Y/n Cordelia Granger lived a happy but simple life in the suburbs of London with her parents and younger sister, Hermione, until her 11th birthday. As the day's sun beamed overhead, the young girl was covered in its light that glimmered with the pro...
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The Gryffindor students were all asleep in the Great Hall under its magical sky of stars. Even the counterfeit sky that's stars were covered by stormy clouds shaded with grays and blues reflected the gloom atmosphere.
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There was a scattering of sleeping bags hastily transformed from other items in the rush to find them a suitable place to sleep. Students were crammed together on the cold floor where dining tables usually sat. Teachers were huddled together at the head of the hall near the ornate doors trying to figure out what to do.
Sirius Black, escaped murderer of dozens of muggles and traitor to the Potters at large, had broken into Hogwarts and slashed the portrait hole to Gryffindor's common to bits and all of the staff were scrambling to deal with the fallout.
It was clear Black was angry, livid emphasized by the jagged outlines his knife had made. But far more terrifying than that, than simple anger, was his determination.
Anger was an accessible emotion. Anger was something many people felt. The way it coursed through one's veins and reddened the vision was known by many. But determination was rare. It was powerful. That resolve was found not from hatred, but from a debilitating need. One that would kill your very soul to not complete.
That is what Sirius Black had more than rage. In all the centuries it had existed, there had not been a soul alive that had broken out of the wailing halls of Azakaban. He escaped because he had a reason that would've eaten him alive to not see through.
The students of Hogwarts had not a single doubt in their mind that he was coming to finish the job that he started on October 31, 1981 and take whoever else he could with him.
They whispered, struggled with sleep, tossed and turned, and closed their eyes only to be forced with the reflection of their own mortality.
Y/n could see it in the way their eyes were clenched tightly in their sleep like they were trying to will away an image. She could sense it in the furrowed eyebrows and the way the Gryffindor students' faces were pinched together. Each unconscious adjustment and turn was an indicator of the fear creeping in their bones.
