fringetv_at_dw

Title: "Wisht Hound"
Author:

shinychimera
Fandoms: Harry Potter and Fringe
Fandom 1 Characters Sirius Black (mention of Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew,
James and Lily Potter, Harry Potter)
Fandom 2 Characters Peter Bishop (mention of Walter Bishop)
Rating: PG-13 for swearing and some violence
Spoilers: Prisoner of Azkaban for Harry Potter; Mild spoilers for Peter's family
situation in Fringe but set pre-series.
Warnings: I don't think anything here will be triggery
A/N: There may be a cameo of sorts from another fandom in here. Originally written for

xover_exchange
Summary: After escaping Azkaban and swimming the North Sea, Sirius Black turns to a Muggle friend to get him from London to Hogwarts.

At twenty-seven, Peter Bishop lived his life on the move. Six weeks in the Ukraine, two weeks in São Paulo, two days — two very hectic days — in the confines of a tiny African village whose name he still didn't know, at the end of two lucrative months in Windhoek.

He lived light, not just on possessions but on people: Walter who he would never again call "Dad" was in an institution — might as well have been in jail, or six feet under, for all Peter cared — and his mother was gone so he hadn't any family left to drag him down or call him out of the blue. Which wasn't to say that he didn't know people, because he did. Badger, for example, who ran a questionable import/export business out of Wapping for Borgin and Burkes, and had put Peter to work waiting tables and keeping his ears to the ground within twelve hours of his arrival at Heathrow.

But if the magical items Badger was looking for were in circulation at all, Peter would be deeply disappointed with himself. Almost a month had passed since touchdown on the tarmac, nearly time for the restless sense of you don't belong here he'd had since he was young to drag him back on the road.

So far, he didn't seem to belong much of anywhere.

But he'd had a long day on his feet and he wasn't planning to move on just yet; he slipped into the tiny house Badger'd provided him, tossed his keys toward the tray on the bookcase and headed the sixteen steps from the front door to the kitchen for a pint and some cheese on toast. He had just skewered the heel of a loaf when he caught a scratching at the back door.

He hesitated, muscles already shifting the toasting fork in his hand to turn it into a stabbing weapon, cocking his head to listen. At first, he picked up nothing but the soughing of the wind and the first tapping drops of rain on the window. He took a soft step and paused again, caught a repeat of the harsh rasp against the door and what might have been a faint whine; moved forward again. He reached out with his left hand to pull open a drawer he'd stocked with a few goodies from Badger's warehouse.

The frantic, sloppy scratching around the doorknob was getting louder. Peter bent silently so he could pin a small potion vial between the wooden floor and the ball of his foot; stood and balanced himself, lifting the hand with the fork. All at once, he closed his eyes, threw the door open, stepped hard on the vial, and stabbed downward through the sudden flash of light, trusting to surprise and momentum for the split-second before he could open his eyes again.

The thing that had been trying to get in let out a whining yelp of pain, and the chaotic edges of a crouching black shape shone wetly in the reflected streetlight. Shocked recognition kicked Peter's aim aside at the last second, embedding the fork in the wood of the porch. He let his momentum bring him down to a crouch, reaching out instinctively to wrap his arms around the neck of the huge scruffy black dog.

"Jesus, Padfoot," Peter whispered in his ear and held the dog tightly, then jerked a glance up at the garden and dragged him inside, closing the door with a well-placed kick. "The hell are you — how did you —"

Peter, at a complete loss, stroked one hand along his old friend's side, feeling his ribs beneath the cold, wet coat. Padfoot — or, well, his alter ego, Sirius Black — was supposed to be in prison.

The half-starved dog whined and buried his face against Peter's side, looking more like a drowned puppy than the fearsome black dog of the moors, the harbinger of death or the devil, the Grim that inspired his nickname.

"I guess that's a 'not going to talk about it,'" he said, frowning, clambering back to his feet. "Go dry off, make yourself comfortable; I'll get us some food."

Why he'd expected Sirius to leave his animagus form and grab a towel and blanket, Peter would never know. Instead he followed Peter into the narrow kitchen, panting nervously, as close to Peter's legs as he could get without being directly underfoot.

"Oh-kay," Peter said, with a short sharp shake of his head, interrupting his stretch toward the kettle. "I can't wait to hear this story."

He was still trying to wrap his brain around Sirius appearing on his doorstep. As an escapee. From Azkaban; supposedly inescapable thanks to its jailers, who sucked the joy and light out of everything, robbing their captives of their will to do much of anything. And how had he found...? There was only one way; he must have caught Peter's scent, out there on the London streets somewhere, followed him home.

He cautiously dropped his hand down to rest on the top of Sirius' head; Sirius thumped his wet tail on the floor. The fur beneath his fingers was coarser than he remembered.

They'd met when Peter was an angry thirteen-year-old, shipped off to relatives in London while his mom dealt with Walter's trial and subsequent institutionalization; Sirius had been twenty and he and the other Marauders — his best friends James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew — were already embroiled in the wizard war going on right under the Muggle world's non-magical nose. Peter still wasn't sure how he'd drawn the other man's attention, why one wayward, unwanted child had been worth his time in amongst everything else, but Sirius had helped him get smart, stop lashing out at the bullies and hypocrites with words or fists and start using his brain to take the things he needed from the world.

Despite what he'd been told, after asking around about the confusing end of the war, he just couldn't believe Sirius was responsible for betraying James and Lily Potter, nor for the explosion that had killed Pettigrew and twelve others. Sirius had never been so stupid, for one thing.

On the other hand, Peter had spent enough time in war zones to know how easily people would turn on each other under pressure. Peter'd only been involved in the edges of the Time of Troubles — there were certain advantages to being one hundred percent Muggle — but he knew Sirius and his friends had been fighting for their lives, there at the end. There was no way to be sure who had done what to whom, or why; and wizarding courts weren't at all like mundane ones, not exactly keen on laying out all the facts for everyone to judge, when the power of spells and potions could cut straight through to "innocent" or "guilty".

Assuming the wielders of that power didn't have something to hide.

"You know," he said to Sirius, "this would be a lot easier if you weren't sitting on my foot. Also, if I could talk to you."

Sirius leaned harder into Peter's shins, planting one massive forepaw on the foot he wasn't sitting on. Peter sighed.

"Okay," he conceded, "I can talk to you like this just fine, but I generally prefer my conversations reciprocal." He leaned his hip against the countertop, the better to support their combined weight. "Look, you're a mess, and I'll help you, I will. But I need you — at the bare minimum — to get off my feet so I can put a meal together."

Sirius gave a wistful sigh and pressed his canine forehead briefly against Peter's leg, but stepped backwards. He nosed around the various corners of the tiny kitchen, sad dark eyes catching on doors and windows the way a real dog's never would, and he got out of the way of stove and pantry and fridge. Peter quashed a moment of guilt — of course Sirius was going to want contact, after where he'd been for twelve years, what he'd been through — but he needed food first. Sirius finally walked in tight circles near the back door, curled up there and lowered his muzzle onto his paws — maybe he just wanted to be close to an exit.

Peter searched the small refrigerator, came up with a canned ham that should make a good first step on putting some flesh on those thin bones.

"So," he said, pulling out the cutting board and opening the tin, "since the last time we saw each other..." then he hesitated; news of mom's death and his handful of arrests weren't exactly the cheeriest things ever. His mind raced, looking for something he could safely share.

"Well, I left school. I've done a lot of traveling. Had a lot of scrapes you guys would probably call adventures. Made a lot of, uh, Muggle Galleons here and there, and lost a lot. I faked a degree from MIT and taught courses, there's one thing. Flew cargo planes for a while, which is how I conned my way into a free flight to London, by convincing the desk attendant I worked for the airline, since I was too broke to buy a ticket." He shook his head, slicing the ham into thick slabs. "Well, not so much broke as couldn't safely get access to my accounts."

He looked toward Sirius in the doorway. "Sirius....I heard about James and Lily; and Wormtail. I'm sorry."

Peter'd been expecting sorrow — no one does mournful like a dog — but he was taken aback by the deep growl that vibrated from Sirius' lowered head.

"Whoa," he said, frowning, fighting down a flash of adrenaline; he trusted Sirius as much as he trusted anyone, but he also knew the damage those teeth could do. "The hell is that about?"

The rumble subsided, and Sirius sighed heavily and closed his eyes. He looked exhausted, just about done in, and obviously wasn't planning to talk just yet. But something had driven him here, and something had driven that growl.

Peter finished cutting the meat, glanced at the microwave, and decided Sirius wasn't going to care if the pre-cooked ham was warm or not. He set the plate down softly in front of his nose, making an effort not to startle him, and watched the aroma animate Sirius again, waited until he'd wolfed down the first slab of meat before sitting back against the kitchen cabinet and reaching out to rub gently behind his ear. One doggy eyebrow cocked Peter's way, but Sirius didn't pause in snatching, chewing and swallowing.

"I haven't seen Lupin in ages," he said, considering, eyes still on Sirius while he lifted the now-empty plate, "but I'm guessing you would have gone to him if you thought it was safe. Do you think they know you're gone?"

There was no mistaking the cynical look that said what do you think?, even on the face of a massive black canine. Sirius heaved himself to his feet, then, claws clicking on the floor.

"Hey, I had to ask." Peter followed him up, and turned to put the plate in the sink. "Just trying to figure out what kind of timeline we're facing, right?"

When he turned back, Sirius was already in the throes of the Animagus Transfiguration, his body twisting reality or vice versa. But he remained on all fours, head hung low under long, matted hair, wearing what looked like a ragged gray nightshirt. His wrists and ankles were pasty white and painfully thin.

Peter automatically reached down to catch his bicep, help him to his feet. And though Peter'd left behind his adolescent self-image a long time ago, it was still a shock to realize that big bad Sirius Black was four or five inches shorter than he was. The wizard didn't resist his grip, but swayed on his feet, leaned into Peter's broad chest with face still downcast.

"Man, you really are a mess." Peter dipped to hook an arm under his knees, so he could pull Sirius up into his arms, trying not to breathe in too deeply; the man was lanky and awkward but light as straw. He wasn't sure how far Sirius had come; couldn't for the life of him remember if he'd ever known where Azkaban was located, but it didn't take anything to know that the answer was almost too far.

Peter carried his scarecrow form to the bed and wrapped the sheets and blankets tightly around him before adding his own warmth to the pile.

"Whatever it is," he said softly, "it'll keep until the morning. Unless the world's going to end tonight. And if it does, I guess we won't have to worry."

↮

Peter woke alone to a clatter of rain on the window; alert and aware out of habit, and wondering how the hell Sirius had slipped out of the bed without waking him. He rolled over and checked the clock and a growling sigh escaped him. Just shy of three a.m. His favorite damn time to be awake. He listened; heard the house settling, the hard rain on the roof, the occasional car passing by on the road. Nothing else.

Since there wasn't any point in trying to get back to sleep he sat up, dragging the sheets off the bed with him and dumping them in a pile on the floor. If Sirius needed something else, he'd come back to the house; whether he did or didn't, Peter would be ready to go — he was done with London.

"Gotta roll, can't stand still..." he sang in a soft mumble, shoving clothes and kit into his lone bag, then gathered his other weapons and goodies. Done by three fifteen, and if that said anything about his life Peter wasn't going to waste time thinking about it.

At about a quarter to four, the rain changed into an uncomfortable mist, and Peter decided he'd rather walk around the neighborhood than sit waiting any longer. He needed to figure out what they were going to do; Sirius was on the run from dementors and from what he knew they weren't easily slipped. Only thing was, he didn't have nearly enough information and since Sirius had gone missing he was going to have to get it some other way.

If his head turned fast whenever he heard claws on the concrete in the pre-dawn gloom, well, that was only to be expected, but he saw no sign of Sirius when he made the stops he needed to gather information. And a vehicle.

He was chilled, damp and grim by the time he pulled back up in front of the house. He'd convinced the previous owner of the car he was driving that it was dead on its tires, bought it off him for a song and then pushed it to the nearest petrol station to fill it up. Fueled, it ran fine.

Peter let himself in the door carefully, listening for nothing at all, then grimaced and started putting together breakfast, musing over what he'd learned from the Daily Prophet, the Times, and the murmur of rumors about dementors and worse. Sirius had come to him for help, and not just with some really nasty beasties on his tail and the Ministry and the rest of the wizarding world on high alert — his picture was all over the mundane papers too, attached to an absurd yarn about a dangerous escaped psychopath. Might be easier if the damn Wild Hunt were on Sirius' tail.

And now he was gone, without giving Peter a chance to do anything about it. He didn't have a chance of finding Sirius if he'd gone to ground, or been captured by one of the many entities hunting him, but as long as they were both mobile, there was a hell of a lot Peter could do — if the mutt gave him half a chance.

He slapped the tap off and clattered the kettle onto the stove, and then leaned against the counter to read the news article again while waiting for his eggs to boil. His head snapped up when he heard a soft scratch and whine at the back door.

Peter walked over and let Sirius in, scanning the yard before closing the door behind them.

"I hope it was worth it," he said, trying to keep a layer of casual over the cutting edge in his tone. "A note might have been good."

Sirius' ears were lowered, and he gave an apologetic thump of his tail. His eyes were brighter, but if anything, he looked more bedraggled than the night before, mud drizzling off his legs and swollen paws.

"They've got the Muggles hunting you as well," he added, holding up the front page. "Eggs and toast will be up in just a moment."

The dog sneezed, closed his eyes, then began his transformation. Peter dumped Sirius' breakfast onto a plate and set it on the table, prepared a second plate for himself, and then walked into the bathroom for a towel.

When he returned, Sirius was devouring the food with the same speed he'd shown the night before, and similar manners. Peter set the towel down next to him and tucked in to his own meal.

Sirius nodded jerkily, mopped at his hair just long enough to stop it dripping on the table, then draped the towel around his shoulders and went back to eating. Finally he pushed the bare plate away, eyeing it as if he couldn't decide whether to lick away the last molecules of egg, then looked up into Peter's eyes and down again, quickly.

"I'm —" and his voice was a harsh croak, forcing a cough from his throat. "I'm sorry, about last night. I had to get to Little Whinging. I was running out of time."

"Running out of time for what?" Peter snapped. "I can't help you if I don't know what you need."

"The boy. Harry Potter. He's in terrible danger and no one knows but me."

Peter studied Sirius' face for a moment; the wild brightness was still there in his eyes, but Peter saw no signs of insincerity and some genuine fear. Harry Potter.

"James and Lily's kid? Is that the 'he' who's at Hogwarts?"

Sirius looked at him sharply, some hectic mixture of suspicion and determination in his expression.

"You talk in your sleep," Peter said, dryly. It had taken him a bit to place the name, of course.

"Yes. Harry is my godson, I swore I would protect him and — " for just a moment rage flared in those dark, intense eyes. "And Peter is still alive. The other Peter. Pettigrew."

Peter blinked, mind grabbing all the implications in a heartbeat. If Wormtail was alive then he'd faked his own death, and the whole story of what Sirius had done was a lie, and — and it was likely he was responsible for everything Sirius had been jailed for. Including betraying the Potters. He leaned forward.

"You think he's after Harry." Peter caught the slight momentary widening of Sirius' eyes and was a little saddened that he hadn't thought Peter would believe him.

Given the state he was in and the reasons he'd been imprisoned, most of the wizarding world would assume he was completely out of his mind, that it was Harry he was after, using Pettigrew as an excuse. But Peter was not most people. And Walter had taught him more than he ever wanted to know about the ways a man's mind could break. He saw obsessive focus in the vindictive glint in Sirius' eyes, a hint that needing to see Harry was as much about getting his paws on Wormtail as protecting his godson, but not madness.

Peter caught himself rubbing his forehead.

"So...." he said, dropping his hand. "What's in Little Whinging?"

"Harry was, until last night, and running around in the dark like a stupid, reckless...." Sirius stopped short, trapped in his own ironies. "He was picked up by the night bus, though. Out of my reach, but safe enough for now."

Peter shook his head, deciding he really didn't want to ask.

"Any sign of the dementors?"

Sirius sat very still, as if he were making an effort not to shiver. "No. They're blind, you know — they track people by the taste of their minds. The dog brain is...slippery to them. Which is how I got out in the first place. And why I can't remain in human form for very long."

"And how do we fight them off?"

"You don't. They can't be killed, not by damaging them, anyway. If I had a wand, there are things that would drive them away, but... no, I just have to lie low, stay out of their reach until I catch Wormtail and prove my innocence — and find a way to protect Harry in the meantime."

Peter stood and gathered up the plates. "Okay. So where are we going next?"

"What?" Sirius said faintly. "We?"

"Look, Sirius, I can not trust you if you really want," he said, setting the dishes in the sink, "and you don't have to accept my help, but you've clearly got a destination in mind, and I'm ready to be on the rove anyway. So — where are we going?"

Sirius rubbed a hand across his throat. "Hogwarts. Harry will be with the Minister by now — and Dumbledore, I hope — but I need to get to the school before the term begins in a few weeks. It's not as secure as they think it is."

"And where, exactly, is Hogwarts?"

Sirius looked at him in surprise, perhaps remembering for the first time that for all his inside knowledge, Peter was still a Muggle.

"Northern Scotland."

Peter's eyebrows went up.

"Scotland it is," he said with finality. "Flying's not an option, with your picture all over the place — unless you want to ride in a doggy crate?"

Sirius might be wearing a human face, but the lift of his lip was decidedly "mad dog".

Peter's grin was just as feral. "So I guess we'll be taking my new car."

↮

The bitter mist had turned into a solid rain by the time Peter had given Sirius some warmer, cleaner clothes to wear, and gotten the house back in order and his meager possessions loaded in the car. He held open the passenger-side door and Sirius leapt in, masquerading as a pet excited about going out. For that matter, he probably was excited about the car ride: your average wizard was more likely to teleport through fireplaces or ride on a broom than get in a mundane vehicle.

As soon as Peter had his safety belt on, Sirius wriggled over so he could set his head on Peter's thigh, and was asleep before they hit the North Circular Road. The top level of Peter's mind chattered about how heavy Sirius' head was, and how the drool was soaking into his pants, and how typical it was for Sirius to keep Peter awake half the night while he was out running around, and then conk out as soon as they had a chance to spend time together. But he also drove for kilometers at a stretch without thinking at all, his hand resting on Sirius' warm skull, fingers gently stroking the curves of his ears.

Peter might not belong anywhere, but for now, at least, he felt needed.

Once they got into the countryside, Sirius was up and excited again, pressing his nose against the glass on his side, then twice trying to tangle himself with Peter's arms to do the same thing on the driver's side. Exasperated, Peter hit the button to lower the passenger window, and then had to smother a grin with a hand over his mouth, watching Sirius hang his head out the window in ridiculous tongue-lolling bliss.

About halfway to Edinburgh, when tanks ran low for man, dog, and car, Peter stopped for fuel and two buckets of chicken strips; the rain had finally given up chasing them, though the evening was still overcast. He spent a few minutes laughingly trying to keep Sirius' wet nose out of the bag while he drove on, looking for a reasonably private place for them to eat and stretch their legs and, he hoped, talk.

An old roadside waystation between towns looked promising — an empty parking lot, screened from most traffic by a thicket of slim trees with dark trunks, flanked on the other side by a grimy little shelter with restrooms at the back. He let Sirius out of the car and used the hood to lay out their meal.

Sirius vanished for a few moments behind the building, then came back and settled down near Peter's feet again, looking up at him entreatingly.

"Forget it," Peter said, popping a piece of chicken into his own mouth. "You can come up here with me, eat with your own fingers."

He was reaching back to pick up another strip of chicken when a chill wind caressed the back of his neck.

Peter hadn't known, when he'd sat with his mother on the front porch in Boston, eating cheap-fried fast food chicken, that it would be the last meal that they would ever have together. He'd had no idea, telling her thoroughly fictional stories about the normal, cheerful life he was supposedly leading, that she already knew nearly everything, that she'd already given up on fixing him, fixing anything. He hadn't known anything at all until a phone call from a total stranger the next day had plunged an ordinary spring morning into darkness.

A grim shiver went down his spine, before he shook himself angrily, forced himself to keep moving.

"Sorry, goose on my grave," he apologized, turning back to hand over the morsel.

But Sirius was on his feet facing the dim thicket, growling low in his chest. Peter had to blink several times before he picked out a dark spidery form moving slowly forward, as slender and tall as the young trees themselves. The clouds crowded darker and lower in the sky, pressing cold air down against the earth.

He reached down to grab Sirius, thinking to drag him back in the car; he couldn't imagine what the shape drifting toward them with unnatural fluidity might be except a dementor. But Sirius turned on him with a flash of teeth, using his size and lower center of gravity to force Peter backward, checking them both up against the car hard enough to rock it on its tires.

Sirius whipped around again to face the black-wrapped monstrosity, muscles bunched to leap. Peter barely got a handful of his tail, enough to draw Sirius up short with a pained yelp. He half-expected to actually get bitten — everyone turns on you in the end — but Sirius shook beneath his touch with anger or fear or cold or all three.

Peter stepped down the side of the car, keeping a firm grip on Sirius' tail and his eyes on the dementor. As soon as he felt the handle beneath his frozen fingers he yanked the door open.

Adrenaline surging, he grabbed a solid handful of Sirius' scruff, thinking to shove him into the car, but he was too heavy to drag, scrawny as hell but solid as a bear. Peter briefly wished it was possible to cold-cock a dog. Stupid, stubborn, overprotective...

Wouldn't budge because he thought Peter needed protecting. He slammed himself into the seat and whipped his safety belt across in one motion, then leaned back as far as he could. "GET IN THE DAMN CAR!"

Sirius crouched, perhaps steeling himself to do something stupid and fatal.

Overprotective — that, Peter-the-manipulator could twist to their needs.

"Harry still needs you," he barked, and a shudder shook Sirius from shoulders to tail. The dog turned and launched himself onto and across Peter's lap, and Peter counted himself lucky that only one of the massive clawed feet dug into his thigh. He hissed through gritted teeth, already feeling tomorrow's bruise, and turned the key and jammed the accelerator to the floor with quick, decisive movements. The engine whined in protest, a spray of dirt and gravel rising behind them.

"Brace yourself," Peter instructed Sirius, attention locked on the spindly cloaked figure stepping off the grassy verge and casting a very corporeal shadow onto the pebbled pavement.

Sirius curled up on the floor and moaned.

"Gonna make you burn, gonna make you sting..." Peter sang under his breath, staring at the dementor.

Blind, with no features under the hood, Tom at the Cauldron had told him, just an awful sucking mouth. Maybe it couldn't see, but Peter would swear that mouth was rounded in shock as he twisted the wheel so that the headlight on the left caught the dementor squarely against the cloak-shrouded knee that bent unnaturally far above the ground. The thing toppled onto its back just like any human would, and Peter bared his teeth and gunned the engine harder. The front wheel and then the rear lifted and bumped over the unseen body.

The air inside the car had gone cold as an icy lake, drowning Peter's lungs, leaving him gurgling for every breath. For a moment he swore he could hear Walter howling — pain and fear and madness — he could feel fingers of frost clawing at the edges of his vision. Peter clamped his hands down on the steering wheel, fighting for control.

The rear tire spun briefly before gripping the pavement again, and the car shot toward the highway. Peter glanced in the rearview and saw the creature trying to rise to its feet, but he knew from the broken way it struggled they didn't have to worry about it following them any time soon. He kept his foot heavy on the accelerator, leaving cold and bitter memories in the dust.

↮

Midnight in northern Scotland was cold, no doubt about that — Peter and Sirius leaned against the hood of the car parked on the roadside, soaking up the warmth from the still- ticking engine while it lasted. But at least the chill around them was clean, distilled from the clear stars above, rather than from some dank pit of horrors. From the crest of the hill, Peter could see the glowing windows of the town Sirius called Hogsmeade; the school was nearby somewhere.

"You sure you don't want me to stay until you get settled?"

"No." Sirius shook his head, his hair still matted and ragged around his shoulders; Peter'd been itching to take scissors to it but there'd been no time. "There's not a Muggle down there — you'd stand out like a sore thumb."

There wasn't any arguing with that, but Peter scowled. He was keenly aware that when he left Sirius would be cut off, without allies or companionship, and Peter worried what the isolation would do to him.

"And you're not going to stand out?"

Sirius grinned, eyes still avidly cataloging the streets and buildings of the town below.

"I know this place better than you could imagine, Peter. I know exactly how to get where I need to be, while keeping completely out of sight."

"All right. I'll stop fussing." He leaned back heavily. "I know it goes against everything in your nature, but try to be careful."

Sirius looked sideways at him, and Peter found himself abruptly caught up in a fierce, back-pounding bear hug. He returned it tentatively but, if anything, his hesitation made Sirius pull him in even tighter. A bony hand gripped the back of his neck, not allowing him to pull away until Sirius had figured out what he needed to say.

"You and I, Peter, we are always going to be the ones around the fringes. Quietly helping, when the people who matter don't even know they need help." Sirius pressed the hoarse whisper against his ear, lips almost but not quite brushing skin. "But it's important — it is really, really important — that there are people who are willing to do what needs to be done, no matter what. Do you understand me?"

Peter started to nod, then shook his head slightly, brow wrinkling. "No, I really don't."

"Someday, then... Just — do the right thing, Peter. Don't trust anyone else to tell you what that is, just — do what's right."

Sirius stepped back, eyes reflecting a glimmer of bright starlight before he turned his head aside to track some small thing rustling the grass. It was an excuse to look away, but he didn't seem to have the strength to look back again, not until he'd made the transformation back to his Animagus form. He returned to nuzzle briefly against Peter's hand; the only thanks or goodbye he was going to get. And then Padfoot turned and trotted decisively towards Hogsmeade.

Peter watched until he lost the black dog in the dark, unable to shake the feeling he wasn't going to see Sirius again. He got back in the car, and sat rubbing at the bruise on his thigh and staring into the night sky; using the pain to push away the lingering memory of those too-thin arms, wiry and strong and hard around his back.

Don't let yourself need people, Peter. Let them need you. Connections don't last; people leave, or they were never really there in the first place. And physical pain, like the midnight around him, was always cleaner than that.

He fired up the engine and pulled onto the road, focused on finding the nearest airport and grabbing the first plane out, and he didn't give a damn where he ended up.

-END-

Prompts: like family
the unloved and unlucky
Pairing: Sirius Black/Peter Bishop (gen or romantic)