The sea was quiet; the gentle swells silvered by the light of the full moon. A warm breeze blew. No cloud, no ship, no land: nothing disturbed the symmetry of the scene -- except for the head of a black dog, swimming vigorously on the face of the water. This was no casual dip; it was hours from the nearest land. The distant stars had wheeled halfway across the sky before a low shoreline became visible, and it was some time later still before the weary animal dragged itself out onto a shingly beach.
The dog looked in both directions, as though to be sure it was unobserved, although it seemed most unlikely that anyone might be strolling on the foreshore at such a time. Only when satisfied of its privacy did it stretch out its forelegs and shake the seawater from its coat -- and somehow, when it had finished shaking, it had become a ragged, haggard, bearded, and rather damp man. Sirius Black stumbled forward a few steps before collapsing onto hands and knees; he remained in that position for a long while, breathing heavily.
At last he summoned the energy to sit, elbows on knees, head in hands. It was the least intolerable position he had assumed since the hour of his futile search, by the light of the setting sun, of Peter Pettigrew's house. His time since then had become one grotesquely long, dolorous night, within which despair gave way to rage, then to terror, vengefulness, dread, and back to despair again. A week in Azkaban took an eternity to scrape by -- then finished with the stone walls as blank, the air as stale, as they had been the minute before. How had the night washed him up here, on this lonely beach, with this old man's trembling flesh? No matter. A great deal of time had passed, it seemed, but his mind was his own once more, and he still knew where he was going.
Sirius stood up and took stock of his surroundings. The shoreline was dunes as far as he could see. Inland lay farmers' fields, and what looked like a house or two, but there were no lights at this hour. The night was as silent as Azkaban itself; the lapping of the mild waves on the seashore a gentle substitute for the occasional screams of deranged prisoners. A cold, starry vault arched overhead, but his own star, the one he was named for, was not visible. It would not return to the night sky for months yet.
He shrugged, and began to walk towards a small group of buildings in the middle distance. He could have covered the ground faster as a dog, but would not relinquish the feeling of striding on two feet, breathing the free air, his mind unmolested by magic of any kind. The exercise warmed his body, but the still, moonlit night brought no peace to his soul. Would he be able to find Peter, and best him? Once, he would have casually assumed his ability to defeat Pettigrew in any contest the latter cared to name, possibly with one hand tied behind his back. But that was before Peter's betrayal, before their last encounter, before Azkaban had fanned the flames of self-doubt until there was nothing left to burn.
A small shed loomed. It was brick-built, roofed crudely with corrugated iron, and it stood amid a small, sandy field of weeds and scrubby trees. The undergrowth was dense here, and in the dark it was hard to see where he was putting his feet. He pushed through a rough hawthorn hedge, was tripped by a bramble, fell forwards -- and the hands he thrust out to break his fall splashed through the surface of a deep pond. For a moment he was completely immersed, disoriented, with tendrils of water weed brushing past his face in the darkness. Then his head broke through a thin layer of scum and he was able to see again. He was winded, and trod water, gasping for breath. Once he was able, he swam to the bank with a few vigorous strokes and hauled himself out. At least he had already been wet.
Eventually, he sat up. The pond was large, and the ripples of his passage through it had subsided to imperceptibility. He was just about to stand and move on when he noticed a tiny shape crawling along a stick at the water's edge. It looked like a large, wingless beetle, but it did not move like an insect. As he watched, another joined it. Their jerky, shuffling hops soon took them into the undergrowth, but almost at once a third one emerged from the water. It appeared to be a miniature frog, or maybe a toad, no larger than the final joint of his thumb. Now that he was looking closely, he soon saw a fourth and a fifth, crawling out of the pond and making themselves scarce. What were these things? British frogs didn't come that small, did they?
It was all too much for one night. He stumped over to the shed he had been making for, and found the door swinging open. Inside was mostly sand, heaped in banks and drifts against the walls. Good enough. He settled down in the concavity in the centre of the floor, and was asleep within minutes.
In Sirius' dreams he swam in a high-walled stone channel barely wide enough for his canine body to squeeze through. Beneath him the salt water was cold and deep; above him a Dementor ghosted soundlessly in the gloom. Where the channel ended, a powerful current was pulling him into a brimming concrete pipe; inside it there was barely enough air space above the water for his snout to snatch breaths. But that was space enough, it seemed, for the Dementor to be in there with him, so close that its tenebrous substance was almost drawn into his nostrils ...
Suddenly he was awake, breathless, trapped in his still-sodden clothing, clawing the unconsciousness away. Panting, he looked frantically around, but he was alone. The great gouges in the sandy floor had apparently been made by his own limbs, as though he had been wrestling with himself. A shaft of sunlight bore down on his face, admitted by a ragged hole in the hut's iron roof; the effect was disturbingly similar to that of the tiny barred window in his Azkaban cell. As his heartbeat slowly returned to normal, he became aware that he was hot, and desperately thirsty.
He spied out through a chink in the decrepit wooden door. Almost at the threshold was the weedy pond he had stumbled into last night, and the untidy overgrowth surrounding it. It looked none too clean, but fastidiousness was the habit of a different Sirius Black, one who had been lost long ago. This Sirius took canine form to lap up the water until he had had his fill.
Afterwards, he looked around cautiously. The sun, its light painful to his dark-adapted eyes, indicated late afternoon. Nearby stood a brick cottage and a few outbuildings, some of them derelict. A squat barn looked to be in better shape, but its huge wooden doors were closed and padlocked. The spaces between the buildings were padded with shrubs and low, windswept trees; beyond this little cluster were wide, open fields and distant hedgerows, and more flat land still beyond that. A faint and disused part of Sirius' brain thought vaguely: East Anglia? Probably.
He needed to get into the cottage. He would have to steal food and Muggle money; clothes, too, if he could get them. For one who had spent twelve years in prison, Sirius had remarkably little experience of breaking and entering, but he could learn. He had always been good at that, when he needed to be. He would master all the tricks necessary to stay one step ahead of the Ministry, because he needed to: to find Peter, he would have to remain on the run, uncaught, for several weeks at least. And after that -- but no dog ever thought so far ahead, and neither did Sirius Black.
The cottage's windows were set high off the ground, and he became a man again to peer into them. The sun was behind him, and its reflected light made it difficult to see much. After a few minutes he could make out what seemed to be a kitchen, with a fireplace and a stout wooden table. But how to get in? Surely the occupants -- if there were any -- would not have left the door unlocked? If he smashed a window, would anyone hear?
–Good afternoon.â€
He spun. Behind him stood a plump old woman in a red-and-white headscarf, her wrinkled face looking steadfastly up into his. Despite the summer warmth, she wore a yellow plastic raincoat that reached her knees.
–Wha- , ah, arragh-â€
Sirius' voice had gone unused -- for words, at least -- since his consignment to Azkaban a lifetime before. It did not seem to want to be used now.
–A man who cannot decide what he wants to be,†the woman continued steadily. –Or, perhaps, a beast that cannot decide whether it wants to be a man. Could be either, you know. Now†-- she had spied the desperate look that crossed Sirius' face -- –none of that.†With remarkable speed, she pulled a wand from a pocket in her raincoat and pointed it at his chest.
–H-h-help me,†he managed, hoarsely. He raised his hands loosely to head height. –I won'h-hurt you. I'm a werewolf --†Merlin, what had made him say that?
–How reassuring. I'd wondered whether you might be.†She gestured with the wand. –You'd better come in, where I can keep an eye on you. I suppose you're harmless enough now, until next month.â€
The door was unlocked, after all. Sirius entered first, and found himself in the kitchen he had spied from outside. At the old witch's prompting, he sat at the table.
–You can call me Betty,†she said, as she hung her headscarf and raincoat on the back of the door. –What shall I call you?â€
–Er - Peter.†It was the first name that came to mind.
–Very well, Peter, would you like a cup of tea?â€
–Yes, very much, please.†At that moment, a cup of tea seemed the epitome of domesticated comfort. He tried not to remember when he had last had one.
–You look like you need it.â€
For the first time, Sirius noticed that there was a fire in the grate, with a kettle placed in a warm niche beside it. Betty picked up the kettle, sloshed it to check the water level, then suspended it directly above the glowing embers on a hook. It occurred to Sirius that the chimney-smoke should have been easily observable from outside. Some burglar he was.
They waited in silence for the water to boil. Everything about this room seemed strange, foreign: the bright green curtains instead of iron bars at the windows; the knives and forks scattered by the sink; the intricate grain of the table's wooden surface; the watercolour seascape on the chimney-breast; the woollen socks drying on the window-sill. Would he ever again live in a place because he wanted to? It was an odd, unsettling thought.
Betty handed him a mug of tea, and poured one for herself. He drank greedily; the flavour seemed overpoweringly strong.
–Do you feel like explaining yourself?†Betty's tone was gentler than before, less wary. She had left her wand within easy reach, but it was not actually in her hand. Could he move fast enough? One explosive bound across the room, a quick incapacitating hex, and -- he would be recaptured within the hour. The suspect's Trace, placed upon him the night he was arrested, had not expired with his trial, because the Ministry had never troubled to give him one. Sirius had been outraged about that at the time; now he simply felt frustrated. He could not do magic under Trace without setting alarms ringing in the Auror Office, bringing recrimination in the form of someone like Alastor Moody (or worse) down on his head. No, he would have to survive wandless, at least until he got close enough to Peter that the Ministry's interference would come too slowly to matter.
He coughed. –I'm looking for someone,†he began. His best hope: an old lady who thought she was taking pity on a werewolf. It made him wish Remus Lupin were there. On second thought, perhaps not: Remus would probably attack him on sight now.
–What sort of someone? And what are they doing in my garden?â€
–An enemy. A- a truly evil man. He isn't in this part of the country, though, he's -- well, I really don't know where he is, just now. But I know where he will be, by the time I get there.â€
Betty frowned. –We should all have such simple lives. Most of us have much more tedious and complicated problems. You just have to find this bloke and give him what for. Nothing else?â€
–No.†He paused at length. –Yes. A friend. At least, I hope that's what he is. I do know where to find him.â€
He knew where, all right. The memories came upon him, vivid and fast. James, calmly matter-of-fact: –In theory, no-one can find us here. But if it all goes wrong, and we have to run, we'll make for Lily's sister's place. They're Muggles -- You-Know-Who won't think of looking there, at least not straight away.†Hagrid, shouting to be heard over the revving of the motorbike engine: –I got my orders. Little Whinging, jus' this side of London.†Himself: –All right, then, but get out to sea first, so you can't be seen from land. Then let the bike show you where to go.†And, muttering under his breath as he tapped his wand on the handlebar-mounted compass: –Number Four Privet Drive.â€
–Always good to have a friend, Peter.†Betty smiled encouragingly. –You won't be wanting to spend another night in my toad-house, then?â€
–Your what?â€
Betty was busy at the fireplace again, producing a pot from another niche, ladling a thick stew onto two plates. She set one in front of Sirius.
–The toad-house. It's where my toads hibernate in the winter. They dig themselves into the sand, and I make sure they stay warm. Not that they'll need it for weeks yet.â€
–Are they what I saw last night? Tiny ones, crawling out of the pond?â€
–Yes, they spawn in the spring, and then the juveniles emerge from the water at this time of year.â€
Sirius realised that he had started eating. The beef stew was delicious, but he was consuming it too quickly to really notice the taste. Food in Azkaban meant only a lack of hunger; no more.
–Wonderful creatures, toads,†Betty was saying. –Dozens of different uses. You can predict the weather -- and other things, too -- by watching them. You'll never have trouble with Doxies, if there are toads around. And they've been used in potion-making for centuries, of course: Swelling and Deflating Solutions, Wartcap Powders, pest repellents, lots of different poisons, even love potions.â€
–Really? Love potions?â€
–If you catch them in the mating season. And some varieties have, ah, mind-altering properties -- not that we have those in Britain,†she added quickly, noticing the dark look that flickered across Sirius' face.
–Fine. As long as there aren't any toads in this.†He indicated the stew with his fork.
–No, you can't eat toad flesh. Well, you can, but it tastes unbelievably foul. I wouldn't put it past the French -- they eat frogs, I'm told -- but no English cook would prepare anything like --â€
–Toad-in-the-hole?†said Sirius, before he could stop himself.
–Very funny. Care to guess how many times I've heard that one, young man?â€
–Sorry.â€
Betty sighed. –I haven't heard it for a while, to be honest. The toad trade isn't what it used to be. It's the lack of demand for them as familiars, really. Forty years ago, every good housewitch had a toad or three at the bottom of the garden, and half the kids going into Hogwarts wanted a toad to take with them. Now all they want are owls. Owls! Oh, they deliver the post and all, but you can't put feathers in a potion, can you?â€
Sirius thought. –Well, there is the Sneezing Draught.â€
–All right, but--â€
–And the Canary--â€
–Yes, yes, I can tell you paid attention at school. But it's nothing to what a toad will do for you. Get him on the dissecting-slab, and your cauldron needn't stop bubbling for a week.†She regarded Sirius sadly. –The younger generation just doesn't appreciate the poor old toad; they've all but forgotten him.â€
–Shame,†said Sirius sympathetically. He hadn't dealt with more than two or three toads in his life to date, and couldn't honestly say he cared for them -- but he had been hungry, and Betty had fed him, so a certain respect was due.
–I haven't given up on them, though. Wait until it's a bit darker, and I'll show you my latest project.â€
–What's that?â€
–You'll see.†She smiled mysteriously, looking pleased with herself. –Everyone has a power and a purpose they never imagined, Peter. Even if they're a toad.â€
They didn't have long to wait: the sun was already beginning to set, its rays slanting across the room from the same window Sirius had looked into earlier. He finished the stew, then offered to do the washing-up. A competent witch hardly needed the help, but it gave him a few minutes alone with his thoughts. He wondered what it was she was going to show him. There was surely a limit to the splendour of a toad collection, however well-cared for. At least she seemed harmless enough. Living alone, with only a pond full of toads for company, would probably drive anyone a bit batty.
As the last of the twilight faded, they left the house. –I won't light my wand,†Betty whispered to him, –it puts them off. The moon will be up soon, and then we'll be able to see them better.â€
She led Sirius to a spot near the pond, where a large rough-sawn log lay. There she indicated that they should sit -- but not on the log. Instead, she settled on the ground a few feet away, and motioned to him to join her.
–Now what?â€
–Listen.â€
At first the night seemed as silent as the one before. After a few minutes, Sirius was just beginning to wonder if he could decently slip away when he heard it: a long, soft chirping, as if a tiny bell were being furiously shaken. It could have been a bird, but it wasn't.
–Bufo bufo, the common toad.†Even for an audience of one, he couldn't resist the authoritative comment, the chance to impress. It was almost like having friends around him again.
–Yes. Notice anything unusual about it?â€
His brow furrowed, and it took him a moment to realise what Betty meant.
–It's too late in the year for toads to be out calling?â€
–Bit of time magic, and I can turn summer back into spring, with beautiful toad-song.†Betty sounded smug.
–You know the theory of Time-Turner magic?†The words were out of his mouth before he knew he had uttered them. Never mind the toads: what wouldn't Sirius Black give to relive a past season? Less than that, even: just one night would do. Could this strange old witch really make it happen?
–Not really. But it doesn't take much to fool a toad.â€
–Oh.â€
They listened in the darkness to the insistent, repeated calls of the out-of-season toads. After several minutes had gone by, Sirius began to notice that there was more than one voice in the chorus. Some of the notes were deeper, buzzing and croaking. Others were higher and sweeter.
–Bufo calamita, the natterjack toad,†Betty whispered in response to his wordless query. –They've always liked this area. And Bufo viridis, the European green toad. Got them off a witch from Bohemia. I have a few other exotic species, too, but we may not hear from them tonight.â€
As they watched, a few toads began to appear on top of the log. They hopped around on it, as though trying to find the right spot.
–I think they're nearly ready now.†Betty's face was all eager anticipation.
–Ready for what?â€
–For the performance, of course.â€
And with that, all the toads in view began calling at once. No longer were they individuals outdoing each other; now their voices blended into a clear, deeply structured melody. After the first few bars, Sirius turned to Betty in astonishment.
–It's da Vilvi's Sonata For Two Enchanted Harps! I know this one, it goes de-dum da-da dum-de-dum-dum --â€
–Shh. They've only just learned it.â€
They listened in silence to the singing toads. How did they achieve so much vocal variation? Surely there was magic involved? He glanced at Betty, but her wand was in her pocket. However it was done, the toads completed the piece, with -- as far as Sirius could tell -- not a note out of place. The final chord gave way to a quiet shuffling, as some toads left the stage, and others took their place.
Betty exhaled happily. –And now, if I'm not mistaken ... ah, yes.â€
The music began again, this time unfamiliar to Sirius. Seeing his puzzlement, Betty supplied a whispered explanation.
–Strauss -- a Muggle composer I'm rather fond of. This is the overture from die Fledermaus. Means The Bat, although I like to think it could just as easily have been The Toad.â€
It was a diverse cascade of themes, the melodies coming in quick succession. Sirius, still getting over his amazement that toads could produce recognisable music at all, was flabbergasted by their facility with what was clearly a demanding piece. The powers and purposes of toads, it seemed, surpassed his imagination as well as theirs. The world was a larger place, somehow, for having such talent in it; he was a larger person, for knowing of it.
The program after that went quickly (–Mozart: so versatile -- he wrote quite a lot of music for Muggle instruments, too, you know.â€). Over an hour had elapsed, and the stage was bathed in moonlight, before Betty murmured –I think there's time for one more ...â€
The toads' chirruping began distantly, slowly, and near silently. Sirius knew he'd heard the tune somewhere before, but couldn't think where. Then, just as he thought he'd been mistaken, half a dozen of the largest toads leapt into a booming crescendo. Almost there seemed to be words in it; he couldn't quite make out what they were, but just hearing them was fascinating; numinous, even. The toads sang to him of something fierce, bright and joyful, yet at the same time abandoned, remote, and disremembered.
–The Prisoners' Chorus, from Beethoven's Fidelio. It expresses the prisoners' thankfulness at being able to walk in daylight again, after the pain and squalor of their dungeons. Such emotional music -- I cry a bit every time I hear it.†She sniffed.
Sirius took a long look at her, but she seemed absorbed in listening. He could see no sign that she might have chosen this particular piece by anything more than chance -- or, indeed, that she had been the one to choose it at all.
When at last it was over, the performers departed quietly, leaving their stage only a log once more. The air had turned cool during the evening, and the audience both felt stiff as they left the rustic concert hall. A light breeze had sprung up, ruffling the waters of the toads' pond.
–Well, what did you think?†Betty asked quietly, as they made their way back towards the cottage. –Can old toads learn new tricks, eh?â€
Sirius hardly knew what to think. Such a powerful, transcendent performance, and from such unpromising artists! For a moment, amidst the music, he had been eleven years old again, in the brilliantly lit Great Hall at Hogwarts with its hundreds of effulgent candles. –You don't have to be, you know,†the Sorting Hat had unexpectedly murmured to him, and his heart had leapt for something he hadn't even known he wanted.
–Did you do all their training yourself?†he asked eventually.
–Yes, everything. I'm not much of a witch, really, but I do know toads.â€
–That was a truly marvellous bit of magic. You're the most talented witch I've ever met, Betty, at least for toad-songs.â€
–Go on. Well, Peter, you've heard it all now. I expect you'll be off to rough up this evil enemy of yours, then?â€
–Yes.†Sirius' expression hardened a little at the thought. –But thank-you, Betty, for the food, and the music. I really needed it.â€
–Oh, you're most welcome. By the way, look out for Sirius Black.â€
It took some effort not to react to the name. –Who?â€
–Sirius Black -- he's a mass murderer, escaped from Azkaban. The wizard wireless was warning about him earlier, and he's even been on the Muggle news. Not someone you'd want to run into on a dark night.â€
Sirius waved cheerfully at the moon, only a night past full. –Good thing it isn't a dark night, then.†He bent down, and startled Betty by planting a kiss on her cheek. –Good-bye, Betty. You've been very kind to me.â€
As he tramped across the moonlit flatlands, Sirius mused on Betty's final remarks. Had she genuinely not guessed who he was? It was possible. The lower reaches of wizarding society were full of eccentric, badly-dressed itinerants down on their luck; he should know, having once lived rough enough to encounter a few of them. Betty cared for her toads; perhaps she could be relied upon to do the odd vagrant a good turn as well. And she seemed to have believed his spur-of-the-moment lie about being a werewolf -- that was a bit of luck, it would confuse the Ministry even if she did report meeting him.
He decided not to let himself dwell on it further. Instead, he found himself recalling the way he had once managed to convince Remus that his Animagus form was going to be a toad. The look on Remus' face had more than justified the effort required. It was a happy memory -- the first he had been allowed in a long, long time -- and it brought a smile to his lips as his feet carried him on, through the quiet fields, towards London. He still needed to catch up with a certain rat, but perhaps there would be time for a brief stop in Surrey, on the way.