A gray-haired old man with a flowing beard, wearing lilac robes scattered with bright twinkling stars, watched the sunset from his office window. Scarlet clouds seemed flowing like volcanic lava—slow, fluid, merciless. Fire spilled across half the sky, molten gold giving way to blood-red lines. Slow and disturbing.
The molten lava reminded him of the most terrible moment of his life—when it flowed through his veins, burning out his strength, his magic... seemingly his very life. Hogwarts... How much strength, how many years he'd laid on its altar. But it still hadn't forgiven him. Not then, in seventy-five. Not now.
The old man still flinched remembering how he'd raced to the Shrieking Shack, already understanding he wouldn't prevent anything.
He'd been too late. The situation wasn't saved by him, the headmaster, but by a simple student. Though he'd sworn to protect students on school grounds—which included all adjacent places. The stadium. The road and field toward Hogsmeade. The lakeside by the castle. Even part of the Forbidden Forest.
Dumbledore was certain the oath didn't extend to the village itself.
Understanding that having a werewolf at school during full moon and adjacent days actually threatened students' lives, he'd searched quite fastidiously for a suitable isolation location. Close to school but definitely not on grounds where he was responsible for student life and health. Dragging a werewolf to Hogsmeade was also impossible—too frequented a place, and not just because of the nearby school. They'd hear. Notice. Find out...
So Dumbledore chose the Shrieking Shack as prison for the werewolf during his most dangerous time. Right on the border, next to the Forbidden Forest—this place by all calculations shouldn't be under his responsibility.
He'd miscalculated. Miscalculated badly. So his magic tore itself apart.
The werewolf—quiet, conscientious, clever boy—didn't differ from peers except for yellow eyes. But this defect with his meek behavior didn't raise suspicions even among quite observant Hogwarts professors. The headmaster believed that with Remus Lupin, unfortunate son of his old friend who'd fought his dark side since childhood and practically won, he could begin a new era in werewolf history.
Then instead of those terrible medieval clans ruled by brute force, there'd be civilized, carefully guarded reservations where werewolves would spend those three days of the lunar cycle. All other times they could live among wizards as... as their younger brothers. And all the most dangerous would be under surveillance—meaning they couldn't spread their infection further.
Main thing—they'd all accept the Light and learn fighting and controlling their beasts. And Remus Lupin would become the first example. This would be a breakthrough, an even greater achievement than imprisoning Grindelwald. What's to say—he'd simply saved him then... Gellert even paid with the Elder Wand.
Fortunately no real witnesses to the "great victory" existed. Finding new ones was so simple! Chasing sensation, no magical journalist would refuse taking an oath. And composing the right text—Albus always knew how. None would go against someone offering them fame and recognition.
The Great Light wizard knew perfectly well what he owed Gellert—he'd drawn attention to Albus's talents, helped develop observation and ability to "read people." He'd also worked on perfecting his young friend's oratory talent, which that friend then independently brought practically to perfection. When Albus Dumbledore spoke, people couldn't help believing. Magic had absolutely nothing to do with it.
True, the headmaster knew it didn't work equally on everyone. Some after a while wondered how much his interpretations matched reality. So he needed Hogwarts specifically—work on reducing critical thinking, not yet developed due to age, over seven years when his words constantly reached children. This would be a generation he'd raise himself. And they'd do everything necessary to turn magical Britain onto the right path. What exactly to do, he'd explain in due time.
He'd prepared long, tried on, tested—individually, on separate persons. Trained. Watched. Studied. He gathered statistics. And now those very children he'd bet on would graduate in two or three years. And one of them would be a werewolf. Excellent student. Prefect. His nature would be revealed later, at diploma receipt. That would be a demonstration day!
The Supreme Mugwump dreamed and brought his dreams to life. The little werewolf studied the whole five years. Nobody except three most trusted friends suspected anything. And today wild howling reached from that very shack all the way to the castle.
It was a catastrophe. His undertakings, his dreams, his success—already within arm's reach—crossed out by one single Gryffindor's action. Who actually belonged in Slytherin. Better yet in Azkaban. All because of him and the feud between the Marauder quartet and one Slytherin.
Who incidentally got off surprisingly easy with just a few scars. Not even from teeth but merely claws. But survived and gave an excellent opportunity for payback. Because the "some headmaster's" hands didn't reach the Blacks—not that family. And he couldn't touch the Potters' son either. They were too necessary—few of the indigenous British mages he was close with.
But the headmaster hated all five simply for trembling, though wouldn't admit it even to himself. After all, if Black hadn't egged on Snape, who himself seemed asking for it with his inappropriate friendship with Evans... if he'd managed intervening before James... if Pettigrew had warned him, the headmaster, in time...
When he finally regained consciousness, gathering body and mind piece by piece like a broken puzzle-doll, caught his breath and managed to sit up, the first thing he checked was magic. And when instead of a powerful light sphere in response to his Lumos the wand released some pitiful firefly, he didn't believe his eyes. The first moment he was ready to die. He wasn't even breathing...
But this couldn't last long. The body made a convulsive breath itself. With first air came thoughts... That he couldn't, had no right refusing everything he'd earned all this time. His authority. Knowledge. Wisdom. Couldn't, however much it hurt and scared him—like his very soul had been amputated.
Then he started learning to live with it. Great defeat of the strongest Dark wizard. Head of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump... Squib. Well, almost squib. These titles proved his insurance, his lifeline—because nobody could even imagine he was no longer a mage.
He'd always been clever and probably not wrongly considered himself a genius. Because he quickly learned to manage those around him so subtly and precisely, that ability to do everything through others' hands grew into art. First was Minerva... Then that same quintet—they had to fix everything eventually! And that "for company" he had to extend influence to a couple more dozen mages proved the most useful experience.
Otherwise he had to become a politician phenomenally juggling public opinion, and an eccentric wizard. For him it became habitual appearing everywhere with his Phoenix—carrying its master instead of Apparition. Saying strange things. Using tricks. Robes of crazy colors created by a pair of talented Chinese mages. Funny but comfortable Eastern slippers. Image was if not everything then very, very much.
Knowledge of human psychology helped. Oratory talent saved him in most difficult situations. His ability to read people by face, gestures and micro-movements was considered the highest level Legilimency—wandless and nonverbal. And he immediately noted those who feared looking in his eyes... For some reason most proved from pureblood families. Then he suspected a certain flaw, then became completely certain of it.
Only that very Elder Wand gave him the ability to produce barely the simplest spells. That proved sufficient. And surprisingly, it also worked on a couple complex ones—Legilimens and Obliviate. Worked so that no shields held, and amulets strangely didn't trigger. In those moments he felt like a mage again. Refusing to use them one extra time was extraordinarily difficult. But he managed. He held himself together for the great goal—peaceful coexistence of mages and magical creatures serving them, cooperation with Muggles, general equality and... glory. Deserved glory for whoever would lead Britain to this.
They respected him. They even started fearing him—even those initially on his side... He had to find how to soften the situation the fastest. Helped the image of an old eccentric mage from a long-ago-read Muggle book: grandpa loves fun, grandpa is the bastion of Light, grandpa loves everyone and is ready to give each a second chance.
Not immediately, but he understood that in his position appeared some other curious peculiarities. For example, Hogwarts magic no longer affected him... And he arranged quite an interesting life for all those who'd so easily ruined his undertaking.
First he bound the Gryffindor quartet to himself as tightly as possible. Couple months later they literally hung on his words. Except Black—apparently family amulets worked conscientiously. But how interesting it was with a few hints to sharpen the teenager's relationship with the powerful and categorical Walburga! And the rest the teenager striving for independence finished himself—handed family amulets right into the esteemed headmaster's hands. Life became more interesting...
Under his leadership formed the core of a small but quite workable organization. True, far from all its members knew they were its employees. He set them precisely against Tom who was gaining strength. Then he felt how annoying it was losing carefully prepared pieces, especially strong ones. But how interesting—even a pawn can checkmate a king! And if there are many pawns?..
Tom stressed him most. When Tom just started unfolding his activity, Albus understood a strong competitor appeared. And not just a competitor. Tom Riddle never particularly respected authorities and perhaps could expose the Supreme Mugwump's pretense. More precisely, was probably the only one who'd even think of such. And allowing this was impossible under any circumstances.
And methods used by Riddle became dirtier and dirtier. Compared to him Albus felt almost saintly. He didn't know how many Horcruxes Tom made, but that "Lord Voldemort" definitely had mental problems was evidenced even by the little name itself.
He'd had outbursts of unmotivated aggression before—back at school, Albus remembered well... But standing against a powerful wizard himself? Please, he knew less painful ways to part with life. Yes, he must live—that's his duty! After all, who then will show magical Britain the right path? And he started developing the great Plan.
Then so incredibly successfully managed staging Sybill's prophecy, immediately followed by his successful revenge, then—ten years of waiting. And their result: a boy small for his years, quite strange but fortunately quite trainable.
James got a quick and humane death—Avada causing no pain, not affecting the afterlife. He could leave nobly and beautifully, without blood, without a pain-distorted face. Handsome Potter, favorite Potter...
Thanks to Pettigrew, Albus finally managed to get to Black—for which the last Marauder's life was preserved. Though spending ten years in a cage at the Weasleys for educational purposes wasn't Azkaban of course... but considering twin brothers, hardly a sinecure. So the headmaster felt no particular guilt—the real criminal didn't escape punishment, even if nobody knew.
With Snape turned out best of all of course, so he even started taking direct part in his fate. Having broken him, he was given a crutch—warmed under his wing, feeling somewhere deep down his guilt but not agreeing with it. And the boy, must give him credit, proved very, very useful—especially as a potioneer. After losing magic Dumbledore himself couldn't brew potions at all.
It was so simple convincing the barely-understanding-anything Snape he was given a second chance. Quite easy making the Weasleys believe faithful service to the Light's cause would remove the betrayal seal. And simultaneously see that Ron was still seventh, and timely limit the boy's potential. True, the old man wasn't very strong in runes—they stubbornly eluded him. But for such he even went so far as ordering at his own expense.
And had to work on James's son too—back then, right after Tom's disembodiment. Alas, because of the limiting ritual Harry Potter could never become a strong mage to oppose You-Know-Who. But the legend was already composed. Remaining, making the Horcrux's destruction in Harry coincide with Riddle's death. He'd find who would ensure this. Same Arthur. Or Snape. Or old Alastor. Or... he already had a dozen candidates to choose from.
Politics and intrigues proved his second magic, second life. Pulled him in so that his loss turned into a series of adventures—for those who understand chess well. Albus adored this game. Maybe that's why he couldn't "take away" the Weasley boy's inclination for it... The bastion of Light must leave something light to a child, even obligated!
Look—someday there'll be an opportunity to play a game or two with him. For a small request. He was completely confident in winning. But he so wanted to play with a worthy partner. And for some reason they became fewer and fewer.
He'd long stopped paying attention to particulars—he believed in himself, in his infallible intuition. No joke—remaining the universally respected Supreme Mugwump in the position he'd found himself. Albus more and more inwardly laughed at all other mages—after almost two decades passed... He was proud of himself. Magical Britain was at his feet, even quietly hissing aristocrats.
He liked this hissing—sign of powerlessness, sign of submission. Rebels either stay silent or shout. He'd studied their habits back with Gellert. Ah, how he wanted to go to Nurmengard and boast! Maybe when Tom Riddle perished he'd do it, though... For his freedom Gel would give him up without thinking.
And the child still needed teaching. And though Snape overdid it, the boy should be given at least one chance. Dumbledore felt sad looking at him—doomed, weak, understanding nothing. He'd warmed him as he could but didn't focus attention on him. No point getting attached to the child of prophecy. Let him know nothing much longer, all the way to the very end. He'd planned to take another oath from Snape to oblige him, revealing everything to Harry at year's end. But reconsidered—decided to wait a couple more years.
He remembered conducting the ritual, how the runes responded then—to him, a squib! The wand worked at full power, meaning he was right. But perhaps it was the influence of that very Peverell blood flowing in Harry? And this was all to preserve a descendant's life—at any cost? There were no answers. But the Peverells were dark. Meaning Harry Potter was worth observing just in case. In different conditions.
For this he organized Sirius Black's escape, sending Fawkes after the dog. For this he escalated fear about the "dangerous criminal" how and where he could. Even reached Muggles, convincing Fudge of the necessity. Gave the Weasleys an assignment.
He hoped Harry would show his true side when meeting his godfather.
And now the Mordred-damned dog disappeared, who knows where!
* * *
Sirius, from the perspective of a purebred English Bulldog, was thriving. Clear feeding schedule, walks and training. First-class meat in his bowl. Tasty crackers... He'd calmed down, learned running stairs deftly and even jumping obstacles. More than that—jumping he actually enjoyed. Didn't let him get bored and think much about his godson. He considered he was fulfilling Harry's wishes precisely.
His trainer, a young man hired by Marjorie Dursley to assist her permanent handler, couldn't stop marveling at the dog.
"He's simply a genius!" He gushed. "Imagine—execute any command on the first try! Just look! Charlie, heel!"
The young bulldog immediately appeared by his left leg and looked questioningly.
"See? Sit, Charlie."
The dog sat.
"Down."
The dog lay down.
"Stand."
The dog jumped happily to his paws.
"And how he works on retrieve!"
Marge knew. She'd come watching more than once and also couldn't stop marveling.
Sirius Black silently bore the assigned penance. It wasn't that difficult. Human consciousness fortunately didn't leave him, despite the body enthusiastically welcoming simple canine joys. And with what pleasure he rushed after the plastic disc, now the heavier wooden thing people for some reason called identically: "Fetch!"
He'd grown healthy and strong, built muscle. Movements became light and confident. Coordination—excellent.
But meat... Every time looking at a full bowl, he dreamed of a well-done steak. And of course tried sneaking into the house, which succeeded quite often. Only the kitchen was taboo for all dogs, even for him—the mistress's first favorite.
So one day, unable to resist, he appeared in the dining room. He was surprised to hear a conversation about him. Well, about himself as Charlie of course.
"Well then, he's grown strong and perhaps reached the best form for his age." Miss Dursley said thoughtfully. "I propose you start working on showing stance."
"Yes, of course. It's simply happiness working with such a smart dog. You'll see—he'll become a star not just in your kennel!"
"I hope so, Hudson."
"Then I'll start today."
"Excellent."
"What are you doing here?" Marge addressed the dog.
He sniffed in response. Smelled like bacon... Bit fatty, but he'd wanted just a bacon sandwich for so long! He approached the table and looked expressively at his "mistress."
She laughed:
"What, they don't feed you? A dog's food should be balanced—not fatty, not salty and definitely not hot... What do you want? A muffin? Charlie, this is ultimately indecent. Dogs shouldn't..."
Sirius patiently listened to what proper dogs shouldn't and should eat. Inside his body some vibration was building. When Marge finished her lecture, a quite menacing growl escaped his muzzle.
"Oh rea-ally?! Hudson, we'll have to punish him."
"Uh... But he hasn't done anything yet."
Sirius tilted his head surprised. Then... contemptuously turned his rear and sat. After which lay down, sighing especially heart-rendingly.
"Charlie..." Marge changed tone. "Charlie, you understood everything? Well forgive me..."
He turned his head and looked at her.
"Merciful Lord... He looks so much like young Vernon right now! That's my brother," Marge commented. "When we quarreled, he'd turn on me exactly like this."
Immediately turned back to the dog, making a tender face.
"You're my offended boy... I'll definitely think of something to please you."
The dog sighed once more.
"Maybe give him bacon? Still that's more suitable for a dog. Or here's an egg—we add them to puppies, could try..."
The dog already stood next to his trainer and devotedly looked at... the table.
"What to do with you, Hudson. Give a couple pieces but no more. Take that bowl over there... Especially since you're working with him differently today."
A few minutes later Sirius, satisfied from tail to ears, was demolishing the omelet with bacon. Life was beautiful.
A couple hours later the run-out dog was puzzled by a strange new exercise. They told him to stand still, then moved his hind legs back slightly and waved... looked like a cracker but smelled—of bacon!
Sirius tucked his hind legs and jumped...
Again... and again.
Next day too.
The trainer groaned, tore his hair. Sirius just couldn't grasp what was required. And mainly—why. The stupid trainer could at least say, but—no!
* * *
"Dismiss me, Miss Dursley! I'm not coping." Mr. Hudson wilted and added: "I can't convey to the smartest dog why he needs to stand in such an uncomfortable pose."
"What exactly have you tried?"
Sirius had long known where he could spend time with maximum benefit—behind the thick curtain by the window near the dining room. All interesting things he learned precisely there. Now he listened to the dialogue, gradually realizing what was what.
Of course the handler's assistant wanted to work with the wonderfully smart dog himself. But after several days he couldn't get anything from him, had to admit—the dog would have to be transferred to another, experienced one... This was real grief for the young man. But tell the dog everything? About shows, about rings, about requirements for dogs and these, damn it, correct poses? Didn't even occur to him.
But the dog eavesdropped. Sirius felt sorry for his partner—that's precisely how he perceived his trainer. And when toward evening they introduced him to another, quite respectable man with a gray mustache, somewhat resembling Vernon only miniature—refused working with him. Just sat and sat. Didn't snap, didn't bark. When he got finally fed up with everything, lay down, trying to express his attitude.
Marge sighed. Trip dates kept approaching. They still couldn't move to the most important thing. So she started talking with the dog. What's to say—Sirius learned masses of new things... and far from all pleased him.
"Imagine if your puppies turn out just as smart—we'll have world fame, right, doggie?"
Huh?.. Puppies? Mine?!
Sirius had never been so close to failure... Helped initially that from horror his throat seized with terrible spasm. Then human thinking kicked in after all.
Madam, drilling her gaze somewhere into distance as if seeing the future with her own eyes, poured on about how they'd bring the most noble and beautiful brides to her kennel. How she'd choose the very best from the whole world for her Charlie.
This is fate, thought miserable Sirius. Apparently written for me... What Mother, what... And even here!
A completely unhappy dog sprawled on the floor and seemingly considered whether to bang his head on it. But then the phone rang. The mistress, never even glancing at her pet, went to answer and didn't return soon.
Poor Sirius couldn't fall asleep long, imagining, hmm, "pleasant prospects."
Well fine, he finally decided. She said a minimum of three shows, all on the continent. Can try escaping there. Or ha! Once, don't drink Polyjuice. That would be a gorgeous joke!
Sense of humor alas proved the most difficult-to-train part of Sirius Black. So he sincerely rejoiced at his plan...