The British Auror Office hadn't seen this level of activity in years. Every interrogation room was occupied, wall to wall: the Dark Lord had turned out to have so many "people" that the Aurors simply couldn't keep up. And then there was Karkaroff. When the slippery foreigner laid a list of nearly two hundred names on the table, the investigator almost swore out loud—this meant several more weeks of crisis-level work, assuming all those named didn't scatter. And scatter they would, because they weren't complete idiots. Which would make it the neighbouring department's problem. Though they might get drafted in to help, as reinforcement. And the management wouldn't give anyone a moment's rest—same as with Dumbledore's tip-offs. Karkaroff had been picked up on one of his little letters, and so quickly the man hadn't seen it coming.
And then the department head lost patience entirely, and everything became simple. Mark on the arm? Guilty. Grab them, interrogate, Azkaban. No exceptions, no arguments, no matter what anyone said.
Mr Fisher ran his eyes over the first few lines of the next page of Karkaroff's list and sighed. Of course. The Lestranges, all three, Crouch Jr. That was fine—no need to go chasing them, they were already on that well-known island. How long were they sentenced for? A year, he thought? Well, they hadn't actually killed anyone, so they'd probably be let out soon—unless someone dragged them back to check their Marks. If Marks were found, they'd go in for good. Yes, one did not want to cross the Iron Augusta. But trundling out to Azkaban personally to examine forearms? That was a job for someone else.
Mr Fisher marked the names with a quick Azkaban and relaxed. Then his eyes ran down the lists again, and he frowned.
Why the neighbouring department still couldn't find Snape was baffling—the man appeared on both lists. And there was a note from Dumbledore: notify him personally if located. What did "if" mean? Had the man left the country? On what? And what was so special about him that suddenly everyone wanted him—Dumbledore, Vol— the one who—? He was practically still a boy, even if he had handled their fifth-years impressively in a fight. Fisher remembered that; the older ones had run a book on who, whom, and when. Interesting where he'd vanished—surely someone hadn't done him in? Shouldn't have been easy—the lad was well trained. Lucky it wasn't their department's problem. Someone else could have the headache.
Mr Fisher had been putting his Sickles on Snape since sixth year and had won often enough that he felt a distinct warmth toward this Slytherin Gryffindor—how the Hat had managed to put him with the snakes, he'd never understood, the settings must have been off. Because what kind of Slytherin was that—a proper snake would have arranged for enemies to be picked off one by one, quietly, with no one the wiser. But not him—he fought, and he fought one against four. Well, good luck to him if they never found him.
Just yesterday Malfoy himself had walked in—if you please—shown his Mark voluntarily, claimed he'd received it involuntarily. Of course, they believed him. Especially after the substantial bag with the pleasant jingle. Naturally the poor man had been acting under the Imperius—why would one doubt it? All the more since, in exchange for an agreement that he would personally prepare his home for a search at a convenient time and that the name Malfoy would never appear in connection with the Dark Lord, someone had acquired a property on the Continent. It was good to be a department head.
It looked very much as though Malfoy had put the man on a retainer. He'd be watching Malfoy's interests personally from here on out. For a separate, quite reasonable fee.
Perhaps he should mention to the department head what Malfoy and Rookwood had been whispering about?
Though Rookwood—try getting anything out of those Unspeakables—had stated that he had been carrying out an assignment, the nature of which was classified, if you please. Quite the fearsome secret, when half the Ministry knew the Department of Mysteries had been tracking Parselmages. And the Dark Lord had hissed, everyone said so under questioning, so it was established fact.
There were quite a few questions for Dumbledore himself as well, but try summoning him. Though he too, like Malfoy, had come of his own accord—with that fatherly smile, talked for what felt like days, and in such a way that the entire department sat afterwards thinking slowly for a good two hours, and some didn't recover until end of day. And he did it himself, no artefact—they'd checked on entry, quietly, and twice more in the corridor. Oh, what a headache. Thinking through cotton wool. Forget it—all the reports were the same template anyway, and the rest could go hang.
And then, just when all the reports were finally done, this Pettigrew had to show up.
And not only did Rookwood—with a Mark!—continue sitting peacefully in the Department of Mysteries, but Black now had to be dragged back from Azkaban. Lucky they'd sent Wilkins.
Black, when they brought him in, was barely coherent—not quite biting, but close. Had to be cuffed again and his sleeve rolled up—and what a moment that was, when no Mark was found. Not on the other arm either. Not on the legs, same story.
Black himself could barely speak properly: he lunged, he snapped at people, he laughed in short sharp barks—and then he transformed into an enormous black dog and nearly made his escape. Good thing someone had put Colloportus on the door. Though oh, he did not get off lightly after that.
None of them did—the hell-hound bit everyone repeatedly before they got him under control. The department head even had his reputation briefly restored: he was the first to hit the dog with Petrificus, albeit from atop a wardrobe, but everyone else was inside their wardrobes, or on the curtain rails, and one poor soul even on the chandelier—how it held, nobody could say. So Black was wrapped up like a puppet and sent home via the fireplace in that condition, and the official record stated that the subject had denied all charges and no Mark had been found. Let the Wizengamot sort it out with Madam Walburga Black.
They had hoped that on arrival, when Black was unwrapped, everyone's attention would be elsewhere. A reasonable hope, as it turned out. At Grimmauld Place, number twelve, the release of the elder son from his restraints introduced entirely different priorities.
As for the actual case of Sirius Black—well, that required some work, as always.
"Who ran this case?" the department head went pale.
Understandably—no foreign property was going to protect anyone from an enraged Walburga Black. Better to find the responsible party themselves, or the lady would do the searching personally and it would be unpleasant for everyone. The entire department threw itself at the filing cabinets the moment the bite wounds were treated.
No file. As if it had never existed.
At this point the department head's hair went white. Well—it moved first, then went white. Because going to the Wizengamot over a matter like this, as everyone knew, meant immediate resignation afterward. Better to Avada yourself first. Dealing with people who carried those surnames was above their rank. And more to the point—above their capacity.
But the department head came back, to general astonishment, looking happy. Slightly drunk, even. As it turned out, there was no file at the court either. As though there had never been a trial. So—not their fault, not their department's. The arrest record at Azkaban did exist, signed by— Well. Those who signed it had been found. And what could one take from them? Memories? Here you are. The Pensieve footage—here. Of Black shouting that it was all his fault. All identical, more or less—just different camera angles. So a voluntary admission had been recorded and—who could be blamed for taking a man at his word?
As for who had made the arrest—they'd been abroad for some time, quite possibly in Antarctica by now. Cold there, of course, but some chance of survival at least.
Mr Fisher looked with mournful eyes at the map of the world, and at Cape Horn in particular, and sighed wistfully.
***
At home, the moment Sirius was freed from his restraints, he terrified everyone—from the house-elf and little Harry to his own distinguished mother, who one might have thought had seen enough by now. But it turned out she had no idea about her son's Animagus form. And at that moment, of all moments, an owl arrived for Hagrid—trouble at school, and not from the Headmaster but from McGonagall, who never bothered anyone over trifles. He had to go, much as he hated leaving them. Thank goodness the house-elf whisked Harry away immediately—the boy didn't even have time to cry—but being enthusiastically barked at in the face is a stressful experience for anyone, even a one-year-old. Surprising there was no accidental magic. Probably because Kreacher had Apparated the boy away so fast.
The dog was… very much a dog. Plus with particular quirks—growling at everyone, baring teeth at anyone who approached—but wagging his tail all the while. He even got into the bath himself, but since he wouldn't let anyone near him, someone had to follow him round mopping up the puddles and the mud he tracked across half the house. And he went to sleep in Sirius's bed. On his back. The teeth, incidentally—or perhaps consequently, depending on one's position—were such that no one wanted to get close, including his brother and mother.
Sirius would only eat after thorough sniffing, and not at the table, so the bowl had to go on the floor. Walburga couldn't find words—she was nearly silent the entire time, and only Regulus could draw anything out of her. She was suffering.
Despite the teeth and the temper, the dog didn't attack anyone—not even Snape, though Snape fully expected it and walked around with his wand ready. After approximately the two hundred and something-th bark, even he just sighed and shrugged—yes, clearly, Azkaban was contraindicated for Sirius Black. He didn't put the wand away, though. But that was less about Sirius himself and more about one of his old friends—Lupin had given the dog a good shake by the scruff when he'd lunged at his mother.
Sirius didn't seem to recognise anyone properly. The only one who could communicate with him was Remus, and only in animal form. If you could call communal howling at the moon—or at a streetlamp—communication. And thank goodness for Hagrid's foresight in bringing the werewolf in advance; without him, the house might have been uninhabitable. As it was, they howled together in the back courtyard, ate from the same bowl, and slept. Sirius slept, that is; Lupin went back to the Weasleys via the fireplace, in human form, apologising to the household first, naturally. Who could have imagined. The lady tended to make herself scarce during these exchanges.
Hagrid, meanwhile, had been occupied for three days running settling some matter in his forest—centaurs, dryads, or something else. And there was no porridge, naturally—the milk wasn't exactly something you could stockpile, there wasn't enough of it. So the inhabitants of Grimmauld Place were waiting for Hagrid more eagerly than manna from heaven—metaphorically speaking, since none of them had much experience of the literal article.
***
"Grr— Woof!" Sirius greeted Hagrid the moment he appeared from the fireplace. And not only "woof"—he tried to bite as well, apparently having decided to guard the house after all, with Lupin not nearby to stop him.
"Sit!" Andrei barked, in a voice considerably better suited to the purpose than any dog's—his lungs had certain advantages. He turned to the others, who had come running to help—though it was unclear who needed help from whom. "Why isn't anyone treating him?" He moved toward the dog, nodding at the household members. "Good evening."
The dog sat back, looking almost embarrassed, and regarded the gamekeeper's dishevelled beard with wariness. Andrei scratched his beard, then his head—the forest encounters had left traces in his hair—and addressed Sirius directly:
"Well. What are we going to do with you?"
The dog whimpered and pressed himself against the wall.
"Have you tried Finite?" he asked Walburga and Regulus. "What's Snape brewing for the poor wretch?"
At the mention of his old enemy's name, Sirius began to growl—but found a fist in front of his nose. No measurement was required. He understood immediately that biting was not an option. Not with that jaw.
"We've tried," Regulus sighed. "He's actually better this way. Won't touch potions of any kind—not even Mother's." He looked questioningly at Hagrid.
Andrei shook his head—he hadn't had time for the porridge, or even the milk, and said so. Walburga sighed and left the room.
The dog tried to growl again.
"Well then, friend—St Mungo's it is," Andrei announced, and looked at Sirius.
"Woof!"
"We're going to make a human being out of you," Andrei said, spreading his hands, and glanced at the door through which Lady Black had disappeared—he couldn't remember the last time she'd been this quiet. "Something has to be done!"
The dog snarled, and then Andrei understood why Sirius wasn't at St Mungo's already—he dodged spells faster than they could be thought of, faster than either Hagrid or Regulus could react. Getting hold of him was impossible—the fur slipped through one's hands, and there was no collar, naturally. Brute force was the only remaining option. Meaning: catching him mid-leap, like a goalkeeper taking a ball. With one's body.
When Andrei stood up holding a slightly dazed, dishevelled, and firmly wrapped furry "infant"—in what had been an expensive curtain, or rather its remains—Snape finally appeared. As though he'd been waiting for the situation to be safe. In fact, as it turned out, he'd simply been finishing a potion. A new one, improved. Calming, but flavoured and scented like sausage. Severus conveyed this information while handing over the bottle, his expression entirely beyond description. The "infant," coming round, began sniffing actively, and Andrei, without hesitation, poured the entire contents straight into the open muzzle, and when the dog went limp and began to snore, gave Snape a thumbs-up. He did not, however, unwrap the curtain.
And so Sirius Black was delivered to St Mungo's, and installed in a private ward.
***
As it turned out, no one at St Mungo's was particularly keen to keep him. Not because they didn't want to treat him—they very much did, and both Lady Black and her purse were more than persuasive—but simply because all known treatments had been exhausted, and experimental ones didn't exist yet. Forced return to human form had been achieved, but the result was considerably worse: Sirius remained internally a dog, and looking at him was—no, better not to look.
"Normal people don't behave like that," Regulus whispered, turning away from the observation window and blinking rapidly.
"Normal dogs don't either, to be fair," Smethwick sighed. "We have no further ideas for treatment. I'm sorry."
And then it struck Andrei.
"What if someone— I mean, he was a dog, running around everywhere, got into a scrap, and something that wasn't quite right bit him? Do you have anything here for, er, rabies?"
The Healers spread their hands.
"Then I'm taking him," Hagrid declared.
The Healers offered some token resistance, but so halfheartedly that it was clear they were nearly ready to pay Walburga to take the boy off their hands. And Andrei already had ideas. With Regulus's permission, he collected the elder Black that same day, took him back to the cottage, and got to work.
Fang, incidentally, had gone into hiding—Black had frightened him too, at first.
And the Muggle vaccine worked. The dog went through a rough time—considerable sickness, at length—amounting to a thorough internal rinse, and when the last few swallows of water—from the dryad's spring—finally stayed down, Andrei began making the porridge.
The following morning he found a bewildered young man on the dog's bed on the floor, staring around at his surroundings.
"Sirius."
"What?" He looked up sharply—and the gesture was entirely human. Entirely normal. "Where am I? What— what happened?"
"Visiting me. Come on—give me a hand with something, and we can talk on the way. Let me just send word to your mother that you're better. You are better, aren't you?"
"I— yes." He nodded slowly. "Mother. You're— She actually talks to you?"
"What a mother won't do for a beloved son," Andrei said drily.
"Beloved?" Sirius looked startled. "Me? Come off it."
"A grown man should probably understand by now that loving your children can sometimes be difficult. Particularly certain children."
"How do you—"
"Eat your breakfast and let's go." Andrei pushed a bowl of porridge in front of Sirius.
"This?" He grimaced. "For breakfast?"
"For today!" Hagrid's brows drew together. "I don't run a restaurant here, and you've got your treatment to work off."
"What treatment?"
"Mine. St Mungo's doesn't do veterinary work, as it happens."
"Veteri—what?" Sirius brought the spoon to his mouth and didn't notice his hand carrying on by itself.
"Animal medicine. In case you've forgotten, you were so thoroughly stuck in your other form that when they changed you back, you stayed a dog. Inside, that is. Not a pleasant sight, I'll tell you."
Sirius sat in silence, attempting to process this information while simultaneously processing the porridge. The porridge appeared to assist. Andrei studied his eyes carefully—finally clear, finally human, with even a glimmer of actual thought behind them. And the thought was—
"What have I done?" Sirius said.
"Oh— quite a lot. I'll tell you. Forest first."
"Ah—working off the treatment. How, and for how long?"
"You've still got the nose, haven't you?"
Sirius nodded.
"Track one unknown creature—where it came from, where it went—and we're square."
"That's easy enough." He shook his head, then paused. "Actually— could I wash? And wait—who changed my clothes?"
"Your brother. There's water in the barrel under the lean-to. You can have a proper bath at home. Come on."
"My brother. He's alive?"
"You don't remember that either?"
"Home—" Sirius shook his head, then shuddered.
"You're not actually afraid, are you?"
Sirius went red and clenched his fists.
"Oh, and another thing, you great hairy idiot—you'll have to register now. As an Animagus."
"Lovely. Thanks for that."
"As for what you put everyone through— they practically had to dig you out of Azkaban with their bare hands."
"I sort of remember that. What was I even in for?"
"For nothing—which is precisely why they let you out. They brought you back by the scruff of your neck. Right, come on." Andrei handed Sirius a towel.
The walk in the forest was long, as was the conversation—or rather Hagrid's account of events. Sirius flared up at various points, especially at the name Pettigrew, but within the bounds of reason now.
Rabies, or something like it, I reckon, Andrei thought. Something bit him, or he ate something bad. Walburga said it all got much worse after fourth year—that lines up.
Sirius, tired now but no longer tempted to transform, sniffed the air.
"Hang on. What kind of snake is this?"
"Snake, you say? How recent?" Andrei went still. He already had a theory about what this creature might be.
"Not very—a few days, at least."
"Which direction did it go?"
Sirius gave him a look—and there he was, on four paws, alert and focused.
"We need to get to where it came out."
The enormous black dog gave an understanding nod, and they set off at an unhurried pace, following a trail that time had already made difficult to read.