All the Young Dudes ( Sirius' Perspective )

Reunion

How you turn my world you precious thing

You starve and near-exhaust me

Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you

I move the stars for no one

You’ve run so long

You’ve run so far

Your eyes can be so cruel

Just as I can be so cruel

Oh, I do believe in you

Yes I do…

Padfoot dragged the boy down the tunnel, jaws holding fast even as he struggled. He dug his teeth in, tasting blood—some part of him registered, absently, that the boy was innocent; that he shouldn’t be involved in any of this. But he had Wormtail in his pocket, and Sirius had waited far too long for this opportunity. There would have to be some collateral damage.

The Weasley boy flailed, hooking his leg around a clump of roots. Padfoot growled, heaving—there was a sickening snap.

The boy screamed.

Padfoot ignored it.

The rat, the rat—kill the rat—

He hauled the boy all the way to the Shack, dragging him up the stairs, to the room with Remus’s old cot. He was very pale now, and moaning, one leg sticking out at an unnatural angle. Padfoot didn’t release him until they’d reached the middle of the room, and the boy scrambled back, going for his wand—in an instant, Padfoot was on him, wrenching the stick from his grasp.

And then he was human, and for the first time in twelve long years, he had a wand again.

“You!” The Weasley boy gasped, face contorting in pain as he dragged himself further away. Sirius allowed it, stepping back into a shadowy corner of the room.

“Quiet!” He hissed, sharply, pointing the wand. The boy’s mouth snapped shut. He was shaking.

Sirius waited, head cocked, listening…

After a few moments, the cat darted into the room, hopping up onto the cot. It settled down and curled into a ball, purring loudly and clearly very satisfied with its work. The Weasley boy watched it, brow furrowed in confusion—then his face twisted in horror, as the door to the room burst open and Harry dashed through with his wand raised high. His other friend followed behind him, her wild mane of hair flying around her shoulders as she ran.

They caught sight of their injured friend immediately, rushing towards him.

“Ron—are you okay?”

“Where’s the dog?”

“Not a dog,” the Weasley boy—Ron—hissed through gritted teeth, face white with pain. “Harry, it’s a trap—”

“What—”

“He’s the dog—he’s an Animagus—”