The Marauders - Order of the Phoenix Part Three

CXIII: A Recruit for S.P.E.W.

Harry Potter lay in bed in the dormitory in Gryffindor Tower, staring at the ceiling. He was certain that Neville Longbottom was awake in the next bed to his left. Ron, in the next one to his right, was snoring incredibly loudly, limbs hanging over the side of the bed, his mouth open wide against the pillow case.

Harry clutched the parchment that Hedwig had delivered the night before. 

I'm flying north immediately...

Harry felt sick, just holding the parchment and imagining Sirius somewhere in the air on the back of the hippogriff, Buckbeak. He pictured Sirius dodging searchlights and bullets from muggle guns like some sort of cartoon character version of an escaped convict and he furrowed his brow with concern. If Sirius was caught, it would be his fault for not being able to keep his mouth shut. A little twinge from his scar and he'd gone and caused all this. 

Then again, the smallest part of him, the part he didn't want to acknowledge in case it inflated by being given a voice, was a bit excited to think that Sirius might be near by again soon, that maybe he, Harry, might even get a chance to see his godfather, that perhaps the letters might become more frequent again, like they'd been the first week or so... He had so many questions for Sirius still to ask and he so wanted the chance to talk to Sirius face-to-face about his parents.

What were they like, Sirius? he pictured himself asking.

And he lay, imagining Sirius's answers - details descriptions of James and Lily Potter would be given, and wonderful stories of adventures they'd all had when they were his age. 

Did they fall in love the first time they saw each other? Harry would ask.

Yes, Sirius would say, he imagined, and he'd tell Harry all about some fairy tale romance that would make Hermione swoon.

You said he'd be proud of me, Sirius, that night in the Shrieking Shack? You said he'd be proud? Harry would remind his godfather.

He would be, Harry, very proud, Sirius would answer. At least, Harry hoped that would be the answer...

When will the house be ready for us? Harry would press... and he'd tell Sirius about the horrid things that happened to him every summer at the Dursleys... and Sirius would say that he, Harry, never had to go back there ever again... and Christmas would be spent with Sirius. He pictured a house in some countryside somewhere, decked with holly and lights, and even though he reckoned there wouldn't be any presents under the tree, it didn't matter because Sirius would be there and he, Harry, would be, too, and maybe Professor Lupin, too... and they'd have a grand Christmas...

Harry fell asleep picturing it, picturing a warm fireplace and the smell of the tree...

But the dream turned to nightmares at some point in the dark, wee hours of the night, and Harry found himself filled with a high, cold laughter ringing in his head that he couldn't shake out. His skin was clammy and he peeled himself out of bed shakily, trying to be quiet, and slipped out of the door and down the steps to the common room, where he sat on the couch and made himself a cup of tea, staring at the hearth of the fireplace.

His and Ron's divination homework still lay on the table in front of the couch, having been too preoccupied by the arrival of Hedwig and the letter from Sirius to remember to bring it with them up to the dormitory. He stared at the ink on the parchment reflecting the orange flames of the fire and drew a deep breath.

It was selfish to want Sirius to come, he decided. Selfish to want that conversation, that Christmas, so much as to risk his godfather being caught by the Ministry. If they caught him, what then? He'd never have his godfather again. They'd kill him... kill him for something that Harry knew now without a doubt that Sirius Black would never, ever, ever have done.