Chapter seven:

"Potter!"

Harry whipped around at the familiar matron's voice, and found a grim-looking Professor McGonagall waiting on the far side of the entrance hall.

"You too, Granger!" she called, beckoning them over.

Ron gave Harry a long look, eyebrows raised. Harry shrugged in response, adding, "Dunno. See you at the Feast?"

While Ron joined the flood of students filling into the Great Hall, Harry and Hermione fought against the crowd and made their way to Professor McGonagall.

"I need a word with both of you," she said, leading the way around the main stairs toward her office. "Potter, wait here while I speak with Miss Granger."

Bewildered, Harry did as he was told. McGonagall shut her office door behind her, leaving Harry alone in the corridor. Harry could hear the sounds of students in the entrance hall, eager for the feast. Last year Harry and Ron had missed it due to crashing Mr. Weasley's old Ford Anglia into the Whomping Willow, and Harry hoped he wouldn't have to miss it again.

Not even five minutes later the office door swung open revealing a beaming Hermione. Confused, Harry made a mental note to ask her what was going on as soon as they were out of McGonagall's sight.

"I'll wait for you!" said Hermione, passing Harry.

McGonagall shut the office door, moving around toward her desk. "Have a seat," she offered. Her tone was serious, and Harry wondered what on earth he could have done wrong before even spending a few hours on the Hogwarts grounds.

"You've doubtlessly heard the news of Sirius Black's escape," she said, taking a seat herself.

"Er, yeah," said Harry, surprised. This was not what he had expected to discuss.

McGonagall gave him a very odd look. Was it pity? "Hogwarts has never been penetrated by Dark forces, and it is unlikely that it will ever happen. However," she continued, laying heavy emphasis on that word. "in light of recent…events…we have increased the security around the school, and have accepted the addition of dementors around the grounds—"

"Dementors?" Harry interrupted, confused.

"They are the guards of Azkaban prison," said McGonagall stiffly. "They are among the foulest creatures to walk this earth, but also the most equipped to find Black."

"But…" Harry continued, trying to understand why he was having this conversation with McGonagall. "If Black got past them in Azkaban, couldn't he get past them here?"

McGonagall's mouth twitched, as though trying to hide a knowing smile. "This is why I am speaking to you now—due to your predilection towards trouble-making, I must make the gravity of the situation clear: you are not to leave school grounds for any reason whatsoever."

Harry felt his jaw drop. True, the Dursleys hadn't exactly signed his permission form, but Harry was hoping that maybe he could get someone—the Weasleys, for example—to sign off before the first trip. "Why?"

"Have your relatives signed your permission form for Hogsmede?"

"Well, no—"

"Good, then the matter is not up for discussion," she said curtly.

"What about Ron and Hermione? What about everyone else?" Harry demanded. "Are they all banned from leaving the school, too?"

Harry didn't expect someone like McGonagall to entertain him with an answer. In fact, Harry was sure he was bordering on a detention with his tone. Instead of taking away House points, McGonagall said, "While difficult, you must understand the importance of this. Sirius Black was Lord Voldemort's right-hand man."

"I know," said Harry, adjusting his weight awkwardly. But I've already faced Voldemort three times, he thought.

McGonagall gave Harry a look like she had read his mind. "Has anyone told you about Black before this? Before his escape?"

Harry shrugged. "Never heard of him."

McGonagall gave a long sigh, looking down at him with the most serious expression Harry had ever seen on it. "There are those who wish to guard you from the truth," she finally said. "Potter…we have good reason to believe Sirius Black may be after you."

Harry's mouth fell open. "But—why-?"

"You were Voldemort's downfall," she said stiffly. "Perhaps he thinks he may be able to return his master to power—or he seeks you out of revenge. Regardless," she added pointedly. "The situation remains the same—do not, under any circumstances, leave Hogwarts. Do not wander the grounds or even the corridors after hours. Until Black is apprehended, you must always be on your guard."

Harry's brain was sagging under the weight of what McGonagall had just told him. Having one Dark wizard after him was one thing, but two?

McGonagall looked at the enormous clock in the corner of her office. "The Feast will be starting," she said, standing up. They walked to the door to find Hermione still waiting. She gave Harry a questioning look, to which Harry mouthed the word later.

"Potter…"

Harry turned around, already several steps down the corridor.

McGonagall was standing outside her office. "Be safe," she finally said.

Harry and Hermione had to hurry to reach the Feast, which had already begun by the time they reached it. Professor Sinistra had taken over McGonagall's duties with the Sorting, and Dumbledore was just beginning his start-of-year speech when Harry and Hermione slipped hastily into their seats.

"What took you?" Ron whispered loudly.

"Later," Harry replied quietly, looking over his shoulder toward the staff table.

"Now, I have a few things to say to you all, one of which is very serious, and I think it best we get it out of the way before you are befuddled by our excellent Feast…" Dumbledore was saying from his place at the front of the hall. "At the request of the Ministry, Hogwarts will—until further notice—play host to the dementors of Azkaban until such a time as Sirius Black is captured. They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds, and I must make it very clear that no one is to leave the school without permission."

Fred nudged Harry's elbow and gave him a small smirk.

"While I have been assured the presence of the dementors will not disrupt our day-to-day activities," Dumbledore continued darkly. "I must give a word of caution. Dementors are not fooled by tricks or disguises, and will not distinguish between the one they hunt and the one who gets in their way. It is not in the nature of a dementor to understand pleading or excuses. I therefore warn each and every one of you to give them no reason to harm you. I look to our Prefects and our new Head Boy and Girl to make sure no students run afoul of the dementors."

Several students were whispering to each other, creating a low buzz around the Great Hall.

"On a happier note," Dumbledore continued loudly. "I am pleased to welcome the addition of Professor Lupin, who has agreed to take on the duties of the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Good luck, professor."

There was polite clapping, and a thin, rather care-worn man stood up and waved at the staff table. Snape, who was sitting next to him, determinedly did not clap, and looked the other way.

"We have another change in faculty this year," Dumbledore added. "I am sorry to say that Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, has retired in an effort to spend more time with his remaining limbs. However, our very own Rubeus Hagrid has delightedly taken over Professor Kettleburn's position in addition to his gamekeeping duties."

There was a loud round of applause at this, primarily from the Gryffindor table. However, a few students from Slytherin politely clapped with sour looks on their faces, but most remained silent.

"I believe that is everything of importance," Dumbledore continued pleasantly. "Let the Feast begin!"

The platters instantly filled with roast pork and chicken, potatoes, and vegetables of every color. Harry, who hadn't eaten since breakfast that morning, was starving. He was loading mashed potatoes into a heap on his plate when Ron leaned over the table. "What happened? Why'd McGonagall pull you lot away?"

"Later," Harry muttered, looking out the corner of his eye. "When we get upstairs."

Ron didn't look happy at the prospect of being left out, but let it go.

Fred and George, on the other hand, were already devising clever ways of bypassing the dementors with Lee Jordan.

"Weren't they listening?" said Hermione with disapproval. "Dumbledore said it's impossible and dangerous—"

"That's all the challenge those two ever need," said Ron, glancing toward his brothers. "Hey," he added, looking at Harry. "If they find a way, fancy a trip to Hogsmede since your aunt and uncle didn't sign your form?"

Before Harry could reply, Hermione was already livid.

"No!" she said, scandalized. "Not only is it against the rules, but it's dangerous!"

Ron rolled his eyes. "The dementors aren't after some students, they're after Black—Dumbledore wouldn't let the Ministry put them here if there was a risk that they'd start attacking students—"

"Black got past them in Azkaban, so he can certainly find a way to get past them here," said Hermione determinedly.

Ron didn't miss a beat. "So really what you're saying is, Harry's just as safe inside or outside the castle—"

"No! I'm saying that Hogwarts is the safest place in Great Brittain—the dementors are likely just a deterrent to make it harder for Black to try to break in to Hogwarts—"

"How do we even know Black's trying to come here?" Ron demanded.

"Use your head, Ronald—Dumbledore wouldn't accept the dementors unless he absolutely thought he had to."

"So Black's just going to break into the school and murder a bunch of teenagers?"

Harry cleared his throat loudly. A few students had been watching Ron and Hermione's argument with interest. Hermione gave a small sigh while Ron downed an entire goblet of pumpkin juice.

"It's against the rules," said Hermione in a low voice, as though this settled the argument.

When Harry had forced himself through third helpings of everything and he felt like he might explode, he, Ron, and Hermione finally followed the sleepy crowd of students making their way to their separate dormitories. Instead of everyone taking their own routes, the Prefects and teachers insisted the students all take a direct course, and went so far as to monitor the corridors to enforce this new rule.

"Do they really think Black's just waiting in the shadows to blow us up, and some git like Percy's going to stop him?" Ron wondered aloud as they followed the line of Gryffindors toward the seventh floor.

"It's just added security," said Hermione. "It can't hurt."

"No, but it's annoying."

Harry didn't reply, but he found himself agreeing with Ron. They were ascending the stairs to the last floor when Harry beckoned Ron and Hermione to follow him. "Here—privately," he muttered, jerking his head toward a nook behind an old statue of Winfred the Wise.

"Black's after me—"

"What?"

"Shhh!"

"Keep it down," Harry whispered, looking around past the old statue to make sure no one was looking their way. "That's what McGonagall pulled me aside for—she says Black is after me."

Ron was frowning and Hermione looked like she was battling back tears.

"It's not that big of a deal," Harry found himself saying at their silent expressions. "I'm not scared or anything. Black can't possibly be worse than Voldemort, and I've fought him off three times."

Hermione wiped her eyes hastily, whispering, "Oh, Harry. You have to be extra careful! No wandering around at night, even with your cloak. And you musn't go leaving the castle—"

"I don't have a death wish, I'm not going to go looking for him or anything," said Harry quickly. "It's just…I dunno. Another mad Dark wizard who's obsessed with killing me. So…what did McGonagall want with you?" Harry added, directing this question at Hermione in a poor attempt at changing the subject.

"Just stuff about my classes," she said dismissively, looking over her shoulder. "We should get back to the group—they're going to be looking for us—"

Harry, Ron and Hermione managed to catch up to the tail end of the Gryffindors, trying to hide the fact that they were suspiciously out of breath. Percy shot them all a suspicious look as they scurried past.

"Password's 'fairy lights'," he called to them.

"Thanks, Perce!" Ron replied over his shoulder as the three of them rushed up the flight of stairs that let to their dormitories. Harry and Ron bade Hermione goodnight before collapsing on their own dormitory beds.

Harry kicked off his shoes and rolled onto his back, staring at the dim ceiling. Neville and the others had already dressed for bed, and Harry could hear Ron changing somewhere nearby.

So Black was after him. Now the Minister's appearance in the Leaky Cauldron made sense—why he seemed simultaneously worried and relieved, why he never bothered to expel him… Harry thought of the wanted posters all over Diagon Alley, back to the skeletal face emblazoned right in the middle—would the Ministry catch Black before he made it to Hogwarts? Or would Harry face him just as he had faced Voldemort?

"Scabbers—no, you moron—" Harry heard Ron say. He drew back his hangings and looked around their dim dormitory.

"Everything all right?"

"Stupid git's trying to get out of the room," said Ron, throwing the rat onto his bed. Scabbers was squeaking loudly, rushing all over before finally disappearing in a hole in the side of Ron's trunk. Ron rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

"G'night, mate."

"Night."

Andrew Hipworth lived in a small flat in the center of London—there wasn't much demand for the ancient languages in his own world, but he did enjoy teaching them to unsuspecting muggle students at the University. He had been there for over forty years, having just started right out of Hogwarts. His credentials were easy enough to make up; why Muggles insisted a teacher have a piece of paper to back up their skills was something Hipworth didn't understand.

But that was neither here nor there. Hipworth taught linguistics, cultural anthropology, and of course offered an elective course on the old Frisian languages. His specialty was Anglo-Saxon. The muggles appreciated the old languages much more than wizards did. Bartemius Crouch had been Hipworth's last wizarding student, and he honestly never expected to encounter another witch or wizard wanting his expert advice.

But when an owl swooped into his university office at the end of August, Hipworth felt a twinge of excitement. It had been a very long time since someone approached him with questions about an artefact. The letter came with copies of several pages, though the text was so faded and water-damaged that Hipworth wasn't entirely sure of his translation.

Hipworth was considered the premier linguist at the University, and few other professors held his level of love and knowledge for ancient languages. And so Hipworth scrawled out a hasty letter to his best student and enclosed a set of copies for his perusal.

I have done my own translations, Hipworth wrote at the end of his letter. But it's such an odd text, isn't it? Not quite Anglo-Saxon, but it doesn't quite fit with the other sub-languages. Perhaps you can shed some light?

Bartemius Crouch sent a Christmas card every year up until the death of his wife. He and Hipworth hadn't spoken since then, but Hipworth knew Crouch to be a very busy man. Crouch knew perhaps more languages than anyone in the world, and Hipworth was sure that if anyone could help him, it would be Crouch.

Hipworth returned to the text again, adjusting his spectacles. Term was only a week away and Hipworth should be preparing, but he couldn't help himself. He read Beowulf every year; very rarely was he given such a gift as the one before him.

By nightfall Hipworth was still in his office, books, guides and charts strewn about the room. He had made some headway with the first sample page, though there were great sections that he wasn't entirely sure of. Hipworth was particularly proud with the manuscript's heading: A Most Complete History of the Magical Spirit and its Seven Properties. The text was certainly an unusual one; Hipworth had never heard of such a document for the time period. Generally the Anglo-Saxon texts that survived consisted of epic tales, theories of magical healing, or potion instructions.

Whoever sent him these copies was in possession of a very valuable book, indeed.

Crouch had sent a return owl the next day. Despite his wildly busy schedule—something about that escaped murderer, Hipworth didn't really follow wizarding news these days—Crouch had a soft spot for languages. No doubt it made him the most suitable candidate for the Head of the International Magical Cooperation position.

Andy—

Unfortunately recent events have claimed much of my time, but I was able to take a look over the sample you sent me momentarily. The questions you have are best answered by the damage to the book—the water marks smudge much of the ink and make it difficult to decipher. However, I am certain it is true Anglo-Saxon.

Have you worked out the translation of the title? A very odd piece of work, indeed.

Barty

Hipworth was sure he was making excellent progress, referring to numerous charts to account for the smudged letters. The night before term started, having prepared absolutely no lesson plans, Hipworth had a rough version of the text:

But know that by whom the entire physical body is pervaded is indestructible (or was it immortal? He would have to refer to it later). No one is able to cause the destruction of the imperishable soul. The soul never takes birth and never dies at any time nor does it come into being again when the body is created. The soul is birthless, eternal, imperishable and timeless and is never terminated when the body is terminated. As a person gives up old and worn out garments and accepts new apparel, similarly the embodied soul giving up old and worn out bodies verily accepts new bodies.

Hipworth was most fascinated by the diagrams depicting death, birth, and what looked like resurrection. It was certainly a fascinating tale of the life cycle through a religious point of view. Hipworth was inspired to refresh his memory on ancient Gaelic religion when another owl swooped into his open office window the first weekend of term.

Andy—

Who sent you this text?

It wasn't signed, but Hipworth recognized Crouch's handwriting. He pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and wrote on the same parchment, Unsure. Sent anonymously. If you have a moment, you must stop by and peruse it with me. Absolutely fascinating!

Hipworth hadn't actually expected Crouch to show up, of course. The man was a very important member of the Ministry, and this Sirius Black business was still in the news. Hipworth wondered if Crouch was being sucked into it. It wasn't quite under Crouch's department, but an Azkaban breakout was certainly unusual.

But Crouch did arrive, barely twenty minutes after Hipworth sent his return owl. Crouch had knocked sharply on the door, accompanied by two other wizards Hipworth didn't recognize. Crouch was dressed well in a muggle suit, but the other two hadn't quite nailed it with their mismatched bold shirts and too-short trousers. Hipworth had been living in the muggle world for so long that he found wizarding ignorance of this world rather amusing.

"Come in, come in!" said Hipworth, letting them in his office. He was tenured faculty, so he had an enormous office in one of the old towers. "Can I get you anything? Tea, perhaps?"

"We're here on Ministry business, I'm afraid," said Crouch curtly.

"All the same, make yourselves comfortable," said Hipworth, taking a seat at his cluttered desk. He didn't often have company, and was happy to accept the odd bunch from the Ministry, even if they did look grave.

"How far have you translated this old document you wrote me about?" Crouch asked.

"I've gotten nearly the entire first page," said Hipworth happily, pulling out his work for Crouch to examine.

"Have you sent the translations to whoever sent this to you?"

Hipworth shrugged. "Well, certainly. I wanted to keep them updated on my progress. Such a shame I haven't been able to look at the actual book, but I will accept what I can get, of course."

Crouch and the two Ministry officials he brought looked at each other.

"You mean you don't actually have the book?" Crouch asked.

"Of course not," said Hipworth, unconcerned. "I was owled copies, same as those I sent to you."

Crouch reached into his pocket, and handed a piece of parchment to Hipworth. "Well, I've finished everything you sent me—read it."

Hipworth skimmed through the first paragraph, which was more eloquently translated than his own. So the student exceeds the master, he thought proudly. He came to the bottom of the page, and read: The body may be shaped as clay is shaped, and built as cities are built. Of the physical body, three things are needed, these things being bone of the father, flesh of the servant, and blood of the enemy.

"Fascinating piece of work, isn't it?" Hipworth asked, looking up.

Crouch didn't look happy. "Andy, we think Sirius Black sent you this document."

Hipworth froze, the smile faltering on his face. "The Azkaban escapee? What makes you say that?"

"We have it on good faith that Black may be attempting to return You-Know-Who to power," said Crouch firmly. "This document tells him how."

Hipworth was frowning. "That can't be right," he finally said. "This is lore—a fable. This isn't some Dark text outlining—"

"Andy," said Crouch imploringly. "We need to find out where Black is. What owl do you use to write him?"

"Well, he sends a new owl each time," said Hipworth uncomfortably.

"And your owls are able to find him?"

"Well, I suppose so—you're absolutely certain that it's Black who sent this?" Hipworth asked, holding up the translation. "It just seems so…out of place. Surely it is merely an accomplished witch or wizard seeking assistance—"

"We're going to put a tracker on your owl," said Crouch curtly.

"Now?"

The other two wizards moved to attach a small ring around the foot of the bird in the corner of Hipworth's office. "The owl will give us a geographic location," said Crouch while Hipworth looked on, scandalized. The dark-skinned wizard carried the owl toward the window, opening it. The bird took off sleepily, not used to being sent out so late in the morning.

Hipworth felt deflated. "If—if it is this Sirius Black you've mentioned, what could he possibly want with this?" he asked, waving the papers in his hand. "What use is it to him?"

Crouch suddenly looked very tired. The lines around his eyes and mouth were more pronounced than ever and he gave Hipworth a long look. "I apologize for the disruption," he said curtly. "Your owl will be returned to you as soon as we are finished—"

"Barty—"

"If you require an owl in the meantime, the Ministry would be happy to provide one for your personal use," he added, ignoring Hipworth. Crouch gestured for the others to follow, and they left the office just as suddenly as they had entered it, leaving a stunned Hipworth behind.

They're not dead…they're not dead…

Sirius stumbled off the bike, letting it fall to the ground ungracefully. His legs were weak and shaking, but they still carried him forward. The house in front of him was dark and silent, and almost peaceful but for the front door blasted off its hinges and the shattered glass all over the lawn.

Sirius's eyes were searching the dark house desperately. Furniture was scattered and blown apart, and a fine rain of dust and dirt was falling from the cracked ceiling.

"James?"

They're not dead.

Sirius awoke with a rough start, heart beating furiously. It took him a moment to recognize his surroundings. Sirius rolled over stiffly, trying to untangle the mess of blankets wrapped around his legs. The house felt unpleasantly chilly, and a cold grey light was coming in through the windows. Sirius sat up, cracking a few bones in his back stiffly. He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair before getting to his feet. The floor was ice cold against his bare skin as Sirius made his way to the bathroom.

He looked just as awful as the last time Sirius got a good look at himself. He was still far too thin, and the dark shadows around his eyes hadn't left. The old t-shirt he wore hung limply from his bony shoulders, and the dull grey eyes that stared back at him looked flat and dead. Even the warmth of the hot water didn't seem to quite reach past his skin.

Sirius dressed hastily, transforming into his dog form just before leaving the cold confines of Grimmauld Place. His stomach was twisted with hunger, but there was still so much to be done first.

The trip to Reading took the better part of the day, mostly because Sirius was forced to follow muggle roads out of London. It was well past midday when he reached the old winding road that led to a few sparse cottages just outside of town. The pads of Sirius's paws felt raw, but he had to keep going.

When he found the correct address, Sirius hopped over the low stone fence and made a beeline for the back of the house. He looked around hastily to make sure no neighbors were out hanging their wash, and transformed back into a man. He slipped inside the back door quickly, locking it behind himself.

"Do you have any idea how many times the Ministry has been here?" Owens whispered, as though someone might overhear. The lights were off in the house, and all the blinds were drawn. "I caught them trying to send a tracker on an owl—blasted the damn bird out of the sky before it could reach my house!"

Sirius sank into one of the dining room chairs heavily. "Do you have the translations?"

Owens sighed in agitation. "Of course I do," he said irritably, moving into the other room. He returned with a few scrolls of parchment and handed them to Sirius. "My source tells me they're a bit rough, but you get the general idea."

Sirius read them over quickly. Of the physical body, three things are needed, these things being bone of the father, flesh of the servant, and blood of the enemy.

"Blood of the enemy…" Sirius read aloud. He looked up at Owens. "I presume this to mean Harry Potter?"

Owens sighed again. "Any enemy will do, really," he said. "But Potter would be best, yes."

"And impossible to get," replied Sirius curtly, trying to commit the last line of text to memory.

"Potter has the strongest blood," Owens continued. "He's the one who vanquished the Dark Lord—it only seems fitting that it should be Potter—"

Sirius looked up at Owens sharply. "And how do you propose to reach Harry Potter? He is undoubtedly under Dumbledore's protection."

Owens's agitation quickly slipped into discomfort. "Well…we were rather hoping you had some ideas."

Sirius snorted at that.

"You broke out of Azkaban," Owens continued carefully. "Surely…surely you can find a way into Hogwarts—"

I can, and none of you will ever hear of it, thought Sirius darkly. He returned to the parchment, reading it over again. Bone of the father, flesh of the servant, and blood of the enemy. It didn't appear as though it would take much to bring Voldemort back to a body. He had plenty of servants and even more enemies…but bone of the father. If Sirius could find a way to destroy that, then a fundamental component of the spell would be gone.

And then he could go after Peter.

Harry would finally be safe.

"Have you showed these to anyone else?" Sirius asked, handing the parchment back to Owens.

"N-no, of course not—"

"Burn them."

Owens raised an eyebrow, startled.

"I got what information I needed, so burn it," said Sirius roughly. "There should be no reason for anyone else to know—"

"I wouldn't show anyone—"

"Not willingly, no, but just wait until the Ministry decides to search your house," said Sirius darkly. He ran a hand over his tired eyes. "Have you heard from the other two? Macmillan?"

Owens shook his head. "No, they're lying low. I reckon they're a bit paranoid from the other night."

Sirius shook his head. "I suppose as long as they're capable of keeping their mouths shut…" He stood up stiffly, mentally reminding himself to rummage through the village gardens before heading back for London.

Owens gave Sirius an expectant look when he moved to leave. "What is our next move?"

"You're pretending to be a Death Eater, remember?" came James's familiar voice. Sirius thought he saw his old friend sitting at the table out of the corner of his eye, but determinedly didn't look over.

Sirius suddenly felt the weight of his exhaustion coming down on him. Resurrecting Voldemort, protecting Harry from the Death Eaters, finding Peter…it was all so much. No wonder he was hallucinating his conversations with James.

"We lay low," Sirius finally decided. He needed a break from his false Death Eater persona. "We've attracted enough Ministry attention these last two weeks. I will be in touch when we move forward again."

Owens didn't necessarily look happy with that information, but he didn't dare argue the point with Sirius Black. "Right. Well. You will know where to find me."

Sirius slipped out the back door just as quietly as he had come in, hurrying toward the overgrown bushes on the side of the house before transforming back into a dog.

Bone of the father.

Sirius hurried out of the village and toward the main town of Reading with a clear plan in place for the first time since escaping from Azkaban.