocused. Bellatrix, who had cast it this time, smirked.

Sirius watched her from the floor, where he had landed after the last Cruciatus was lifted.

"Get up."

He did, with surprising ease. The others chuckled and giggled. Even in his state, he found that annoying.

"Dance. Like a monkey." Laughter erupted.

Sirius gave them a mildly interested look, but did not stir. Dancing was stupid without music, and dancing for them, well. "I said, dance like a monkey!"

"Why don't you do it?" Sirius suggested easily. Again, the floating feeling vanished. It happened every time, had become the norm for a while, and it drove his mother mad with rage: Every Imperius cast at him was useless; he threw it off with irritating ease. Due to overexposure, probably.

Sirius prided himself in his ability, even if at times like this, it was rather counterproductive; inevitably, he would say something to rile them up, and this time, he was grossly outnumbered, wandless, and without any hope for help.

And there he went.

His inner voice squeaked out a panicked yelp of a warning a split second before Sirius opened his mouth again, to no avail. Even under the curse, he gave Bellatrix a cocky grin, and added, "It should be pretty natural for you - you look like an orangutan anyh-"

"Everbero!"

It hit him square in the chest and sent him flying into the wall right behind him, making the portrait of Phineas Nigellus sway dangerously. Not that old Phineas seemed to mind; the bastard was snickering.

"-ow." Sirius finished at a wheeze, sliding to the floor.

Something in the back of his head had told him, nay, had screamed its warnings at him, but he couldn't help himself. Every single time they said something, no matter what it was, he just had to say something back, preferably something to incense them.

Every time.

And he had become quite the little expert at hacking them off royally. He could do it with a minimal investment of words, energy, and magic. Proficiency, some would call it. Idiocy, was what his mind supplied instead.

While getting bullied by his cousins had been a regular occurrence at every family get-together, they'd never brought their little play-dates along before, or ambushed him in his bedroom. Sirius had never been unarmed before – unless he counted his first year back at home, when his father had taken his wand away – but, again, this had been different. This was as different as it could get, and he knew he probably wouldn't make it past the Yule.

Particularly not if they caught up with him.

The group chasing him was coming closer, getting louder, their pounding footsteps indicating that they were approaching fast. Sirius peeled himself off the wall he'd been leaning against and took off once more, forcing his legs to carry his weight once again-

"Oy! There he is!"

"Where?"

"There! Get him!"

"Come back, little cousin!" Bella shouted happily after him. "Oh, go on, don't run away!"

He just ran faster.

Pacing had not helped James Potter any more than counting sheep had.

Staring out his window into the snow-covered village of Godric's Hollow, which stretched out at the foot of the hill upon which Godric's Hall stood... offered a pretty sight, but wasn't helping him at all, either.

"Honey, you should try and get some sleep."

"I'm not sleepy, Mum," James mumbled, not bothering to turn around.

"What's wrong?" Betty Potter reached her son's side, pressed a mug of steaming hot chocolate into his hands, which he reluctantly accepted. He had been this way all day, hadn't even finished his Yule Dinner, and that was most unusual for him. She'd made all his favourite foods.

"It's... It's weird," James told her, shaking his head. Then he sighed, giving in to his mother's concerned look. "It's about Sirius, he's in trouble."

"When is Sirius not in trouble?" his Mum asked gently, but she too, had been worried. As was her husband. They usually worried, though, when Sirius was wanted home for a holiday, so this was sadly nothing out of the ordinary.

"It's different this time, Mum," James said. He pulled a scroll out of his pocket. "This came in earlier."

The scroll's seal - bearing the Potter crest - wasn't broken.

"I don't..." Betty started, but then James turned the scroll around. Written on it, in an untidy scrawl that could only belong to a Sirius in a great hurry, she read, 'DON'T WRITE AGAIN'.

"Oh," she said after a moment. What more could be said to that? The implications were not unknown to either of them, and neither were the sort to repeat themselves unnecessarily.

"I'm worried," said James, pocketing the scroll. "I... I think something happened. Something bad."

"Well, you know how his family gets," Betty tried to ease his mind, but it became obvious she ought to have chosen a different opener for it. James grimaced.

"Do I ever."

"Maybe it's another one of those... pointless rules they have?"

"I hope that's all it is," James mumbled, but he seemed unconvinced. "What if he's..."

She didn't let him finish.

"James darling, you need to sleep. It's late. We might yet get word from Sirius, maybe your letter just arrived at a bad time- he was in a hurry to get rid of it, it's just a scribble. He'll probably write soon enough, he never goes any length of time without doing so."

James nodded, but instead of listening to her, he looked out the window again, as if he expected Sirius to show up on the snowed-in front lawn.

"Don't stay up all night fretting, dear." Betty Potter said with a sigh, admitting defeat. She kissed him on the cheek and ruffled his already untidy hair before leaving his room. There was nothing she or anyone could do to make him feel better; the only one who could do that was Sirius. She hoped he'd send word soon; she was worried too, and James had done nothing to put her concerns to rest.

James flopped down on his bed and sipped his chocolate, but it didn't bring the calm it usually did. His stomach was wringing itself into knots, his eyes were stinging with tiredness, but he wasn't any closer to sleep than he had up until now. What could he do? Worry and fret, but nothing else—

The vision came to him abruptly, unbidden, making his room melt away in a split second, landing him in another, which was as familiar as his own, even though he had never before set foot in it, nor would he ever do so.

Sirius flew across his room, amidst gales of laughter.

"Happy Yule, little cousin. Have you missed us? I've certainly missed you."

James jerked upright - the vision faded a little before his eyes as James asserted himself as sitting on his own bed at home, but the distinct sensation of what was going on, miles and miles away, lingered most unpleasantly.

He had been right.

Sirius was in trouble of the worst kind. That had been Bellatrix walking into his room- As if on cue, her voice reached James' ears.

"We've come to help you get ready for your trip."

"What the hell are you on about?" Sirius' wheezing voice was harsh and snappish, but he was frightened, James could tell. And that was never good.

They just laughed, raised their wands.

The visions and flashes of images came to him like a badly-edited film, a puzzle he didn't need to see whole to put together, snatches of sentences ringing in his ears. At first, he recognised the faces, but then they gave way to others he didn't know. Others in black robes and silver Death Eater masks.

Sirius was in trouble; that had become clear to James from the moment he'd gotten the letter ordering him home, a few days before the holidays. How terribly dangerous this trouble was hadn't been clear to James, though, not until he saw a flash of poisonous yellow before his mind's eye.

James swallowed, even as over 400 miles away, Sirius howled out in pain.

The connection broke.

The Death Eaters were coming closer; he could hear the tracking spells they unhurriedly cast louder each time. Instinctively, Sirius slunk back into the shadows, trying to blend in with the scenery.

There wasn't much to blend into, however.

His hearing, sharpened beyond human measure by the dog sharing his mind, could pick up every last sliver of sound for yards around, from the record of Muggle Christmas Carols blaring a few houses down, to the rapidly decreasing distance between his pursuers and him. He could almost tell how far away they were. Still, he did not move.

Just a few more steps. Focus. Focus...

Could he even pull it off? Never mind without being spotted, or tracked, as he was trying to do.

What else can I do?

It was his only option: wandless magic was something he had mastered ages ago, something he needed to learn for his Animagus transformation, something that had helped him out of a tight spot more than once. But he had never attempted it in the heart of Muggle London, and he was acutely aware of what would happen if the Ministry tracked him down on top of everything else. Getting away from the Death Eaters would be a waste of time; he'd get tossed into Azkaban for it. So he had to do it at the same time someone else cast a spell, thus confusing the Ministry's tracking spells. He'd done it before.

But could he do it now?

He was shaking, struggling to remain standing even, half-frozen, half-dead, bleeding and hurting and exhausted and in the open - but he had to try. At the very least, he had to try. It was his only chance. He wouldn't manage to keep this pace up any longer.

The footsteps approached further, a voice he had learned to despise with his every fibre muttering an incantation over and over, rhythmically and in a sing-song voice. Sirius was glad for this; if he wanted to pull it off, he would have to time it and transform at the very moment the spell was cast. Otherwise, his Trace could activate - he wasn't sure if it applied to wandless magic cast in a non-magical setting, but if it did... Then he'd be toast.

Don't think, just do. Focus. Deep breath... Now-

Lucius Malfoy stepped around the corner, the spell he had been casting and re-casting since leaving the Black Town House dying on his lips.

The tracking spell returned no result, where one moment ago, it had told him Sirius was right around the corner he had just turned. But the street was completely deserted.

Lucius cursed at midvoice.

He cast the spell again - and nearly walked into a large black dog curled up next to a phone booth. He stared at it for a moment, then looked up and down the street, cast the spell again, cursed out his frustration, aiming a kick at the ball of fur that still lay there, unmoving as if dead.

"Where is he?" Bellatrix demanded, catching up with him and ignoring the dog completely. "Why did you stop?"

"He's... gone," Lucius muttered, cursing under his breath yet again, with the same result as before.

"What do you mean, 'he's gone'?" Bellatrix shrieked. She had never cared who saw her, heard her, who noticed she was a witch, and at times like these, it was best to let her vent before she exploded. She always took it out on whoever happened to be closest, and Lucius wasn't fool enough to try and rein in her temper. "He can't be gone, Lucius!"

"Are you sure you cast the tracking spell correctly?" Narcissa had caught up with them, even as Rodolphus and Rabastan, Gregory Mulciber and Ambrose Flint hurried up the street to join them. The group, all of whom minus Narcissa had left Hogwarts already, wore the same kind of expensive-looking black robes, which were splattered here and there with smudges of dirt, frost, and the same sticky red substance that was trickling, unnoticed, from the dog's back and front.

"Yes, Cissy, I'm sure." Lucius' annoyance was evident in his tone, although he somehow managed to restrain his anger. Raging about was for people like Bellatrix, too wild to so much as consider the meaning of the term self-control. He, though, was above such things; he had to be, if he wanted to marry Cissy someday, raising his bloodline up to the level of the High Houses. "It was working perfectly well... until now."

"Do you think he can Apparate?"

"He's too young to," grunted Flint, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "He's still underage."

"Do you think that's enough of a reason to assume he can't do it?" Rabastan shook his head, panting to catch his breath. "He could have picked it up somewhere, the little bastard-"

"Even if he knew how, he couldn't possibly have apparated, don't be stupid," snapped Lucius, drawing attention away from the dog, whose hackles were rising. When he stressed words needlessly like that, it meant he was very annoyed. "He's got no wand, and he's pretty beaten up. Probably just hiding around here... somewhere."

Not three feet away, the dog shifted ever so slightly, keeping its startling grey eyes downcast. It seemed to be considering making a break for it.

"How far can he go, anyway?" Bella asked, snorting. "He's barefoot, and in his jammies, for crying out loud - and after that fall..." she shook her head. "Can't have been thinking straight, can he? He was crazed enough to jump out of a fourth floor —Lucius is right. Maybe we passed him on the way here. There's no way he's escaped, not after what our Lord-"

"Re-cast the spells," Rodolphus ordered, interrupting her. "Impossible or no, I don't think the Master will be too pleased when he learns that the brat escaped."

"It's not our Master I'm worried about," said Bellatrix haughtily. "Worry about our auntie when she finds out we don't have him. After all she's done to keep him in the house this past week..."

"Maybe," said Cissy, and she sounded rather hopeful about it too, "Maybe he's dead. That's why the tracking spell stopped working," she added brightly, as if she had just worked out the solution to a riddle. She shrugged her petite shoulders, flashed them all a bright smile. "He died."

"That would be a shame," Bellatrix said, and she too, sounded earnest. "Didn't you hear all that the Master wanted to do with him?" She cackled, a half-crazed laugh that was eerily reminiscent of Sirius' mother. "He would have turned into the perfect Black afterwards. Loyal to the cause. A true follower of our Lord."

"That blood-traitor would never be fit to wipe the dirt from our Master's shoes," Rodolphus objected disdainfully. "He'd be better off dead."

"You're just jealous because his blood's ever so much purer than yours, darling," drawled Bella, smiling at him and patting him on the cheek. "He's a disgrace, yes, but once our Master has made him see that our ways are better than whatever it is his confused little mind has led him to believe... Then he will be great. He has the power to be, as do all us Blacks, and our Master-"

"If you're quite done," Lucius muttered impatiently, tapping his foot on the ground. "We still have to go get him, be it dead or alive. I don't think our Master will want to hear that he got away because we were forced to listen to your little speech, or believe he is dead unless we have a body to show for it."

"Auntie won't be happy about that either," Cissy chimed in. Bellatrix gave her a sour look; she was infatuated with her Master, and took any chance to boast his virtues to the four winds.

"She won't like it, Bella, you know how she gets. It's not that we don't like listening to you, or that what you're saying isn't the pure truth. It's just that we don't have much time." Rabastan told her bracingly, and Bella relented.

"Well, they're both waiting back in the house and we're all freezing out here. I say let's get cracking," she muttered, all business again.

They left, talking amongst themselves, casting every tracking, detection, and search spell they knew. The dog, who had gone overlooked by everyone and remained completely still in his corner, stood up and shook its fur out, spraying dirt, water, and blood every which way, before taking off in the opposite direction at an uneven pace.

Though as a dog his emotions were much less raw and less complicated, rational thought remained. His mother had sold him out to Voldemort. His entire family had. This realisation sort of killed the relief he ought to be feeling at having escaped from the Great Sodhead himself.

He gave a doggy, yet no less bitter, chuckle. That was a fitting name for Voldemort, a much more descriptive one at the very least - though Bastard, conventional and unoriginal as it was, fit as well.

Great Bastarding Sodhead, maybe? He trotted down the street, tail held low. Though his Animagus form was fantastic for distance and speed travel, he was in no fit state to travel anywhere, and he knew it.

Best make the most of it while his limbs still worked; in London, the sight of a bearlike, pony-sized dog would arouse much greater suspicion than it would in the countryside.

Sirius knew everything there was to know about the restrictions on underage magic, so he didn't turn back into his human form; he couldn't safely do so, not until he reached a place where magic was regularly practiced at. The Trace was still on him, and his chances of survival equalled zero if it alerted the Ministry: the Death Eaters would be on him like stink on cheese before he had gone three paces.

Besides, he was much better equipped to go places as Padfoot. Four legs were much steadier than two, even if they were all torn-up and not quite responsive, and fur was loads warmer in the wintry cold than his torn-up pyjamas, despite the gashes he felt along his back; he drew attention to himself due to his size, yes, but as long as he was careful, this was his best chance of survival. A bloodied-up kid in torn pyjamas was far more likely to be noticed by Muggles and Wizards alike.

He padded silently down streets that were as deserted as the ones around Islington, half-listening to the sounds in nearly every pub he passed. The smell of food wafted to his nose, combined with scents of beer, of cider, of joy, of carefree partying, of home.

Not his home, to be sure. He had never really had one, unless he counted Hogwarts. The Black Town House he had just barely escaped from had never had, and would never have, any of the traits of a home. As he saw it, it wasn't even a proper house. Rather, it was a mausoleum to his ancient heritage, as dead inside as his old ancestors were, every bit as despised by him as his entire family tree.

Or almost his entire family tree.

He stopped next to Blackfriar's Bridge for a breather, certain now he was no longer being followed - though distance alone wouldn't really do the trick. Such things were mere trifles for wizards, particularly the sort he had royally hacked off this go round.

Sirius sat back on his haunches, ignoring the raw twinges all along his back. He needed to think, needed to decide what to do. He couldn't afford messing up now; he had to go somewhere safe. Somewhere where he could get help, because right now, he'd just become a part of Voldemort's blacklist, and few ever survived long after achieving such a thing.

Where could he go, though?

He had been wondering for the better part of an hour, and the urgency of finding a destination was increasing the more distance he put between himself and his former house, the more tired he became. Who would take him in? Who would dare challenge the Dark Side like that?

There weren't many options.

First off, who would dare go against Walburga Black openly? Her ill temper and far-reaching curses were well-known to wizardkind, and now Sirius' father was dead and he was being hunted, she was, albeit temporarily, the head of this ancient family, endowed with every power that came with it, holding the post until the rightful heir to the Second Line came of age. Sirius was meant to step in as head of the Blacks in a year or so, and he often wondered who hated the arrangement more; him or his mother. Or Reg, who was ever so much better at being a right proper Black than him.

Sirius sighed, wiggling his ears as he scanned his surroundings for sounds of anyone approaching, and returned to his previous line of musings. They weren't any better than his bitter thoughts on his family.

Few would dare go against his mum. Fewer still would take in a Black anyhow; the whole family was considered wizards of the darkest kind until proven otherwise. And nobody, aside from a handful of people (either very brave or very stupid people), would dare house anyone who was wanted by Voldemort.

Much less if that someone happened to be a Black.

Dammit.

His first thought went to James; the Potters had been on Voldemort's hitlist for as long as anyone could remember, and they had survived alright so far.

But they had enough trouble as it was, without him crashing every plan they might have... Voldemort wanted the Potters dead, that's what he had wanted him for in the first place, wasn't it?

"You are friends with the Potters' boy, are you not?" Voldemort crouched in front of Sirius, his mass of robes swishing as his blue eyes pierced into Sirius' grey. Sirius stared back, but he did so with dread. Voldemort smiled at Sirius again, and this time, Sirius shivered. "You will bring them to me."

What?

"No." Sirius whispered at once. It was not quite a plea, not quite an answer, filled with horror. He swallowed, the full extent of what Voldemort really wanted to do with him sinking in, even as something pinned him in place, holding him still while strands of magic, of powerful and alien magic, started probing his mind. Searching for something, something he didn't want to give-

Sirius reacted out of instinct; years of living amidst the Blacks had taught him to keep a secret, and he shut his mind off, shoved Voldemort's attempts at Legilimency aside. It was a great effort, but he managed to push him out. Barely.

"No," he repeated. He was panting, but this time it was an answer, firm and without hesitation.

"Mark my words," Voldemort said, as pleasantly as before, now standing to tower before the boy lying on the rug at his feet. "Before this year is over, you'll hand me the Potters, starting with that remarkable young friend of yours, James."

"You mark mine," Sirius spat, opening his overlarge mouth once more. This time, though, his inner voice wasn't screaming any warnings. It was screaming highly creative obscenities at Voldemort, which Sirius was itching to voice. Instead he added, "That's not going to happen."

"Is that right?" Nobody could have missed the challenge in Voldemort's tone.

"It's not going to happen," Sirius repeated through barred teeth. Voldemort laughed.

Sirius swallowed. He couldn't very well go leading a band of Munchers to the Potters, now could he? What if it was all some part of an intricate plan to make him lead the Munchers to James' very doorstep?

Sirius dismissed the idea of heading for Godric's Hollow, though he wished desperately he could count on his best mate's help - but that would mean playing straight into Voldemort's hands, wouldn't it?

And yet... James would know what to do to get out of this fix. He'd have a good idea or three at the very least, could let Sirius borrow his great-grandfather's wand, which for some reason wasn't too bad a fit, or at the very least let him borrow some clothes and food. He'd...

He'd get killed. Worse than killed. Way worse.

Sirius steered sharply away from this train of thought. It wasn't getting him anywhere. The least he could do for James and his family, was warn them. Warn them to be careful... Warn them against him. If Launcelot were still alive, he'd be able to. As things stood, though...

Sirius sighed again, burying his nose between his paws. It was all such a royal cock-up.

Could I try Andie?

His cousin had run away from home too, gotten married to Ted Tonks, become a Healer - but there was the matter of her having a tiny tot of a daughter to think of, and she and Ted had managed to stay out of trouble by sheer force of luck. They didn't need Sirius running to them, didn't need that extra attention, didn't need the Dark Side to remember that they existed.

So it was a no. Not even for a moment, not even in passing.

Uncle Alfie, perhaps?

He'd helped Sirius out before, had let James visit him at his Scotland house during the holidays, had even rescued him a few times from his enraged parents after some of his stupider stunts.

Uncle Alfie was an outcast already, and Sirius knew of few who had the same sort of power as he had - maybe Alfie couldn't take him in, directly - this was hugely different from smuggling him to James' for a day or two - but he'd surely, hopefully, help him out in a way or another.

That Alfie's house was very close to Wales, and thus, to James', was just a happy coincidence, one he and James had milked many times before during the holidays. Deciding he'd send word to James when he got the chance, Sirius set off, hoping he wasn't making a great mistake.

"Gone?!"

The shriek made even the portrait of the house's mistress cringe. Walburga Black was beside herself with fury.

"He... He might be dead, Auntie," Cissy tried, but she could not do much to conceal the glee this thought still caused her. For a seventeen-year-old, she could be dreadfully grown up when she wanted to.

"Mights and maybes are of no use to me!" Walburga snapped heatedly, but Lord Voldemort, perched on a plush armchair in the front parlour, placated her with a gesture.

"Rest assured, my dear Walburga, that I shall do everything in my power to find your stray son," he said placidly, his tone betraying none of the anger that was glinting in his eyes. "I shall endeavour to find and shape him in the best way for a head of the High House of Black."

"Before you start on any shaping," Walburga said angrily, her yellowing skin making her look rather more crazed than before. "I wish to do some of my own."

"When he is found, and he shall be," Voldemort countered, "you shall be the first to hear of it. He is, after all, yours, milady."

.

.

It was dawning when he finally stopped, flopping onto his belly without any ceremony whatsoever. He had crossed the River Thames South over Blackfriar's Bridge, then taken a detour - or gotten lost - before he'd gone West again. He was aware of that much.

At some point before his brain stopped working altogether, he had determined - though by what thought process he had done this, was a great mystery to him - that it was the general direction out of London and to the West. So he'd just... carried onwards, in as straight a line as he could manage.

West. That was where Alfie was. Where he could get some manner of help, along the way towards his real destination, one he hadn't thought of before for some reason.

Hogwarts was the only truly safe haven he knew. There was a bed there and food, and maybe even Pomfrey, who'd make everything alright again. Moreover, that was where Dumbledore was, and his only chance at having someone take him in without making himself even more of a target than he already was. Dumbledore had always challenged Voldemort, and Voldemort feared him. Dumbledore didn't give one jot about blood status or the like either; he had even taken Moony in, hadn't he? Maybe he'd take Sirius in too, and... Well, he would just try and take it from there.

The public garden he was in was as empty as he felt, the crunching of frost under his paws the only sound. People had been celebrating - not the Yule, perhaps, but just that it was a Friday, and the beginning of their holidays - and now they were, for the most part, sleeping it off. It would be a lazy day, which meant fewer dangers of Muggles wanting to call the pound on him... Sirius curled up at the base of a tree, letting out a slow breath. He needed to sleep, to rest, to go to Alfie's, then to Hogwarts...

But sleep wouldn't come.

In its stead, came a host of thoughts.

He should have known something was up the second he got that letter from his mother, ordering him to London for the Christmas holidays. He should have known, the minute he set foot in that accursed house and had his wand taken from him. He should have known what she would do - and quite probably, he had known all along.

Not that she'd arrange for Voldemort to come pick him up to 'straighten him out', no... But he did know she was up to something when she locked him up in his room outright and warded it as securely as a Gringott's vault. When she killed Launcelot, his owl. When she personally came to bring him food every day at random times, so he never knew what to expect. He'd even returned James' letter, unopened, warning him not to write again, for fear she'd notice.

What, exactly, she'd had in store for him, had only become evident a few hours into the afternoon on Yule day, when he heard his cousins and their friends arrive, all laughs and itching to help in his 'education' to become a proper pure-blooded wizard. And even then, when they decided to pay him a visit to 'get him ready for his trip', he hadn't really understood what they meant.

"Now, now, children," the dark-haired wizard said, stepping into the complete mess of a room and interrupting a round of rather nasty curses being thrown at Sirius. "This is no way to treat anyone of such pure blood, of such ancestry." The room, which had been left unheated for days, became even more chillingly cold, and from his less-than-vantage location on the floor, Sirius briefly wondered if they'd kill him - it would have been a blessing at this point in time.

The wizard flashed him a smile. Rows of perfect teeth, gleaming unnaturally white in the flickering light of the snake-shaped candelabra overhead, were bared in an almost feral grimace, even as eyes flashed red at him. Voldemort watched him avidly, hungrily. Sirius swallowed dryly.

"He has become a fine lad, Walburga," he said appreciatively. Only then did Sirius spot his mother standing on his doorstep, arms folded and watching him coolly. "Headstrong. Resilient. Courageous, even if he's facing an almost certain death. I like that in a wizard. It is a mark of a great heritage." Had he been watching all this time?

Sirius swallowed, heart hammering in his chest. The cold that had come in with Voldemort contradicted the soft, near-gentle tone of his voice, meant to lull him into agreeing with him. But how could he? How could he agree with someone who had made a point in bringing terror, pain, and death wherever he went? How could he ever agree with someone who represented everything he hated in Wizardkind?

And what, he'd like to know, was this darkest of wizards bloody doing in his room?!

"He will make a terrific addition to my ranks," Voldemort said, sounding like he was looking at a particularly nice piece of decoration.

The hell I will.

Voldemort chuckled in response to Sirius' thoughts, making the latter freeze with realisation.

"Oh yes, you will, young warlock." His tone brooked no uncertainty. "You are to come with me now, into an early... apprenticeship." The way he drawled out the last word made something inside Sirius snap.

Everything became clear; his presence here for Christmas, when he rarely ever returned home for anything other than the Summer since first year. His imprisonment, the lack of food or heat - to weaken him, no doubt - the killing of his owl, even. The look on his mother's sallow face was enough to confirm it all.

He should have known.

It still made the betrayal hard to bear.

None of that mattered now. He'd managed to escape - although if he'd managed to do so sooner, he'd probably have fared loads better than he was doing now. Every bone ached, and, fur or no fur, he was freezing, hungry, exhausted. But he had gotten away. He was still alive, even if they'd done everything to prevent that from happening.

Sirius curled up into a tight ball, pressed against the tree, and closed his eyes, more to avoid thinking about his current troubles than in any hopes to sleep.

Over two hundred miles further north, a black-haired boy was trying unsuccessfully to sleep as well.

He knew.

He knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong, and though he wasn't sure of what had happened down to the last detail, he'd seen bits and pieces. Enough to know it was bad, and that Sirius was... Sirius was hurt.

He knew that, because he always did. Just as Sirius always knew if he was alright. They'd cast that spell in first year for that, hadn't they?

"Alright, according to the book, we're supposed to say something like... "Fraternum anime sanguium perenne..."

"Something like that?" James snorted nervously. "Ever heard about that wizard who didn't say a spell right?"

"The Buffalo bloke? Yeah, Flitty said something to that effect, didn't he?" Sirius too, stared nervously at the scroll he was holding in his hand, while balancing a sharp two-edged dagger in the other.

"You're asking me? We were putting dungbombs on Evans' seat, I wasn't listening." James went ignored, in the face of this, this much more important thing they were doing. Trying to, at any rate.

"Well, this is pretty smudged," Sirius decided in return, bringing his lit wand closer to the old scroll they'd nicked from the Restricted Section, and the dagger he was holding passed dangerously close to James' nose as he too, leaned closer. "It could be either... perenne or perecce...I reckon."

"You reckon? Mate, 'Perecce' means die, doesn't it?"

"Aye. Perenne sounds better to me too," said Sirius, who seemed completely unfazed by the rather dangerous alternative. "What do you reckon?"

James squinted at it. Took the scroll in his hands, turned it round a bit, fingers trembling. Not due to the cold.

"Yeah," he agreed after a few tense moments. "It's... it's perenne."

"Let's get to it, then," Sirius said, but his voice too, was unsteady. If anything went wrong, and so much could go wrong, they'd be goners - nobody would find them, out here in the heart of the Forest, much less if they managed to somehow kill themselves...

They'd still done it. Caught up in the memory, James closed his eyes. It was vivid, like so much else he'd shared with Sirius over the years, he could recall every detail, every smell, every sensation called forth by that ancient spell they'd cast on themselves.

They'd cast the circle, two raven-haired eleven-year-olds with entirely too many ideas on their minds and lacking any sort of sense to prevent them from putting them in action.

They might have been little Firsties at the time, but their priorities had been clear. Odd, how that had not changed over the years.

They had had one purpose for being in the Forbidden Forest during the Samhain. Halloween was past, and it was the time between his and Sirius' birthdays, the time when their bond would be strongest.

"That went well," Sirius mumbled, looking at the shimmering bubble they now stood in, which glowed faintly golden in the clearing.

Aside from the words of the spells needed for the ritual, it was the last thing he or James said for many hours.

They'd cut their palms open, with far less hesitation than they'd believed they would have, but once they'd gotten started with the ritual, it was as if some strange, ancient force had gotten a hold on them both, every bit as old as the magic they were performing. They had said the words of the spell as one, their voices strangely carrying and loud in the silent forest, which was still as anything, witnessing an ancient ritual that had been long forgotten.

They'd put their palms together - and whatever happened next was lost on both of them.

James remembered a flash of bright light, a feeling of being taken apart and put together again, outwardly the same, yet completely different. He and Sirius had become fused together, in magic, mind, body, and soul.

Two of the Ancient Bloodlines bonded together seamlessly, completing one another, making every cell tingle with power, becoming one and then separating into two halves, so similar magically that they might as well have been twins.

"That..." Sirius had breathed, when they'd both woken up spread-eagled on the forest ground.

"Was wicked cool," James finished for him, in the same breathless voice.

Hazel eyes met silvery grey.

"I know what you're thinking!" They chorused, voices squeaky and childish and thoroughly excited once more.

They'd done it. No matter what happened, what turns life took for either of them; they'd not be apart again.

They'd known it then, had known from that moment on the weightiness of what they'd done.

And they'd laughed.

They'd tapped into the Ancient Magic that night, and they'd carried on doing so hence; the ritual had unlocked something in them, given their already natural understanding of magic an added edge. It had become so much greater, when it had started off as just... a way to formalise their friendship, a way to seal it so it wouldn't die no matter what happened.

They'd done it, because Sirius feared his parents would send him to Durmstrang after the disgrace they'd suffered, at having him be the first Gryffindor in the Black Line since its creation. His mother's Howler had made it clear - so they had looked around, had stumbled upon this ritual. Thought it groovy.

A ritual that bound them to one another: soul to soul, mind to mind, body to body, magic to magic - blood to blood.

Blood brothers.

Two as one, until they both died.

It had seemed the right thing to do, back then, and neither had regretted it ever since; it had linked their minds together so thoroughly they could even see through each other's eyes, in times of danger. The link had never failed them before.

It had never sent such disturbing imagery to James' mind either, nor so sketchy.

Sirius was hurt, somewhere cold, in danger. Alone.

And James had the distinct feeling Sirius didn't want him to know where he was. Somehow, he was blocking James out.

"Dammit."

Leaving his mug on the sill, James whistled for Alcyone, his owl.

"Damn you, Sirius," he muttered, scribbling a quick note and fumbling with the string to tie it to Alcyone's leg. "What did you get yourself into this time?" And where the hell are you?

"Sorry girl, I know it's brass monkeys out," he told the owl, as she swayed on his arm. "Just find him and bring me the answer, alright?"

He watched Alcyone disappear into the night, but his hopes didn't soar with her; what if he didn't get an answer?

"You have been entrusted to my care," Voldemort said softly. "To bring you to your senses, to prepare you to become what you are meant to be - the head of the Black Line, loyal to the Pureblood Cause. And you'll prove it by bringing James Potter to me. Ah, the two of you together... Just imagine what you could accomplish."

"Are you deaf or just plain stupid?" Sirius' voice was merely a whisper, and he wondered if he could raise it any further if he tried. He knew, he knew he'd not survive this meeting. And he didn't care one jot about it anymore. Death, at this point, would be welcome on his part. "I'll never join you, or your ruddy Cause - or your army of utter idiots."

To everyone's surprise, Voldemort laughed. An earnestly amused laugh that drowned out the furious mutters around him.

"You see, Sirius, that is the sort of thing that won't do," he said pleasantly. "This sort of disrespect has no place in your bearing, nor does it befit your status or blood."

"I did say no," Sirius reminded him stubbornly. It had no effect on Voldemort, who merely carried on, as if he'd never spoken.

"You might be the heir of a greatly powerful Line, but you still owe respect to your elders, and that is what we shall base our relationship on. I give the orders here - and you, my boy, shall obey every last one of them."

"Like handing James and his family over to you?" Sirius shot back, inexplicably finding his temper was rising, drowning his fears and quashing his already non-existent sense of self-preservation. He raffled himself up, expression set and a defiant glint in his eye. "I'd rather die."

"You will, if you don't submit to our... arrangement." Voldemort's voice was suddenly hard as steel, the threat evident in every word. Some of the Death Eaters in the room shivered. Sirius, though, didn't.

"Piss off."

Sirius woke with a start, making a thin sheet of frost fall off his fur. It was early in the afternoon, to judge by the reddish gleam of the setting sun all around. He needed to carry on, he knew, but moving was almost impossible - even breathing hurt, and he was cold, so cold...

He let his head fall on his paws, letting out a low whine that went unheard in the strip of forest he'd sheltered in. He was freezing, even though his body felt like it would burn up any second; his paws, worn and torn up by the long stretch he'd gone overnight, were throbbing hotly.

Sometime during the night, he'd left London. It was all a blur, so he couldn't be sure of any details, but he was fairly certain he was somewhere in the countryside ... Er... somewhere around London.

Thunder rumbled overhead, and he whined weakly. A storm. That was all he needed now.

When the icy drizzle started to fall, he knew he had to move.

Alfie. Alfie would help. With some truckloads of luck.

And with some more luck, he'd reach his house by morning.

This thought in mind, he raised a muddy, leaden paw, heaved himself to an unsteady stand.

Time to carry on.

.

.

In Wales, James woke with a start in the upstairs parlour, all but leaping up to check if Alcyone was back yet.

She wasn't.

The setting sun gleamed red and orange off the sides of the hill country surrounding Godric's Hollow, but this stunning view was lost on him. Instead, a far bleaker vision obscured James' sight.

Rain.

Lightning forking overhead, casting momentary light on a huge black dog limping ahead in the muck.

Well. At least he was still capable of moving. James flopped back onto his bed, frustrated.

Sirius, where are you?

Loud knocking interrupted the start to a quite promising brooding session. James leapt up yet again, peered down the window - to see two blue-robed figures standing at his door.

"What the hell?" he muttered, his blood running cold. He knew those wizards; they'd graduated Hogwarts last year - and now they worked for the Ministry.

He also happened to know where their particular allegiances lay.

"Stay here, James. And keep your wand ready." James spun around, to glimpse his dad passing him on his way down. "And put your cloak on. I don't want any surprises."

Heart hammering, James summoned it from his room, throwing it on and looking out the window at the goings-on below, even as his dad opened the door and inquired as to the wizards' business.

"Travers, MLE," James heard a familiar voice trail up to him. "We are searching for this boy here-" he saw Travers show his father a picture. "Sirius Black. He went missing last night, and he is wanted for several counts of underage magic..."

James' blood froze. Missing? Wanted for underage magic? What?

"... Any information you could provide on him would be greatly appreciated."

"Bow. Respectfully."

Sirius cocked his head to the side.

"I said," Voldemort repeated quite clearly, and something got a hold of Sirius' neck, pushing him down and forward inch by inch. "Bow, Sirius."

Sirius fought it, more by sheer will than strength. Voldemort was pretty impressed. Pushed harder.

So did Sirius.

Voldemort didn't bat a lid.

"Bellatrix," he said instead. "Do cast an Imperius too, my dear girl."

"Gladly, Master. Imperio."

It was amazing how much like Sirius she was - both shared the same kind of power. Both were born leaders. Both hated being interrupted or bossed around. Both had dreadful tempers once they got down to it. And both, loathe each other though they might, were willing to fight and die for their beliefs.

Such was the irony of life, that they'd ended up on opposite sides of the proverbial coin.

It was pretty interesting to the Dark Lord that young Sirius Black had managed to shake off the combination of two Imperius curses. It was even more of an achievement after everything his loyal followers had already done - and he understood now why Walburga had insisted on the precautions she had taken.

She had called him an uncontrollable hellion, amongst many other, less flattering epithets. Voldemort now knew there was more to it than that. Few ever dared to go against his direct wishes, few ever managed to refuse to enter his service when there was no hope left for them, and fewer still survived to tell the tale. None of these brave - stupid - souls had been barely sixteen.

None had vanished without a trace right under the noses of his most faithful followers, either.

Oh, he was intrigued by Sirius Black, despite his belief that he'd known everything there was to know about the boy, and this curiosity the boy inspired was keeping him from raging about and wanting him killed. No, once Voldemort's curiosity was spiked, he usually wanted the answers to the riddles posed. Yes, he'd wanted Sirius since he was much younger than this, had had many an interesting chat with his father over the matter years ago, when the boy had started to openly defy Orion Black, the greatest and most powerful - and by far, the darkest ever - member of the Wizengamot, who lorded over everything and everyone with an iron fist. It was once said that Orion could single-handedly upend the wizarding world, if he wanted to.

It had been clear to him, for over a decade, that his son had inherited that trait.

It made Voldemort want him in his ranks more than anything.

"Go see Alphard," he said to Bellatrix, who sneered in disgust. "Your dear uncle is close to him - and it has been a while since we last heard of the old wizard, it won't do if he's drifting towards the Light again- If Walburga is right, and Sirius is as clever as we believe him to be, then he'll have realised by now that his best chance for help is that old wizard. Make sure you find Sirius, and bring him to me, alive."

"But Master-" she whined, cutting herself off at his dismissive gesture.

"Alive, Bella," Voldemort repeated warningly. "I wish to talk to your cousin; and I assume his mother would be most distressed if her eldest died so young. He is rash, and though I commonly would not do so, I shall grant him another chance. I am certain that after thinking things through, he will see that joining the cause is a far better fate than a very slow, painful death. Don't you agree?"

Bellatrix nodded, but her temper was getting the better of her. It was very amusing to watch, how she seemed to be waging an inner battle between trusting her Master and speaking her mind.

"I shall bring him here, Master," she said grudgingly. "And I'll try to bring him in alive."

"I trust you will try your best, my dear Bellatrix."

"Yes, Master."

She left, a twitch going on her right temple. Voldemort chuckled. Poor Alphard, he'd be getting the full brunt of that.

.

TBC. R&R

Revised Feb 2017