Chapter Text
Sirius’ life gets turned upside-down on what would otherwise have been a perfectly ordinary Wednesday.
He’s sitting at his desk in the Auror office, sorting through paperwork. As usual, the office is a whirlwind of activity. Memos fly around overhead, searching for their intended recipients. Some Aurors are sitting at their desks, busily writing up reports or recording intel; others are talking, comparing notes and strategizing. There are also some empty cubicles, their occupants out gathering intel or making arrests.
He can’t see all this happening, of course — for the most part, he can only see the walls of his own cubicle, which are papered with wanted posters, pictures of motorbikes, and a few photos of the other Marauders. But he can hear it, all the hustle and bustle, and he can see it in his mind’s eye. It’s like this almost every day, after all, unless something really big goes down. Despite the danger, he looks forward to those days — they’re the only time he’s sent out into the field, and even then it’s not a guarantee.
He’s not really bitter about it — he knows he’s already doing more than he would be under normal circumstances. He’s not even two years out of Hogwarts and he’s working as a rookie Auror — that’s hardly something to be bitter about.
Auror training is supposed to take three years, but due to the present climate — that is, due to the fact that Voldemort and his cronies are murdering people left and right and threatening the safety of the Wizarding World — the decision had been made to temporarily switch to a year-long intensive program, after which rookies are allowed to take on some low-risk duties while continuing to attend training sessions several times a week. “Low-risk duties”, unsurprisingly, translates to “desk work”. For the most part, Sirius’ job is to go through the field reports of more senior Aurors, searching for connections and red flags before filing the paperwork away. The most action he gets in an average week comes when he has to walk to the other side of the office to fact-check something with the Auror whose report he’s looking over.
He finally finishes going over Auror Fawley’s report on the arrests he made yesterday, and he pushes it aside with a small sigh. Fawley’s handwriting is always so small, and… and scribbly. It’s always such a pain in the ass to decipher. He pushes his chair out from his desk and gets to his feet, picking up the report, which now needs to be filed.
“Prongs,” he says, poking his head over the divider that separates his cubicle from his best friend’s behind him. “I’m going over to the filing cabinets — need anything put away?”
James doesn’t even look up from the report he’s working on; judging by the ink smudged all over his hands and the numerous circled phrases on the parchment, he’s stumbled across some kind of significant connection to another case. He shakes his head briefly and circles something else. Sirius pouts for a moment, wishing James would at least look up, but leaves him to it and heads off to the other side of the room.
It only takes him a few moments to find Fawley’s drawer and file the report. He goes to the sink to grab a glass of water before heading back to his cubicle, knowing that there’ll most likely be another report waiting for him when he gets there.
Sure enough, there’s another piece of parchment already on his desk; it is not, however, a case report. The word “Intel” is stamped across the top in red ink, and the notes on the parchment are scribbled down in point form; this is a record of an Auror’s meeting with an informant. Sirius’ job is to record any pertinent information — plans, new Death Eaters, new targets — in the big black binder that’s kept on his desk. All the Aurors have matching binders, and they’re kept magically updated — when one Auror writes in new information, it appears in the binders of all the other Aurors.
He pulls his binder towards him, dips his quill in his inkwell, and starts going through the report. There’s nothing particularly noteworthy in it — still no plans to attack the Ministry is the first bullet point, and it’s followed by the names of a few newly-recruited Death Eaters. He’s not sure, but he thinks he recognizes a few names from Hogwarts.
It’s not long before his mind starts to wander; he’s only half paying attention as he adds names to the list of known and suspected Death Eaters in the binder. He’s thinking about what he’s going to pick up for tea that evening and writing the name “Raphael Yaxley” on the list when the next bullet point makes his heart stop in his chest.
Regulus Black is missing, presumed dead.
He’s only vaguely aware that he’s dropped his quill, barely registers when it clatters onto the desk and splatters ink onto the report. His breathing is impossibly loud in his ears, and all he can do is stare at the words in front of him.
Regulus Black is missing, presumed dead.
“You’ll never guess what I just — Padfoot?” James’ voice sounds very far away, but Sirius still catches the abrupt change in his tone, from smug to startled. “What’s wrong?”
Sirius doesn’t answer. He suddenly notices that his hands are trembling violently; he grips the armrests of his chair so tightly that his knuckles go white, and he tries to even out his breathing, slow it down. In. Out. In. Out. Regulus is dead. Regulus is dead.
“Sirius?” James’ hand comes down on his shoulder, and that snaps him out of it; he practically bolts to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the ground in the process, and, ignoring James’ exclamation of shock, snatches the report off his desk.
Ar. Merit Viola is the name scrawled at the top. He rushes out of his cubicle, steadfastly ignoring James’ attempts to stop him; all he can think is that he needs to talk to Auror Viola, needs to hear it for himself.
Luckily, she’s in her cubicle when he gets there, sipping a cup of tea and looking through one of her case files. She looks up, clearly startled, when Sirius storms in, but he doesn’t give her a chance to speak before he’s shoving the report in her face.
“Is this accurate?”
“I… what?” Viola blinks at him, her dark eyebrows drawing together.
“Sirius! What is going on?!” James has chased after him; he grabs him by the elbow, but Sirius shakes him off.
“Is this accurate?!” he repeats, shaking the parchment a little. “This report, is it accurate?”
“Of course it’s accurate.” A frown has appeared on Viola’s face now, and she takes the parchment out of his hand. “This is the intel report I sent out for filing? Is there a problem, Mr.… Black, isn’t it?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” James interjects. Sirius finally looks at him, only to realize that half the office is watching him; heads are poking around cubicle walls, and a few people have stopped in their tracks to gawk. “You were yelling,” James says quietly in answer to Sirius’ unasked question. “What’s wrong?”
Sirius looks back at Viola, and wonders briefly if she can see desperation on his face the way he can see confusion on hers. “Have you used this source before? You trust him? His information is sound?”
“Yes on all three counts.” Viola is starting to sound impatient. “What is this about, Mr. Black? Did you notice an inconsistency…?”
He’s shaking again. She needs to tell him it’s not true, or at least that it could be a mistake. She and James are both staring at him expectantly, but his throat has closed up; he barely manages to choke out the words, “My brother.”
“Your…?” Viola looks back down at the parchment, and Sirius watches as her eyes go wide with recognition. “Oh, Merlin,” she says under her breath, and when she looks back up at him, sympathy has replaced the impatience in her features. “Mr. Black — Sirius — I’m so sorry, this report should not have gone to you —"
“What is going on?!” James exclaims, pushing his hands through his hair in frustration. “Is someone going to fill me in, or do I just have to guess?”
The spectators seem to have lost interest now; most of them have gone back to work, and the few who remain have started to awkwardly sidle away. Sirius waits until no one is left besides James and Viola before he speaks.
“Regulus is dead.” It’s as much a question posed to Viola as it is an explanation for James, and her slow nod of confirmation sends his heart plummeting into his stomach.
“More than likely,” she says. “Almost certainly. I mean, no one’s found a body — not us, not the Death Eaters — but apparently You-Know-Who confirmed it himself to his inner circle. I’m sorry.”
James curses quietly next to him. “Padfoot —"
“What happened?” Sirius says over him. He needs to know, he needs to understand, he wants to know why. “Who was it?”
“The word is that it was You-Know-Who himself.” She levels her gaze at him, but he can’t take the look of pity in her eyes for longer than a few moments before he has to look away. “He was trying to run.”
And just like that, everything comes crashing down.