The Marauders - Order of the Phoenix - Part One

XX: 31 October, 1993

I should be asking you precisely the same question - though I suppose my question is - oughtn't you to be dead by now?

Sirius stood, staring, as the orange cat slinked through the shadows and into sight. His bottlebrush tail stood to attention and his yellow eyes glowed even in the dark. The cat moved closer, though not close enough to be within range of Sirius's powerful jaw, and sat on the very end of the first step that led away into the passage, so that the toes of his front paws were just off the edge.

No more dead than you ought to be, the cat answered.

Fair enough, Sirius said.

The cat lifted one leg and licked the fur on his foot primly, extending his claws out to show how they were freshly sharpened, and then withdrew them into his paw once more. He studied the dog for a long moment as he lowered his foot back to the stair.

You're here for the rat, I suppose?

So the rat is here. Sirius knew he was, he'd seen the photograph, of course, but there was something delicious and comforting about knowing that he was right, that it really was the right rat, and he hadn't hallucinated the entire thing as some side effect to his descent into madness in that cell.

Indeed. Roger's eyes flashed brightly.

I'm here to kill him. Sirius said.

I've been trying to kill him myself. But the humans keep getting in the way of it. Maybe you'll be able to talk some sense into them.

I don't plan to give them the opportunity to stop me, Sirius replied, and I certainly don't plan on doing any talking before I kill him. Talking is what always messed up old Voldemort's plans.

Roger hissed at the name.

Oh, come around, have we?

He killed my humans. I've spent twelve years trying to find my Harry again. Finally found him and what do I find, that old rat. Close as ever to Harry... I'll happily tear him to bits if I get him, but the other boy keeps getting in my way, carrying him about everywhere...

Well, Roger, said Sirius --

It's Crookshanks now, my Hermione renamed me.

Crookshanks? Thats a perfectly horrid name.

I rather like it. It makes much more sense than Roger ever did. Whatever is a Roger anyways? Awful, human name.

James always liked it.

Yes, well. My James was a special sort wasn't he?

He really was, Sirius replied.

They stood in silence a long moment together, neither entirely sure what to say.

Then Sirius said, Well, Roger Crookshanks, it seems we've spent the last twelve years in precisely the same predictament.

It seems.

So you're not going to stop me, then? From killing the rat?

I'd rather help you.

Excellent.

The pair of them silently turned and climbed the stairs, up - up - up through the passageway. They reached the top of the stairs and the cat pushed his way out from behind the portrait in the trophy room. Sirius hesitated, only his head poking through, his eyes not as sharp as the cat's in the darkness.

He paused at the display case, and saw - there in in what little bit of light came through the window, glowing a bit blue - the placard from the Tourney years ago. There was James Potter's name, etched into metal, and a thousand memories poured through him, nearly taking his breath away. It seemed so long ago, but yet could've ben yesterday all at once. Derek and Alex and Andy and Bilius and all the others seemed like ghosts hanging about the room suddenly and Sirius marvelled at how the hauntings were so vivid at times like these, and yet so faint at times when he wanted to remember them... How voices and images fade away, become tough to conjure up, and then burst in great color before your eyes in a moment when you least expect it, like bombshells in the dead of night.