(In which ... things finally start to move, Sirius makes an ass of himself, and god, I really hope Taulai will restrain herself from tearing me apart at the end of the chapter ...)
Part Four – Ceremony
Two days passed, for Sirius, in a blaze of unnaturally bright colours. As though the world were very far away, and very sharp around the edges, so that the strongest hues were the only ones he could clearly make out. Edgeing every blinding red or fascinating gold, however, were shadows, so thick, and so deep that to touch one was to disappear from the side of the Light. Forever.
He skirted around those bits carefully.
And before he had properly registered Saturday, Sunday had dawned.
Bright and celebratory as it was, the day seemed to be mocking him, with subtle sarcasm present in every shining jet branch, every diamond-cut leaf and tree so deeply golden that it seemed you could warm your hands at it.
Maybe, deep inside him, Sirius knew, on that day, that his plan would fail. Perhaps he even knew, or guessed, that he would pay for his misjudgement with his life – the very essence of it, in the form of happiness, memory, and hope. And perhaps that was why he found himself drawn away from the house, back to the common, grey under the soaring azure sky. Mindful of the need for speedy transportation, he rode his motorbike the short distance to the common and left it hidden by a clump of birches and numerous Muggle-repelling spells.
Across the field, schoolchildren shouted and laughed.
Sirius took a deep breath of the chilly autumnal air and leaned against the comforting, mossy shoulder of a maple. From between the black columns of tree trunk, with their wispy, lacy curtains, the common looked endless as a blue-grey ocean. Out of the wiry grass rose brown cliffs of dying heather. Between knolls and rough terrain dipped deep valleys of broken black peat. His boots crunched on dead leaves and frosted dock that lay huddled into the embrace of his maple’s knotted roots. The bark was rough and warm against his cheek, murmuring reassurances to him without making a sound. Everything was going to be okay. He had it under control. Voldemort couldn’t find out about the switch. Ever – could he?
The air exploded directly next to him.
Sirius shut his eyes instinctively, and when he opened them, his heart sank. One could hardly blame him: In any and all myth-spheres, the last thing any hero needs on the Day of Destiny is a visit from his dad.
Johnathan Black crossed his arms over his chest, and glared up at his son. In many ways, they looked alike: they shared the same determined jaw, the heavy eyebrows, broad shoulders and long, corded arms that Johnathan had inherited from his own father; but Johnathan’s piercing eyes were blue, his hair brown, his face broad and swarthy and he stood several inches shorter than his son. Sirius had his mother’s angular face, dark hair and eyes, and her general attitude of knowing that if he had to spill blood to protect his beliefs, or his loved ones, or whatever, he would do it. Without hesitation.
"He’s a full-blooded Celt, our Sirius, magic or no," Bridget would say jokingly of her half-blooded son. "And you can thank the good God he’ll never have a sword in his hand."
"What’re you doing here, Dad?" Sirius could not keep the hard edge from his voice, "I kind of wanted to be alone, you know?"
Like his son, Mr Black minced no words. "Just what do you think you’re doing? I recieved this yesterday –" he flourished a creased piece of paper at Sirius, who frowned, trying to read the address or the name, or at least recognize the writing. "From Cassandra Ravenwood. She says here you’re risking your life for some foolish plan that may or may not work. I won’t let you get yourself killed, and your mother’s in a terrible state! So explain yourself!"
Sirius’ jaw dropped in utter shock. Cassandra again! What business did she have, interfering in his life like this? Her and his father! Behind his eyelids, he saw Cassandra’s face veiled in shadow, its edges cut sharp with an expression that he’d seen only once: the aching fear of the warrior held helpless, unable to fight back. There was a trace of that fear in his father’s eyes as he stared at his son, he knew, but Sirius rudely kicked those thoughts away.
"So what am I supposed to do? Just stand here and let Voldemort kill my best friends? Yeah, that’s really smart," he growled.
Johnathan Black’s dark cheeks flamed with anger as he looked up to meet his son’s unrepentant eyes. "Don’t you take that tone of voice with me!" he snarled in return. "You’re risking too much and you know it! Your mother and I feel this is too dangerous for you! We forbid you to risk your life like this!"
Sirius exploded. "I am not a kid anymore, Dad! Don’t you get it?" he roared, boiling hot with rage. He gasped for breath; the red tide of anger poured over him, drowning common sense beneath its thick, blood-hot waves, and rolling, sparking into flame. Clearly unnerved, his father stepped back – a terrible mistake in the face of his son’s fury. The hungry teeth of fire sprang upon that moment of weakness and devoured it, leaving only traces of fluttering ash. "You can’t forbid me to do anything! James is my best friend, and he asked for my help! What, you think I’m going to desert him? Forget it!"
Finished, Sirius stood breathing heavily, his hands on his hips, glaring at his father, whose mouth opened and closed silently, several times, like a hungry fish. Johnathan Black broke the staring contest first; he looked away across the field. There was a woman out there, being towed along through the damp sedge-grass by her large black Labrador. Within minutes, she would arrive within hearing range of their quarrel.
Johnathan took a deep, steadying breath. "I won’t argue with you," he said in a hoarse whisper. Sirius’ eyes glittered dangerously. "But you’re coming with me now! Maybe your mother can do what I can’t." When Sirius hesitated, he snapped, "You might at least do her the courtesy of giving her some reassurance! She’s worried sick."
"I don’t have time – !" began Sirius; he might have finished his sentence but for his father, who grabbed his forearm in a large-knuckled, iron grip, and Disapparated.
Barely two minutes later, the woman with the Labrador entered the woods and looked about in puzzlement, wondering why she heard voices echoing in the trees.
*
Bridget Black was a tall, handsome woman, about the same height as her husband, and famous for her presence: A leaping, sparking one, lighting up dark places with an un-Muggle-like fire that always seemed to burn with some passion or another. And, as though twenty years had crushed against her in one week, all that had dropped away.
She looked old. Terribly so; the dark eyes that Sirius had inherited from her were dull, haunted; deep wrinkles slashed across her cheeks in the harsh morning sun; she sat hunched like an ancient bird, and did not bother to look up as her wizard son and husband appeared in the middle of her sitting room.
"You see what you’ve done to her?" Johnathan growled in Sirius’ ear.
"Sirius, how nice of you to pay your old mother a visit." Sirius winced at the dry sarcasm in his mother’s voice. Still, it was better than the screaming rages she sometimes indulged in. More because she expected it than because he wanted to, he sat down in a chair opposite to her seat.
"I’m going to kill Cassandra," he swore vehemently. "You weren’t supposed to know!"
"Oh, Cassandra’s a good girl." The tiniest ghost of a smile crossed Bridget’s lips. "She’s smart. A true Celtic woman. You could do worse than her, Sirius."
"Mum!" Sirius groaned. The smile widened, trembled, and held in place, as Johnathan sat down next to Bridget on the sofa. The woman’s dark eyes turned to her husband, conspirationally, as though she were trying to lighten the tension. He did not return the look, but instead stared straight ahead at Sirius, his blue eyes hard. She sighed audibly and turned back to her son.
"But you don’t want your mother poking her long nose into your life, do you? Of course not. But why, Sirius? Why were we not supposed to know? Do I have no right to know when my son is in danger?"
His father’s eyes were boring into Sirius. There was something in them, some quality, some sliver of ice that said that his mother was the one who knew why he was doing this, however probing her questions. She, Muggle as she was, knew about war, and the strange force that drives the warrior. Johnathan Black saw his son as a fool.
Sirius shot his father a flat glare, and spoke pointedly to his mother alone. "Because it’s safer this way. Well, it was, anyway, before Cassandra had to go and tell you. But what if Voldemort – " he ignored both his parents’ winces at the name, " – found out what’s going on? You’d be in danger. You might – spill everything ..."
"Oh really?" interrupted his father. His voice was soft and dangerous.
Johnathan Black was no warrior, nor activist. As a wizard, he did not like his power; he feared it. He saw what magic turned for evil ends could do, all around him in the heights of Voldemort’s powers; but these experiences had merely strengthened his resolve never to use his own powers. That fundamental dislike was instinct, the ingrained memories passed down through blood in his family. He preferred the work done with his own two hands, which bore fruit in time to the clockwork of the seasons and the flow of normal, Muggle-like existence. All the Blacks did. Perhaps that was why he’d married Bridget; hoping that he could share in her steady, comfortable world, where nothing burst from thin air before your very eyes, no strange potions performed miracles that could not be explained, and no unicorns and dragons walked the Earth with men.
And then his son had turned out to be both a powerful wizard and a consummate rebel.
Heat rose in Sirius’ cheeks. Had he been in dog form, his hackles would have been standing straight up. He had a good deal of Johnathan’s own obstinacy, his tendency for sharp words; enough so that tension had permeated the household throughout every summer holiday, prompting Bridget to lose her temper with them both many a time. To put it bluntly, father and son rubbed each other raw.
"Yeah, really," he replied, echoing his father’s tone of voice. The late morning sun lanced in through the windows, straight into his eyes. "And then I’d have to fight for you, since you can’t do it yourself."
Fire burned along his left cheek, belatedly followed by a sharp crack that split the world momentarily in two. Firm, slim fingers grasped his chin and forced him to look up into his mother’s sharp eyes.
"Don’t you insult your father like that, Sirius Black," she said. Her face was calm, nearly expressionless; she followed her son’s movement easily as he swore and leapt to his feet, rubbing at the red, spreading welt. "Apologize!"
"No!" Sirius snarled in return. The fingertips tightened with extraordinary strength, until he shook them off and rubbed his chin, where five round bruises were appearing. "He wants me to – to abandon Lily and James! He’s a coward!"
Not even the formidable Bridget Black could have stopped Johnathan from exploding out of his seat; he swung one hand out in a broad, heavy slap. Sirius’ arm moved like lightning, and Johnathan Black found his wrist caught tight in the other’s vicelike grip.
"You dare call me a – a coward! You insolent little - !" He swung out with his other hand, and Sirius caught that, too. Johnathan tried to wrench away, but it was no use. "Let go!" he hissed.
"Sirius, let go!" Bridget commanded.
"Go on, Dad, tell Mum what you said," taunted Sirius, his teeth bared in a victorious grin. "Don’t risk your life for your friends. It’s too dangerous. You are a coward!"
Bridget shouted at her husband and son, slapped them both, wrenched at their arms until she broke Sirius’ grip. Johnathan allowed his arms to fall to his sides, but he stood stiffly, refusing to massage them, though they must have been aching, and fixed his son with an icy cold stare. His face burned red with shame.
"If caring about my family is a crime, then I am guilty," he whispered. Sirius, crossing his arms over his chest, returned the glare. "But you – you’re no son of mine! Get out of my house. Now!"
"Johnathan, hush!" Bridget hissed. Sirius stepped back, shock written all over his face.
"Go!" Johnathan shouted, pointing a brawny arm in the direction of the doorway. His son’s mouth thinned into a white line.
"Sirius!" Before Sirius could disappear, Bridget lunged forward and grabbed his arm. "Out into the garden," she said, and promptly hauled him there.
The door slammed behind them, and Johnathan Black dropped back onto the sofa. He ignored the voices floating in through the open window with the frigid autumn air.
The grass crunched under Sirius’ feet, still hoary with frost from the previous night. He shoved his hands into his pockets to warm them. Bridget said nothing, merely slipped her own hands into her sleeves, and let the silence hang until her son began to wonder just how much she disapproved of him.
"I guess I shouldn’t have lost my temper back there, should I?" he said finally.
"No, you shouldn’t," Bridget replied curtly. "And you shouldn’t have provoked your father like that, either. He is no warrior, and you know it."
"Did he really mean that? About ... me not being his son?"
"No, of course not. He’ll forget everything he said within the week, and I daresay I’ll have to make him write an apology. But that’s of no matter now." Bridget’s dark eyes looked up into Sirius’, so like hers; riddled with pain and bewilderment in his rugged face. "Tell me, Sirius, what you mean to do. I will not tell you to stop, but I must know."
"Er, well ..." Sirius searched for inspiration. Finding none, he decided to tell her the truth – or as much of the truth as he could safely tell. "Really, it won’t be as dangerous as Cassandra made it sound. I’m sort of ... playing a decoy. I really can’t tell you more." He let his mother see the pleading in his eyes. Please don’t ask me anything else, they said. Please.
Bridget saw, and understood. "Very well. But, here, take this." She fished in her pocket and produced bundle wrapped carefully in a torn grocery bag. With excrutiating care she peeled away layers of plastic to reveal a dagger in a cracked leather sheath. "It’s ancient – here, take care – it’s been in my family for many a century. I’ve always meant to pass it on to you. I can’t think of a better time than this."
With exaggerated care, Sirius took the weapon. The leather scabbard was so old that, even to his layman’s eye, it would have fallen into dust many years past if it hadn’t been so well-cared for. When he turned it over in his hands, he was able to make out a faint design stamped into the leather; after a moment’s scrutiny, he could trace the forms of three stag’s heads, with crowns balanced in their antlers. Curious, he slid the dagger out. It glinted gold in the sunlight – not steel, but bronze – but well-polished as it was, the edges were blunt and pitted with use. The hilt had once been intricately carved with a myriad of cunningly intertwined lines, but hands spanning a thousand years and more had worn away much of the decorations. A knob of green glass formed the pommel.
"Well ..." Sirius said, trying to sound grateful instead of bemused. "It’s ... pretty."
"It’s much more than that! Oh, I should have given it to your friend Cassandra. I daresay she’d have appreciated it."
"Yeah," Sirius grinned, "She likes old stuff. Here – take it back before I break it or something."
He tried to give the dagger back, but Bridget pushed it at him. "It’s yours already, whether you will or no. Think of it this way: the strength of your Irish blood rests in that dagger. It’s been steeped in wars from the day it was forged. Keep it with you, and you’ll find that strength."
"Right, Mum."
"You’re far too sceptical for your own good," Bridget said, waggling a finger at him. "Now you’d best get yourself gone before your father comes out here." She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He nodded obediently, and she turned back to the house. Halfway there, she stopped and looked back.
"Oh, and Sirius, dear? Do try to shave more often. You look like a ruffian with that beard."
Sirius tossed back his head, laughed, and disappeared.
*
The owl had perched comfortably in the branches of a big old beech, with a good view of the place where Sirius Apparated.
It hooted, just to let him know it was there.
Sirius looked up at it, and wasn’t quite sure which emotion he felt at that moment. A thousand of them seemed to be battling for control of him; he wanted to leap and scream a warcry and sit down to weep his heart away; he wanted to laugh hysterically and hole up in a dark corner ‘til the end of time, all at once. Finally, he managed to whisper:
"You’re from Lily and James, aren’t you?"
The owl hooted again, pompously, and ruffled its feathers.
Sirius glared up at the thing – owls would insist on pushing their own importance to the limits. "Hang on a second, then." He stared at the dagger in his hand for a second, then sighed and slipped it into his pocket. With much rustling of greenery and cursing, he got his bike extracted from the undergrowth, gave it a cursory checkover for scratches, and mounted it. The owl fluttered down and landed on the handlebars.
"You do know I can’t fly in the daylight, right?" Sirius said to it. "I’d get caught."
The owl hooted in disgust, and clambered down to a spot just behind the handlebars, where it would be partially protected from the wind, and could sit securely and give directions.
"Right." Sirius turned the key; the motor roared; he pressed down the pedals, and they were off.
All through Bristol, the owl gave directions by nipping Sirius’ knees quite sharply until he turned in the direction it wanted. This happened so often that he was soon immensely grateful for his choice of heavy, hard-wearing jeans instead of flimsy robes.
If people had stared at Sirius two days ago, when he’d gone to talk to Peter, they positively gawped now. Perhaps they didn’t often see young men in black cloaks on motorbikes being periodically bitten by an owl. The thought made him grin to himself, regardless of the situation.
The bird gave his right knee an extra hard nip when he turned down the road adjacent to Drake Street. When he refused to turn, it tried again.
"Ow! Stop that, damn it!" Sirius took one hand off the bars and swatted at the owl. It hissed and snapped its beak at him. The little bugger had drawn blood. "I’ve got to make one stop before we go ... wherever. And you can stop pecking me!"
Peter had evidently been waiting close by the door, for he answered on the second knock. Sirius grinned down at him. "Better get moving, mate. It’s time."
Peter tried to grin in return – the result was more of a wet and shivery smile – and immediately ran for his coat. His eyes positively bugged when they set on the gleaming black and chrome of Sirius’ cherished bike.
"Er, Sirius, can I ... are you going to let me ... ride ... ?"
Sirius favoured him with a withering glare.
"Go get your broom, Peter."
It is a strange fact that Muggles, upon being confronted with an object like a flying motorbike, will gawp and point, but in the same moment can easily be fooled on the subject of broomsticks by a simple illusion spell; but it is a fact nonetheless. Though Sirius was forced to remain on the ground, Peter was able to fly quite easily over him, shielded only by a distortion spell, a simple charm that distorts the shape of an object, misdirecting the eye and minimizing noticeability.
The owl decided when it was time to take to the air; the moment that the last suburb of Bristol had fallen behind, it leapt from its perch (severely scratching Sirius’ knee with its talons in the process) and circled over their heads, hooting indignantly.
"Are you crazy?" Sirius shouted after it. In response, it dropped down, claws extended, and would have slashed his head if he hadn’t ducked. "All right, all right! But you’re getting me out of it if the Ministry comes along!" But the thing just hooted again and flapped at Peter, almost causing him to fall. Sirius swore at it, and took off. Really took off. The smooth chalk downloads with their blazing yellow beeches and poplars dropped away beneath him.
"But, Sirius, won’t someone see you?" called Peter across the stretch of roiling cold air between them.
"Not if we fly above the clouds, mate. Use your brains! If you have any," Sirius added to himself, as he sped upwards. The clouds engulfed him, bike and all, and turned his world to a cold, foggy place of freezing mist that stung his cheeks with ice particles, and the air was suddenly hard to breathe. It lasted a breath, and then he was through into cuttingly cold but clear sky, his shoulders warmed slightly by the smiling face of the pale autumn sun. The owl flapped on ahead, unperturbed; single-minded in its mission.
The owl had certainly been right about one thing: they needed to fly. Gliding above the clouds, they began to descend only after several very long hours in the air, in the dim ruby light of the evening. They landed a good mile or so away from a small village, on a country road that was more of a path. The owl took up its previous place just behind Sirius’ handlebars, and its previous task of guiding him by inflicting injury.
All around them, the tawny fields were dotted with standing stones, some towering over ten feet in the air.
Sirius stared at the sign stating the name of the village as he drove past: Welcome to Avebury. So they had decided to trust Cassandra, after all. Well, who was he to argue? She could be a spy and a traitor, for all he knew, but he wouldn’t object. The goosepimples running up his arms, however, while inspiring a rather tetchy mood, had no effect on a sudden mental image of Cassandra, worried and strained. Again, he kicked the picture away. The owl jabbed at his left knee, indicating that he was to turn again.
Avebury was a tourist town. Along with a grocery market, a whole succession of standing-stone-filled fields, and several streets filled with cosy little houses, there was a museum, gift shop, and a whole lot of bed-and-breakfasts to tempt the unwary visitor. But it was a lovely place, all the same. Flaming trees lined the streets and the smell of wood smoke lingered in the frost evening air. Nearly everyone was inside having supper – a good thing, too, because those who were still out stared worse than everyone in Bristol at this obviously city-bred young man on his motorbike.
Near the extreme opposite end of the village, Sirius, the owl and Peter pulled into the dirt driveway of a small, neat stucco cottage with fall crocus closing their purple petals in the garden, and, to judge by the flickering gold shadows in the windows, a merry fire crackling in the hearth.
It looks like a comfy little place, Sirius thought to himself as he climbed the stone steps with the owl on his shoulder, ignoring the scuffling sounds of Peter falling off his broomstick.
The wood of the door was cold; it stung the knuckles of Sirius’ left hand as he rapped sharply. Once, twice, thrice. And finally, there came a fumbling and a cursing of rusty bolts from within, and James’ cautious face peered out. He grinned and flung the door open wide. This was, of course, before he set eyes on Peter.
His face fell.
"Er, Sirius? Why - ?"
Sirius smiled crookedly. "Can we come in, James? There’s a bit of explaining to do, and I’m freezing." He rubbed vigorously at his bare arms to demonstrate.
"I think so," said James, caught between bemusement and sternness. "Hello, Peter. Well ..."
"Sirius, we’re so glad to see you," said Lily from over James’ shoulder. "And Peter? How nice. Come in, you two. Supper’s ready."
"You’re going to explain this," James said in Sirius’ ear as he slung his cloak over a hook and kicked his boots off – but not against the wall.
"I said I would, right? Lily, that smells great!"
Supper turned out to be a delicious spread of the sort that only Lily Potter could turn out, but Sirius barely managed to eat; his nerves hummed taut as wires; the rest of him was simply too tired, after six hours in the saddle, as it were. Peter, as well, picked at his food, and mumbled through conversation attempts. Both simply sat exhausted in their chairs, enjoying the flickering golden heat at their backs, while the night closed in and the windows collected moisture.
Finally, James shoved his plate aside and leaned across the table. "Sirius, this was supposed to be a secret. From everyone! So why’d you bring Peter?"
"He said I could help," piped up Peter. Sirius, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Peter, contented himself with a withering look.
"I had a true dream a few days ago, James. It’s a long story ..."
"Well, we’ve plenty of time before moonrise," said Lily kindly. "So why don’t you tell us about it?"
So Sirius, stumbling slightly because he kept getting ahead of his own train of thought, explained about his dream, and his plan, and Remus, a traitor to their side.
"Are you two sure you and Harry are safe here?" he asked once in the middle of describing the dream. "Cassandra was in my dream – laughing. She could be a traitor."
But Lily shook her head. "No, Cassandra’s no traitor, Sirius. She agreed to take a Truth Potion when she came to give us this address." A wicked twinkle lit in those intensely green eyes. "She said she wanted to set your mind at ease, since you’d obviously never trust her until she did, and a small loss of dignity was worth that at least. Are you sure that your dream was true?"
"Well ..." Sirius felt abruptly foolish. Of course he wasn’t sure. He’d never had a true dream before in his life. And Cassandra? Take a Truth Potion? Give up her cherished dignity just to set his mind at ease? The idea was unfathomable. "No, I’m not, but who else could it be? Not Cassandra, I mean Remus. I’m not a traitor, and it’s not Peter. Who else knows that much about you two?"
"And Harry," interjected Lily.
"And Harry," Sirius added obediently.
Peter’s round face glistened with sweat in the firelight. Nervously, he wiped his brow with his napkin and drew a deep, calming breath. No one seemed to notice.
"Anyway, if Voldemort has any sense at all, he’ll assume I’m your Secret-Keeper, whoever the traitor turns out to be," Sirius continued. "He’ll never think of Peter. You make him your Secret-Keeper, I’ll act as a decoy. See?"
"You know, it could work." James tapped his upper lip, where a black line that would someday be a moustache had appeared over the last week.
"It makes sense," Lily said finally, giving her own approval while her husband was so occupied. "Peter, I hope Sirius didn’t bully you into this." She turned her kind eyes on Peter’s small, nervous form, smiling. "Will you help us?"
Peter gave a sort of hoarse squeak, unused to so much attention, directed at him. Him! He’d never even been asked to help cheat on a test, simply because he never had the answers. And here were three people, all their eyes turned upon him; hard measurement and just the slightest hint of scorn from Sirius; gratitude and disbelief from James; and in Lily’s eyes the pleading of a mother who needs help to protect her children, who will fight with every weapon available to her in order to keep them safe.
He gulped, cleared his throat, and tried again: "Yes."
There was no sound of excessive gratitude at the table, no burst of cheering or tears; a sigh passed round the circle of wood with its glowing red cloth as the occupants relaxed.
"Thank you," said James. Lily and Sirius remained silent.
Sirius glanced out the window; over the eastern horizon shone an aureole of silver and jet, mists and flames and the plume of snow that runs before an evening avalanche all roiling together in the passage of ebony clouds. And through the soft chaos shone the white disc of the moon against her indigo velvet curtain; a queen holding court with the chill night and the bright winter as her courtiers.
"Moonrise." Was it his voice that had spoken? The chilly distance in it startled him. Dutiful, that voice was. Cold. Calm. Self-assured.
Lily arose and began gathering up dishes. Harry in his highchair whimpered and stretched out his little hands to his mother, picking up the general mood. She set the dishes down with a clatter on the kitchen counter, and lifted her son into her arms.
"Now where’s my cloak? Come on, you three, do get ready. I don’t want anyone to freeze to death out there."
And indeed it almost did seem possible to freeze to death out here. The moon plated everything – every blade of grass, every crease in the bark of the beeches, every shingle upon the roof of the Potters’ cottage – with pure, silver-edged white. Where her beams did not reach stretched razor-edged shadows of the darkest obsidian. Biting winds unhampered by city buildings whipped down out of the wildernesses, and made one forget all too quickly the sweet, soaking warmth of the fire inside.
And there was something else. At first Sirius was sure he’d imagined it, but, no, it was really there. In one continuous, curving line, moonlight seemed to condense on the grass and the tightly-closed heads of the crocuses, encircling the house like a band of solid silver.
"That’s the spell-ring," James said, seeing the direction of his look. "Round here – we need to start the ceremony at the North. Here, Peter, you stand there." He pointed at a smaller circle that broke the curve of the spell-ring, just large enough for one person to stand in. Peter did as he was told. "Are you ready?"
"Oh dear, James, I just remembered," said Lily, hurrying up to stand beside him. "The spell calls for blood. Peter?" she added kindly, for Peter looked positively terrified.
"Wait a moment," interjected Sirius. "Can you use anyone’s blood?"
"It’s supposed to be the Secret-Keeper’s blood, but yes, I suppose so," replied Lily, still looking rather worried for Peter.
"Then use mine. Hang on, I’ve got a knife." Sirius reached into his pocket and drew out the flaking leather sheath – looking much the worse for six hours of being sat on – and the dagger that it encased. The pale bronze flashed as though made of the purest silver in the surreal moonlight, the scratches suddenly the engraved letters of some runic language thousands of years old.
"Oh, Sirius! Wherever did you get it?" whispered Lily in a hushed voice. She reached out hesitantly and touched it with reverent fingers.
"My mother gave it to me this morning. She said it had been in her family for – thousands of years." Sirius didn’t know exactly why he wanted to sacrifice his blood for the rite or the ceremony or whatever it was. Perhaps so that he could have one small part in the spell that would protect the Potters. However important his role as decoy was, even though it had been he himself who brought it about, Sirius still felt slightly hurt, that Peter could take his place so readily.
"It’s perfect," Lily said, still gazing at the dagger in wonder. "This Charm is almost as old as that dagger must be."
James coughed slightly.
Lily started out of her reverie. "Oh, right." Harry laughed in her arms and reached out for the shiny blade.
James was smiling as he pulled a crumpled sheet of parchment from his pocket and squinted at it. "Lily, you and Harry need to be inside the ring with me. Peter, you stand inside the small circle. And Sirius – you need to let the blood drip into the circle where Peter is."
The dagger’s cold handle tingled oddly against Sirius’ palm. It felt almost – eager? He stuck out his arm, laid the metal point against the skin, and drew a long wound from wrist to mid-forearm. The dull blade caused more pain than he’d imagined, bruising the skin around the cut, but he felt exhilarated. He gripped the pain with his mind and forced it down, under his control, held the wounded arm out over the smaller circle, closed his eyes, and let the blood drip down.
From a great distance, he heard Lily’s voice begin a solemn recital:
"Lord and Lady of the Watchtower of the blue North and the black Earth, attend us, defend us, protect us from those who would wish us harm. Let our place upon the earth be hidden to all save Si – Peter." She stumbled and caught herself.
In the frigid air, the blood on Sirius’ arm cooled quickly; a dark line formed across his forearm, black as the night and cold along the edges. He shuddered like a wet dog; as his blood dropped to the silver grass, a strange energy filled him, rushing through his veins until he had to toss back his head and gasp for air. The feeling left as quickly as it had begun.
"Right," James said. "Now we move to the eastern point."
The feeling was stronger this time, and lingered in Sirius’ lungs and veins as he listened to James, this time, chant memorized lines.
"Lord and Lady of the Watchtower of the red East and the gold Fire, attend us, defend us, protect us from those who would wish us harm. Let our place in the fire beneath and above the earth be hidden from all save Peter."
And then to the western point, where Lily chanted her invocation with a high note at the edge of her voice that suggested that she wanted to sing, not speak.
"Lord and Lady of the Watchtower of the green West and the silver Water, attend us, defend us, protect us from those who would wish us harm. Let our place in the water beneath and above the earth be hidden from all save Peter."
Sirius was beginning to feel weak and rather shivery as he felt the power run through and out of him one more time with the cooling blood that dropped to the ground.
And finally, they all moved to the point of the southern quadrant. James took over the chanting again.
"Lord and Lady of the Watchtower of the white South and the clear Air ..."
This time, the surge of cold power flooded through Sirius so strongly that he was almost jerked to his knees. He staggered and grasped his wounded arm with the other hand, forcing it over the circle.
"... attend us, defend us ..."
It was as if the all the power harnessed by the spell-ring surged to this final point and rioted around it like a hurricane, and in doing so, it rushed through him. It caught him up in its grip and shook him like a ragdoll. He could not see either Lily or James, for his eyes were tight shut, but he could feel them – could feel Lily’s anxiety as she reached out to him; could feel James, caught up in the magic, hold out an arm to stop her. And a shadow on the edge of the blaze of light that filled his mind was Peter.
"Let our place in the air be hidden from all save Peter."
And suddenly Lily’s voice joined in, both of them soaring to the heights on waves of power, singing in voices that made no sound, gave no song, but screamed and shrieked and throbbed with magic of the oldest kind, the magic that lingers in the very stones and soil of the land.
"So mote it be!"
For one horrible moment, Sirius felt as though he were being torn apart, stretched past his bodily limits to defend the ringed house, the sheer power of that moment beating in time with his heart; and, somewhere, a voice was raised in a rhythmic, sobbing chant from out of the deepest past. The blood on his arm burned cold and hot at the same time with painful intensity; the moon blinded him with her veiled beauty, as inviting as sleep is to the traveller in the midst of the snowstorm, and beside him stood Death, with its hand on his shoulder. The magic surged one last time.
And then he fainted.
Author’s note: The ceremony depicted in this chapter is based only in the loosest sense of the word on ancient Druidic and modern pagan spells. Most of it was produced by my own depraved little mind. Like the bit about the blood. I like blood. The more of it splashing around in a story, the more I approve of it. The fact remains, however, that almost none of the details here are genuine and should not be taken as such. I have no wish to be hunted down by either rabid Christians or mortally insulted Pagans for my discrepancy, thank you.