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I should be writing original fic for Creative Writing class. Instead, I wrote a trailer/prequel for the Harry Potter AU I'm starting on. Anybody else think Harry and Co. would be really nifty in the Old West? Lucius Malfoy, Cattle Baron, just has a certain ring to it.
All Hallows Eve, 1863
Sirius saw the glow on the horizon long before he ever smelled the smoke. It was a deep orangy-red, bright enough to light up half of Fauquier county, spread across the eastern sky like an early sunrise.
Riddle’s men had already been there. He was too late.
No. Sirius dug his spurs into the Black Bitch’s flanks, uncaring, for once, whether they drew blood. The big, black mare responded with another burst of speed, and Sirius flattened himself across her neck, breathing encouragement into her tangled main. “Come on, you damn piece a’ dogsmeat, faster. Run, you bitch. It’s not too late to eat you.” The words were half a prayer, and the Bitch ran on like the experienced cavalry horse she was, charging through the October night toward Grimmauld place. Toward where Lily and baby Harry waited, defenceless, with nothing to protect them from Major Riddle’s reprisals but a wounded and weaken James.
Maybe Riddle’s boys had fired the fields and out buildings. That angry red light could be the neglected tobacco fields, grown over with brush and weeds and set alight. It could be the barn, the empty slave quarters, the smokehouse. It didn’t have to be the plantation house, burning down with James and Lily inside it. ‘Please, Lord,’ he begged, ‘don’t let it be the house.’
Branches snatched at Sirius’s face and tangled in his hair, his slouch hat long gone some three miles back. He ignored the sting, ignored the increasingly laboured sound of the Black Bitch’s breathing. She had been with him three years, since before Manassas, but what was one horse’s life compared to James’s? He would trade a hundred horses for the chance to reach Grimmauld place in time.
When the pair of them finally breasted the crown of the last hill, Sirius found himself hauling back on the reins without really meaning to, his blood gone cold as ice.
Below them, Godfrey’s Hollow had become a vision of Hell. Grimmauld place was burning, flames wreathing its no-longer-white columns and shooting out of the upstairs windows. As he watched, paralysed by horror, part of the roof gave way, collapsing in a shower of red and golden sparks and a swirl of black smoke.
“James!” Sirius gave the Black Bitch’s foam-streaked flanks one last, vicious kick, and sawed on the reins, forcing her downhill toward the inferno. They had barely reached the first outbuilding when the mare’s training gave out. The Bitch would charge into canonfire and pitched battle for her rider, but fire was something else altogether.
Sirius kicked his dancing and plunging mount again, but she would go no further. Cursing angrily, he flung himself out of the saddle, seizing his rifle from its scabbard as he went. He had to get to the house. James was in the house, with Lily and Harry.
He could feel the heat pressing against him like a wave before he got within ten feet of the front veranda, but he ran forward anyway, ignoring the way the smoke stung his eye and rasped in his lungs. It didn’t matter. Nothing matter but finding them.
The front parlour was an inferno, draperies and carpets ablaze and flames creeping up the walls. “James!” Sirius screamed, “Lily!” There was no response. He could barely hear his own words, the roar of the fire nearly obliterating them.
The staircase creaked uneasily under his feet as he climbed it, wood weakened by the heat. The higher he climbed, the worse things became, the heat so bad that he could feel his clothes and hair starting to smoulder. The air was laden with smoke, impossible to breath without suffocating. Sirius’s world was going dark around the edges, grey and black patches appearing at the corners of his vision, and when he reached the final landing, he found his way blocked by a wall of flame.
Sirius almost went through it, but some last vestige of rationality pointed out that James and Lily would have been sleeping on the bottom floor. James’s leg was too weak to tackle the stairs.
Halfway down the staircase, a step gave way beneath his foot, smouldering wood splintering and tearing. Tears of frustration and pain stinging his eyes almost as much as the smoke did, Sirius wrenched his foot free and launched himself over the landing, landing in a crouch that sent a shock of pain upward from the souls of his feet. He stumbled, touched a hand to the floor, and was on his feet again, barely registering the blisters rising on the palm that had hit the smoking carpet. The rifle was gone somewhere, he wasn't sure where. It didn't matter. Only James and his family mattered.
It was his nose that led him to them, picking out the sickeningly sweet smell of burning flesh over the smoke and ash of the fire. It came from the back of the house, where the flames and heat had caved the roof in, bringing down part of the second story.
The hallway was like a tunnel through hell, bits of the ceiling raining down on his head as he half-ran, half-stumbled forward. The smoke was so bad that Sirius was forced to bend nearly double, lungs straining. Mixed in with the roar of the flames, he could hear James’s voice calling for him.
When he ducked under a fallen beam into the back bedroom, his mind momentarily refused to register the scene in front of him. That limp, smouldering bundle pinned under the fallen boards of the second floor couldn’t possibly be James. It couldn’t be.
Sirius stepped over the man-who-wasn’t-James, feeling but not hearing the crunch of metal and shattered glass under his feet as his boot came down on a pair of heat-distorted spectacles. Lily was curled in the far corner of the room, huddled motionless beneath a scorched blanket. Her eyes were closed, and when he shook her, she didn’t wake up.
He slapped her, open-handed, across the face, but she didn’t even twitch. He couldn’t tell whether or not she was breathing.
Someone was wailing, he realized, and he knelt down, the heat from the floor burning through the knees of his uniform, to find little Harry. Lily had curled herself around him, protecting him from the fallen roof as best she could, but he had still been burned. A swath of red and blistered flesh stretched across his forehead, and his crying was already weaker than it had been seconds ago.
He had to get Harry out now, Sirius realised, before the smoke and heat killed him. He could come back for Lily and James.
He seemed to stumble through a long, dark tunnel, ears buzzing with lack of air and eyes tearing so badly that he was nearly blind. Everything was going fuzzy, sounds coming from farther and farther away. How much farther was it to the front door? Ten feet? Five? Three?
Something was hitting him, hard blows to his back and shoulders. It must be the roof, falling in on them. He tried to curl up, to protect Harry. Had to protect Harry. Keep him safe, get him out…
“Christ, reb, hold still! You’re shirt’s burning!”
“What’s he got there?”
“Hold still, damn you!”
Sirius coughed, trying to drag air into his scorched lungs, the voices around him nothing but background noise, blending with the sound of the fire. “James,” he gasped out. “Li-lily and, and James…”
Someone had ahold of his shoulders, was trying to drag him away from the house, while another faceless figure pulled Harry out of his arms.
Harry was out. Now he could go back for Lily and James.
He struggled against the hands gripping him, but it was no use. Inexorably, he was pulled farther and farther away, until the heat of the flames became something bearable. “Let me go,” he begged. “James is in there. I have to get James.”
They wouldn’t listen to him, wouldn’t let him go, and that was when he realised, with a dull lack of surprise, that their uniforms were blue.
Riddle’s men had come back.
There were questions after that, and more blows. Had Potter really been inside? Who else had the household been hiding? Where were the rest of the Marauders? Sirius shook his head dumbly to all of them, to numb to speak, unable to pull his eyes away from the tower of flame that had once been his home. Even as he watched, the rest of the second story caved in, sealing Lily and James inside forever.
And all the time, Major Riddle sat silently atop his big, grey horse, hard green eyes watching Grimmauld place burn.
All Hallows Eve, 1863
Sirius saw the glow on the horizon long before he ever smelled the smoke. It was a deep orangy-red, bright enough to light up half of Fauquier county, spread across the eastern sky like an early sunrise.
Riddle’s men had already been there. He was too late.
No. Sirius dug his spurs into the Black Bitch’s flanks, uncaring, for once, whether they drew blood. The big, black mare responded with another burst of speed, and Sirius flattened himself across her neck, breathing encouragement into her tangled main. “Come on, you damn piece a’ dogsmeat, faster. Run, you bitch. It’s not too late to eat you.” The words were half a prayer, and the Bitch ran on like the experienced cavalry horse she was, charging through the October night toward Grimmauld place. Toward where Lily and baby Harry waited, defenceless, with nothing to protect them from Major Riddle’s reprisals but a wounded and weaken James.
Maybe Riddle’s boys had fired the fields and out buildings. That angry red light could be the neglected tobacco fields, grown over with brush and weeds and set alight. It could be the barn, the empty slave quarters, the smokehouse. It didn’t have to be the plantation house, burning down with James and Lily inside it. ‘Please, Lord,’ he begged, ‘don’t let it be the house.’
Branches snatched at Sirius’s face and tangled in his hair, his slouch hat long gone some three miles back. He ignored the sting, ignored the increasingly laboured sound of the Black Bitch’s breathing. She had been with him three years, since before Manassas, but what was one horse’s life compared to James’s? He would trade a hundred horses for the chance to reach Grimmauld place in time.
When the pair of them finally breasted the crown of the last hill, Sirius found himself hauling back on the reins without really meaning to, his blood gone cold as ice.
Below them, Godfrey’s Hollow had become a vision of Hell. Grimmauld place was burning, flames wreathing its no-longer-white columns and shooting out of the upstairs windows. As he watched, paralysed by horror, part of the roof gave way, collapsing in a shower of red and golden sparks and a swirl of black smoke.
“James!” Sirius gave the Black Bitch’s foam-streaked flanks one last, vicious kick, and sawed on the reins, forcing her downhill toward the inferno. They had barely reached the first outbuilding when the mare’s training gave out. The Bitch would charge into canonfire and pitched battle for her rider, but fire was something else altogether.
Sirius kicked his dancing and plunging mount again, but she would go no further. Cursing angrily, he flung himself out of the saddle, seizing his rifle from its scabbard as he went. He had to get to the house. James was in the house, with Lily and Harry.
He could feel the heat pressing against him like a wave before he got within ten feet of the front veranda, but he ran forward anyway, ignoring the way the smoke stung his eye and rasped in his lungs. It didn’t matter. Nothing matter but finding them.
The front parlour was an inferno, draperies and carpets ablaze and flames creeping up the walls. “James!” Sirius screamed, “Lily!” There was no response. He could barely hear his own words, the roar of the fire nearly obliterating them.
The staircase creaked uneasily under his feet as he climbed it, wood weakened by the heat. The higher he climbed, the worse things became, the heat so bad that he could feel his clothes and hair starting to smoulder. The air was laden with smoke, impossible to breath without suffocating. Sirius’s world was going dark around the edges, grey and black patches appearing at the corners of his vision, and when he reached the final landing, he found his way blocked by a wall of flame.
Sirius almost went through it, but some last vestige of rationality pointed out that James and Lily would have been sleeping on the bottom floor. James’s leg was too weak to tackle the stairs.
Halfway down the staircase, a step gave way beneath his foot, smouldering wood splintering and tearing. Tears of frustration and pain stinging his eyes almost as much as the smoke did, Sirius wrenched his foot free and launched himself over the landing, landing in a crouch that sent a shock of pain upward from the souls of his feet. He stumbled, touched a hand to the floor, and was on his feet again, barely registering the blisters rising on the palm that had hit the smoking carpet. The rifle was gone somewhere, he wasn't sure where. It didn't matter. Only James and his family mattered.
It was his nose that led him to them, picking out the sickeningly sweet smell of burning flesh over the smoke and ash of the fire. It came from the back of the house, where the flames and heat had caved the roof in, bringing down part of the second story.
The hallway was like a tunnel through hell, bits of the ceiling raining down on his head as he half-ran, half-stumbled forward. The smoke was so bad that Sirius was forced to bend nearly double, lungs straining. Mixed in with the roar of the flames, he could hear James’s voice calling for him.
When he ducked under a fallen beam into the back bedroom, his mind momentarily refused to register the scene in front of him. That limp, smouldering bundle pinned under the fallen boards of the second floor couldn’t possibly be James. It couldn’t be.
Sirius stepped over the man-who-wasn’t-James, feeling but not hearing the crunch of metal and shattered glass under his feet as his boot came down on a pair of heat-distorted spectacles. Lily was curled in the far corner of the room, huddled motionless beneath a scorched blanket. Her eyes were closed, and when he shook her, she didn’t wake up.
He slapped her, open-handed, across the face, but she didn’t even twitch. He couldn’t tell whether or not she was breathing.
Someone was wailing, he realized, and he knelt down, the heat from the floor burning through the knees of his uniform, to find little Harry. Lily had curled herself around him, protecting him from the fallen roof as best she could, but he had still been burned. A swath of red and blistered flesh stretched across his forehead, and his crying was already weaker than it had been seconds ago.
He had to get Harry out now, Sirius realised, before the smoke and heat killed him. He could come back for Lily and James.
He seemed to stumble through a long, dark tunnel, ears buzzing with lack of air and eyes tearing so badly that he was nearly blind. Everything was going fuzzy, sounds coming from farther and farther away. How much farther was it to the front door? Ten feet? Five? Three?
Something was hitting him, hard blows to his back and shoulders. It must be the roof, falling in on them. He tried to curl up, to protect Harry. Had to protect Harry. Keep him safe, get him out…
“Christ, reb, hold still! You’re shirt’s burning!”
“What’s he got there?”
“Hold still, damn you!”
Sirius coughed, trying to drag air into his scorched lungs, the voices around him nothing but background noise, blending with the sound of the fire. “James,” he gasped out. “Li-lily and, and James…”
Someone had ahold of his shoulders, was trying to drag him away from the house, while another faceless figure pulled Harry out of his arms.
Harry was out. Now he could go back for Lily and James.
He struggled against the hands gripping him, but it was no use. Inexorably, he was pulled farther and farther away, until the heat of the flames became something bearable. “Let me go,” he begged. “James is in there. I have to get James.”
They wouldn’t listen to him, wouldn’t let him go, and that was when he realised, with a dull lack of surprise, that their uniforms were blue.
Riddle’s men had come back.
There were questions after that, and more blows. Had Potter really been inside? Who else had the household been hiding? Where were the rest of the Marauders? Sirius shook his head dumbly to all of them, to numb to speak, unable to pull his eyes away from the tower of flame that had once been his home. Even as he watched, the rest of the second story caved in, sealing Lily and James inside forever.
And all the time, Major Riddle sat silently atop his big, grey horse, hard green eyes watching Grimmauld place burn.