7 - DATE WITH A HIPPOGRIFF, Submit your Siruis/Buckbeak Escape Stories here! Options

[zymurgy]

I'm Free!
(Date with a hippogryff)

It’s all over, now.

They’ve sent for the Dementors. This is it, Sirius. This is where they take my soul away from me. That bit of myself, that I was always told was mine, all mine. Nobody can touch your soul, they told me that. Even Mother told me that. I’ve held on to that truth all my life, and now even that is gone.

I failed. I’ve failed everything I’ve tried for all these years. I tried to save my friends, and they died because of me. I tried to save their son, and what did I achieve? I just forced Peter away from the one place he would be content to stay quiet. I sent him back to him. It’s my fault.

And now it’s all over. They probably will believe I was lying, after all, those children. They’ll believe Remus was lying, too. They’ll probably kill him, now, too. Poor Remus. They’ll have him at last, after all these years. Because he was “in league,” with me, they’ll say, and because he was “irresponsible,” “dangerous,” “dark.”

I’m sorry, Remus. I’ve gone and done it this time, haven’t I? I put my foot in it. I killed James, and Lilly. I messed up everything for their son, and I failed Peter as a friend. If I had been there for him, he’d never have turned dark. And now I dragged you into it all, too.

What in the name of Merlin is that!?

Oh, lord. This is the part where they wake me up and tell me I’m dreaming. This is the part where I realize that I’m still in my cell. This is the part where they come back, and suck the ability to dream away from me. Suck away my knowledge of anything out of the dark, inky blackness of the stone walls of Azkaban.

“How?” I say, staring at the sight before me, “how?”

James says there isn’t time. Only it isn’t James, and I musn’t think of him as James. I don’t know him at all, as much as I feel I have my friend back, this is Harry. Harry, the godson I’ve failed.

Somehow, I get out of the window, and onto the hippogryff. I haven’t seen one since school, and that was from a good distance off. Curriculum must have gotten looser since I was in school.

It’s a miracle that none of us fall off. The north tower. Oh, Merlin. The last time I was here, I was testing that ridiculous flying carpet Peter and James cooked up. We nearly killed the Finnigan boys with that thing.

They’ve slid off, and he’s telling my something. My brain is too full of everything to process whatever it is. I’m free. I tell myself that, stupidly, over and over again, repeating it like some sort of incantation.
I’m free. I’m free. I’m free. I’m free.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I remember that I’m here. On the top of the North Tower, riding a hippogryff, thanks to my godson. My godson, that I’ve failed, that somehow, by some miracle, turned out all right, and believed me enough to risk expulsion, even his life, for me.

I tell myself, yes, yes, this is real, it is. This isn’t another game. The dementors aren’t feeding me dreams to get my emotions to a tastier level. I’m not food anymore. It’s real. All of it was real. This is real. I’m free. I’m free.

“What happened to the other boy,” I ask, suddenly realizing his absence, “Ron?”

They assure me that he’s fine. I think of asking them to tell Remus something, but realize that it’s useless. Knowing Remus he’ll blame everything on himself, and take off again. Probably go back to Glasgow, or something. He never did see things right. Always thought it was all his fault.

This is real. I’m here. This is the North Tower. I am in Hogwarts. I am sitting on a hyppogryff. My godson is standing to my left. A girl, Hermione, is standing next to him. They are telling me I need to leave. My wand is in my left pocket. My robes are black. I am Sirius. I’m real. It’s real.

I’m free. I’m free. I’m free.

Belatedly, I realize that I owe this boy my life. No, not my life, something far more precious. I owe this boy my soul. It is a great debt. He has risked so much. Somehow, when it’s all over, when the miracle happens, when Dumbledore triumphs, I’ll make my promise good. I’ll give him a home. I’ll make it all good.

The words fall from my lips without me thinking about them. “How can I ever thank…?” Clumsy, stupid. I never was good at talking to people. Maybe if I had been this never would have happened. I was good at doing. I was good at joking. I was good and being a nice guy. I wasn’t good at being a good friend.

“Go!” they shout together, and I realize, that yes, time is precious. Time isn’t a black nothingness anymore. Time doesn’t belong to them. Time is mine, because I’m real, it’s real, and I’m free.

I give the hipogryff a kick, and it flies off. Glasgow, I think to myself, as I fly towards the moon. I see them, out of the corner of my eye, rushing at breakneck speed towards the door. I hope they manage whatever great plan it is Dumbledore set them in.

Glasgow. I’m free. It’s real. I’m free.

[MadamMarsh]

((This is for MacGonagall's Cat who asked for Sirius to meet Gil Whimple - only without some of Gil's more extreme characteristics and will mean nothing to the majority of people. Gilbert Whimple is in canon - he has horns and that's about all we know.))

Title: Appearances

Author: madam marsh

Rating: PG13

~~~

Appearances

My only excuse was that I was tired – so tired. I had flown all night, or rather the hippogriff had, with me urging him on even long after the poor beast had wanted to land. It was close to dawn before I thought that perhaps we were far enough away and then it took a while to find the perfect place.

There was a tract of farmland, quiet and orderly in the pre-dawn greyness. No animals to startle and give us away, just tidy fields of crops planted in rows and blocks and a nice dense patch of woodland at the top of a hill. I brought Buckbeak down in wide sweeps, and smelled the heady scent of fresh potions herbs rising to meet us in the cool air. So much the better – their perfume might disguise our scent. Buckbeak clucked and tossed his head but came to earth softly enough and allowed me to lead him into the darkness of the trees. Once out of sight he immediately tucked his head under his wing and braced his legs to sleep. I leaned my back against a tree, intending to remain on guard but – so tired.

I awoke to a warm still summer’s day. The sun was high, shining down through the branches and dappling my filthy robes with broken dashes of gold. I could hear the swish and thump as Buckbeak swung his tail and stamped at a fly and was about to close my eyes to sleep again when I heard the soft murmur of a human voice. Cold washed over me. Discovery would mean capture – at best death, at worst a descent into drooling imbecility. I turned my head slowly and spotted Buckbeak, partially screened by some elder bushes. He was clucking to himself in a pleased fashion and I heard a soft laugh.

“Not so fast,” someone said. “You’ll choke and there’s no way I’m giving you the kiss of life.”

Buckbeak bobbed his head and I heard the clapping sound of a hand petting the hippogriff’s side.

That sounded nothing like a Ministry hitwizard but there was no point in taking chances. I hastily changed into dog form and crept around the bushes to get a better view.

It was like a scene out of mythology. There was Buckbeak, neck arched and wings half raised, feathers fluffed in pleasure as a delicate creature solemnly fed him sandwiches. It was curly headed with enormous brown eyes set in a small featured face, and a neat bare-chested body. Above the eyes, rising from the curls were two sharply pointed horns. A faun? Surely not in this day and age but I couldn’t doubt the evidence of my own eyes nor yet that of Padfoot’s nose which was telling me that this little person was not altogether human. It took me a moment to register that below the waist he was wearing the breeches and boots of a farm worker and the bundle at his feet comprised a shirt and robe as well as the remains of his lunch. More importantly, the long pocket on the right thigh of his breeches contained a wand.

“What am I to do with you?” he asked Buckbeak. “You can’t stay here, that’s for sure. You need proper meat – not corned beef sandwiches.” He paused, scratching his fingers through Buckbeak’s feathers then nodded and he stooped to pick up his bundle.

I pounced. Buckbeak was my only means of transport and I couldn’t afford to lose him. I felt sorry for the little person – whatever he was – but I didn’t only have my life to consider. Peter was out there somewhere and the gods alone knew what mischief he would cause if he wasn’t caught and stopped.

He gasped as I hit him, his small body crumpling under Padfoot’s weight, then I changed locking one hand over his mouth, the other gripping one of those sharp little horns. I could make it quick – make it look like an accident. He was young enough perhaps to have amused himself by climbing a tree. His shirt and robe lodged on a high branch with his body, broken-necked, below would tell the sad story and Buckbeak and I would be long gone. But first I needed to know if he was alone – if he had sent anyone for help.

He was struggling, his hands clawing at my wrists, so I turned him and knelt on him, pinning his arms at his sides. Terrified eyes looked up at me and the colour drained from his face as he saw his death in mine. Filthy and haggard I must have looked horrifying. I looked away.

“Be quiet and I won’t hurt you,” I said harshly, giving hope where none was due. “Are you alone? Have you sent for help already? Who are you?”

I slowly took my hand away and he drew a whooping breath. “Please,” he whispered, “you’re hurting me.”

I snorted. What did he know of pain?

“Answer my questions,” I demanded and drew back my fist.

He flinched, closing his eyes and replied. “I am alone. No one knows you’re here but me, no one comes up here but me. I – I’m Gil – Gilbert Whimple.”

I snorted again, but this time with laughter. “F***ing stupid name.”

“I know – it’s the pits,” he agreed. “But it could have been worse. Gilbert contracts into Gil, which is OK but my brother Adalbert was called Ada all through school.”

I frowned at him. “There was a Whimple in the third year when I left,” I said.

“Big brother,” he agreed.

“He didn’t have horns though,” I pointed out.

“Horns? What horns?” he said defiantly.

I found myself beginning to smile and that would never do. This had to end now.

He saw the change in my face and closed his eyes. “Please…” he began then lay still, only the hitching of his breath betraying his terror. When I made no immediate movement, he took in a sharp breath and let it out again. “I didn’t tell,” he whispered. “I saw you land before dawn and came up here at first light to see who it was. I could see the hippogriff was hungry so I went back and got the sandwiches. I didn’t tell anyone.”

My grip on the slender throat eased a little.

“You know who I am,” I stated. “So, why…”

His eyes opened, still dark with fright and pain. He looked past me at the concerned grey head of Buckbeak. The hippogriff stirred uneasily and lowered his head to cluck nervously in my ear.

“They are intelligent creatures,” he whispered hoarsely. “He would never have allowed you near him if you had been what they say you are.” He shrugged. “Appearances can be deceptive.”

I released him, drawing my hands away slowly, then shifted off his chest. He winced, his arms were bruised, but he sat up and looked at me sadly.

“I know about appearances. About seven weeks ago I had an accident with a charm,” he raised his hand to stroke the horns, “and now people who have known me all my life treat me differently because I look different. If it can happen to me…” he lifted his chin, “and besides hippogriffs can’t lie.”

“Not like people,” I agreed and he nodded.

Still watching me warily he reached for the bundle of cloth and opened it out.

“Take these,” he suggested passing me a shirt and a set of worn but anonymous robes, “and there’s food in the other cloth. I’m afraid greedy there ate all the sandwiches.” He raised a hand and Buckbeak allowed him to scratch just under his beak.

“Oh, and you’d best have this as well,” he drew the wand from his pocket. “It’s good for charms but has never thrown a curse in its life,” he said.

I took it and directed it at the ugly marks on his biceps. They faded and he sighed.

“Thanks,” I said, my throat suddenly tight, and he stood up and offered a hand. I took it and stood too.

“I have to get back to work,” he said apologetically. “Wait until full dark before you fly and if you head north east first you’ll not have to fly over Gloucester.”

He paused and tried to smile but it was rather strained. “Good luck,” he said, then, “I promise I won’t tell.”

I looked at him and saw the utter sincerity in his eyes, the sympathy in his face.

“I believe you,” I said. “Thank you – thank you so much.”

He smiled again and turned to go and that’s when I did it. I couldn’t bear to be looking at his face.

I arranged him under the tree with his garments scattered around him and the remains of his lunch set high above in the crook of a broken branch. I cast a quick Obscurato spell around Buckbeak and me, and slid the wand back into his pocket. It was so tempting to take it but…Then I stooped over the still body and touched his face in farewell.

“Bless you, Gil Whimple,” I said. “I’m so sorry but Peter’s out the somewhere. I HAD to do it.”

Rested and fed, Buckbeak took to the air readily enough. The obscurato spell should divert attention from us for an hour or so – that had been a good little wand for charms and, I reflected sadly, it had belonged to a good little wizard, despite his strange appearance. He had been the first stranger to offer me a moment of kindness – I wouldn’t soon forget him.

I hoped that in an hour or two he would awake with a sore head and no clear memory of what had happened – memory charms were chancy things – and that there would be no lasting damage.

I sighed and kicked Buckbeak on.