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Author: Antonia East Story: Sacred to the Memory Rating: Young Teens Setting: Pre-HBP Status: Completed Reviews: 3 Words: 14,271
August 1993 The balmy summer days drifted into warm August nights. During the long evenings, the churchyard became a popular place for the teenagers of the village to meet, talk and furtively drink the beer sold in the local shop. It was almost one o’clock in the morning, when a group of blurry-eyed youths clumsily climbed the low wall of the churchyard. As their raised voices were heard moving off down the street, a black, four-legged shadow detached itself from that of the War Memorial and slunk towards the Potters’ graves. “Oh, James.” The dog had changed into a man. Or what had once been a man. Now, he was a skeleton covered by a stretch of skin, fathomless eyes staring out from a mass of matted, elbow-length hair. The croaked words had been wrenched from his chest. He sank to the grass, holding onto the gravestone for support. With his left hand, he traced the inscribed letters. “Oh, Lily…James.” His head bowed, his shoulders heaving, he clutched the cool stone even tighter, as if he could somehow control himself through this grip on a physical reality. He’d known they were dead. He’d seen their lifeless bodies every day for the last twelve years. The memory of that night had played through his mind almost ceaselessly and with aching clarity. The house destroyed. The Dark Mark mocking him from above. Hagrid had emerged, tears glistening like stars in his wiry beard, carefully carrying Harry, shielding him with his greatcoat. The baby’s cries had rung in the background of the scene, to be endlessly replayed in Sirius’s head. Sirius had taken in Harry’s bleeding forehead. He had felt weak with relief that his godson was alive. But then, he'd realised that he had not seen Lily or James. Ignoring Hagrid’s shout of warning, he’d opened the door, knowing with sickening dread what he would find, yet knowing he had to go in, hoping desperately that he wouldn’t find them…and then he’d seen James in the hall, where he’d tried to hold Him off. It had felt so unreal, staring down at his best friend’s murdered body. He should have broken down then, fallen to the ground and started sobbing. But he had carried on. The bedroom. He’d slowly looked down and encountered Lily’s emerald eyes, not even dulled by death, where she'd lain on the floor. He’d bolted from the house, only then realising he was crying. His tears had mingled with the rain. At first, the sorrow, the immense grief, had left no space for any other emotion. Sirius had submitted numbly to Hagrid’s clumsy comfort. “Give Harry to me, Hagrid; I’m his godfather, I’ll look after him.” Harry was all he had left of Lily and James; he was the only family Harry had left now. They belonged together. “I’m sorry, Sirius, but I’ve ‘ad orders from Dumbledore. Harry’s ter come with me. He’s ter go ter his aunt an’ uncle’s.” No! Sirius couldn’t lose Harry; he was Harry’s guardian, it was his duty to look after him. He needed to look after him. “But Lily and James made me his guardian, in the event of their…” Oh, Merlin, they were dead, they were dead. Hagrid shuffled and looked away. Sirius forced himself to breathe. The parcel tenderly cocooned in Hagrid’s arms stirred. Sirius’s heart quickened even at the glimpse of the untidy ruffle of hair, which reminded him so poignantly, so painfully of James. Every time he looked upon Harry, would he only see remnants of Lily and James? Even so, the memories hurt, but he wanted them to. He needed to hurt; he needed to remember. And Harry was his best friends’ son. It was up to him now to give Harry the childhood he deserved. What every child deserved. Only then did Hagrid’s words take full effect. “His aunt and uncle? You mean Lily’s…but they’re Muggles. James told me about them; they’re the worst kind of Muggles, always hated Lily, because of her magic. Harry can’t live with them; he can’t. I won’t let you.” Hagrid sighed. “Dumbledore’s orders,” he repeated heavily. “But they were at the wedding, Hagrid, you must remember. Treated everyone else like they had an extremely contagious disease.” Hagrid frowned. “I remember,” he said shortly, “but Dumbledore’ll ‘ave ‘ad ‘is reasons.” Sirius opened his mouth to protest, before remembering Peter. He’d go to Dumbledore about Harry later, when people knew the truth about that traitorous little rat. Sirius nodded slowly. He knew what he had to do. “Take my bike; you’ll get him safe quickest that way.” Hagrid looked at him in surprise. “Take it! I don’t need it anymore.” The bike left the ground, and Sirius felt his heart follow, wrenching after Harry as his godson was flown away from him. Sirius turned, his mind set. He wouldn’t give in to grief until he’d sorted out Peter. With a POP, he Disapparated. The search had begun. His mind lingered once more on the hated scene. Even where there were no Dementors to force him to relive the agony of that night, he punished himself. Azkaban had unhinged him that much; he was his own torturer. The memory had often been punctuated by distortions and visions; he had seen James rise up, his face full of disappointment and accusation. “You killed me, Sirius.” James’s bewildered voice echoed through Sirius’s mind, taking on a harsher tone. “It’s your fault we’re dead. Your fault. Your fault.” “I didn’t mean to, James,” Sirius whimpered, sounding like a dog in pain. “I was trying to save you…” “Your fault. Your fault.” Yes, Sirius had known that Lily and James Potter were dead and had been for twelve years. However, a stubborn part of him had harboured something that was not a hope, for all hope had been sucked out of him in Azkaban, but instead a self-delusion, that the deaths of Lily and James were just a part of the nightmare of Azkaban. He had known they were dead, but had not been prepared for the shock of their grave, darkened by twelve years of exposure to wind and rain. The realisation that life had been carrying on for most people as usual, that the world still existed without Lily and James came crashing down on him, and he thought he would break with the pain of it. He had never had a chance to grieve them properly. Lily, with her winning smile, her loving nature. He knew that he would not have allowed James to marry anyone but her. James, his best friend, his partner in crime, his more than brother, for Sirius had felt only an odd sensation in his chest when he’d discovered his brother’s death. His blood family had meant nothing to him. In the years when he’d been young and happy, Sirius had had relationships with women, but there had been no ‘one’ as there had been for James. There should have been time for that later. Instead, Sirius’s fulfilling relationship had been with his friends. They were his family. He had even infiltrated the new generation of Potters - Lily had treated him half like a brother, and half like a son. They, along with Remus and Peter, had been the very centre of his world. At the thought of Peter, Sirius shook with wrenching waves of hatred and guilt. Peter had killed them, had ruined his life. Had sent him to Azkaban. He had set out on his hunt, to revenge their deaths, to punish Peter, and had been caught out by the man who he’d thought was his friend. His stupid friend. “We misjudged Peter, Prongs.” It had been a perfect plan, to switch at the last minute and in complete secrecy. Sirius had been prepared to guard their secret to the death, but had wanted to be extra-cautious. He had been so delighted with his idea. He believed he had masterminded a brilliant ruse. Instead, he had masterminded their murder. If it weren't for him, Lily and James would be alive, and Harry would not be in imminent danger now. If only he had persuaded them to use Dumbledore, or even Remus…no, he had trusted Peter and doubted Remus. His remaining friend believed him a traitor and a murderer. Wasn’t he? How could he have thought that Remus, REMUS, for Merlin’s sake, would go over to the Dark side and betray his friends? Sirius shook himself violently, shaking the thoughts from his mind. He could not allow himself to think of Remus. He had briefly thought of going to his old friend and trusting him this time with the truth. But trust was a quality that had been savaged by Azkaban. Remus wouldn’t believe him; Remus would hand him over to the Dementors, though it would pain him greatly to do so. He had to have Peter; the truth lay with Peter. He had to get to Peter, and he was at Hogwarts. With Harry. Harry was what was at stake. There wasn’t enough left of Sirius to matter any more, and besides, he had sworn to protect the Potters, and Harry was the only one to whom he could pay that allegiance. So Sirius, or rather Padfoot, was on his way to Hogwarts to save Harry’s life and to commit the murder for which he had spent twelve years in Azkaban. Innocence and friendship no longer mattered. “I saw him. James, he looks just like you. He’s still got the Potter hair.” When the boy had turned and caught sight of him in Magnolia Crescent, it had shocked Sirius as much as it had Harry. For there, in front of him, was James as a scrawny thirteen-year-old, broomstick in hand. It had been a wholesome image, not one of death, guilt and blame, and it was one that had fuelled Sirius this far on his journey. It was still a long way to Scotland, though.
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