Chapter Text
The two exterior walls... well, they're not there anymore. The roof collapsed, the scattered debris still smoking as if a muggle bomb just exploded there, and only the weak Lumos he had cast as soon as he desperately apparated here is lighting up the horrifying view in front of him. But Sirius can't grieve, not right now, not for James -his body broken at the bottom of the stairs right behind him- and not for Lily -her form carelessly sprawled on the floor, like a puppet with no strings.
He'll grieve after his vengeance.
Pete, fucking traitor.
His well-cured nails were stabbing half-moons into the palm of his hand in sheer frustration. Painfully.
This is the same room where he'd slept as Padfoot not even a month ago, leaving it filled with his Animagus' form messy fur. Lily had been completely livid - and now it's only a hole under the stars, and creepy shadows on the ruined floral upholstery.
There's no rain, even if it's cloudy, and in the distance, muggle first-aid lights -those strange red and blue machines- were starting to appear.
Fortunately, the uncontrollable want to search for Peter and brutally kill him was the only thing holding his mind at the moment, numbing the pain and desperation that would surely take control otherwise. And many spells of the Black Library seem suitable for the deed right now, maybe something like a blood-boiling curse. Something morbid, something that his Grandfather Arcturus would've considered a 'just retribution to the enemies of House Black'.
After all, what the rat has done is unforgivable, and Sirius is going to make him pay for... for it, for everything. Did he and James and Remus ever treat him less than a brother, a fellow marauder? And this is how they get repaid?
Oh Merlin, Moony, I'm so sorry.
An unnamed gloomy sensation was starting to grow inside his chest.
Why did we make the change of Secret Keepers? Shit, I can defend myself better than anyone else in the Order, and I would've died before revealing any information. Why did we?
You should've listened to the headmaster, the feeble voice in the back of his head reminded him again.
And 'Why?' is practically the only thought that's been going through his mind for the last five minutes, as he stood unmoving in the middle of the destroyed room. But the answer is that Sirius trusted Peter, as the entire Order of the Phoenix did, and that no one ever thought he could be the spy.
Too ordinary, too weak, the traitor.
His wand agrees, the cherry wood shaking. It wants blood.
...
Then why isn't he immediately starting to follow the rat? Before he loses the already small chances of keeping up with him?
"Padfoo'," the reason immediately babbled back from the half-destroyed crib, raising her puny chubby arms towards him with wet and pleading sea-green eyes. A red, swollen scar on her forehead calls for attention, under that messy brown hair so incredibly similar to James'. She's also wearing that cute pink onesie Moony gifted her for her first birthday, the one with the Dog constellation drawn on it, and her legs still rest under a woollen blanket. It's an incredibly stark contrast to her surroundings.
But thank Morgana she's alive because prophecy or no prophecy if something had happened to her not one finger would've remained of the rat after Sirius finished with him.
He can't even watch her without feeling tears gathering in the corner of his eyes and his breath coming shorter.
And where's Voldemort? There's no disapparition trail out of here matching the power of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. But Lily's signal was that one specifically designed by her for the Dark Lord himself, and she wouldn't have cast the wrong spell. Besides, this room reeks of exceptionally dark magic. Everything from Harriet's toys under the shattered shelves to the rotting, charred wooden remains of the caved in door is coated in sick and nauseating residual traces. Something's not right, but now it's not the time to investigate. Little Prongslette will need a check-up from Poppy, that's for sure, to at least understand what happened and to confirm she's well. There's no hint she's not, but better leave no doubt.
His free hand anxiously tugged at his hair, his feet begging to move, his every muscle tense.
Shit, what to do? What to do?
Meanwhile, the clock kept ticking relentlessly, there was not much time left, and the feral part of him was howling for blood.
He stepped back. Dumbledore would surely come here with the entire Order in tow, no doubts about that, and maybe even Remus -at least if he already came back from his mission- would be with him. They could protect Harriet while he's away. Yet this place could very quickly become a war zone, with many Death-eaters on the way. He can't leave a little girl -his little girl, now, he's her Godfather- alone here, even with the near certainty that the only Wizard that the Dark Lord ever feared was going to arrive here in mere moments. And yet Sirius cannot let himself wait here, cannot let the traitor run farther away.
And Voldemort? Where is he? It doesn't make any sense. Maybe the headmaster will have some theories about it, but Sirius can easily report everything he just saw after Pettigrew is safely dealt with.
And after all, there is something he can do.
Surely not the best idea he's ever had, but it can work, temporarily.
"Kreacher!" Sirius exclaimed, and with a loud and neat cracking noise, the old and hunched down house-elf immediately appeared in front of him, clad in its usual filthy rags.
"The traitor has called for Kreacher, after all these years?" It muttered, switching between some undoubtedly judging gazes at the ruined Potter's cottage and the loathing look Sirius knows so well, aimed at his rightful master.
Still the same foul being from his childhood.
The black-haired man knows it's not a very good solution, but an incredibly thorough order will probably work, for Orion and Walburga Black, his parents, are dead, and Grimmauld Place, even if dangerous, is empty. And Voldemort would never think of searching for Harriet there, and even if he did, he would unquestionably have a hard time overpowering the ancestral wards, -some of the best of entire magical Britain- and with Sirius knowing it immediately.
I have to do this. Peter has to pay.
The smallest Potter was still watching him, fussing and wiggling her chubby hands, clearly wanting to be held.
Yet Sirius turned to his family's servant.
"You will listen to me in silence, am I clear?" And with him being Lord Black, never disowned by his father, the elf can only bow and nod.
"This is Harriet Potter, Dorea's blood," he said, watching his goddaughter, as Kreacher muttered something about mudbloods, "you will bring her to Grimmauld Place. You will treat her and care for her as if she was an heir of House Black."
Ok, good, she'll be safe there, and as soon as I'm done, I'll immediately pick her up and bring her to my home in Worcestershire.
"She's not to be taken out of the house, ever, and you'll put her in Regulus' old room," he then added after a short pause, cringing at the thought of every dark and dangerous artefact hidden in the dark corners of his family ancestral mansion.
He's doing this for her, avenging the parents she'll never know because a coward took them from her.
The damn elf snorted, but didn't talk back.
"You will not contact any other member of House Black, dead or alive," Sirius kept on talking, "nor take or carry out any order, old or new, that contradicts this one."
Very clear orders, with no loopholes.
"If they call to you, you will not directly or obliquely reveal anything about Harriet, the orders I gave you, or what you saw here this evening. You will just care for her and wait for me, meanwhile going on with your duties, am I clear?"
"The traitor has never been clearer," Kreacher sneered, showing rotting teeth.
Oh, and one last thing.
"You will open Grimmauld Place's doors to me and exclusively to me, and as soon as I knock, you'll hand her to me without fuss or complaint. Then you'll be free to live the rest of your miserable life slobbering over my Mother's portrait," he concluded, nodding to the elf to make it know it can proceed, and so, with a last, hateful look from his bat-like eyes, the wretched beast carefully touched Harriet's arm and with a flick of its long fingers, disappeared in the dark of the night.
Perfect.
Only as soon as he's done, the dark-haired man remembered himself, he'll grieve his family and prepare his small house near the river for his goddaughter. He'll apologize to Moony for thinking he could be the spy, and then, as always, he'll be back to fight.
James, Lily...
His eyes flicked, his magic immediately focusing on the rat's familiar trail of apparition, down near the entrance of the garden. It was already fading. His wand flared in anticipation from his tightly closed hand.
And now, let the hunt begin.