"Ooof!"
Sirius hit the ground hard, his knees taking the brunt of the impact against the wet stone. He didn't care about the bruising; his arms were locked like a vice around the small boy on his chest.
"You alright, Harry?" Sirius rasped, his eyes immediately scanning the dark, salt-sprayed horizon for threats.
Harry didn't answer. He didn't even seem to hear the question. He was a knot of rigid tension, his fingers digging so deeply into Sirius's leather jacket that his knuckles were white. His panicked eyes were locked onto the limp, silent form of Nathan, currently cradled in Esme's arms. Sirius had expected a glimmer of wonder—the look most children gave when they see magic at any form—but Harry's face held only a hollow, haunting terror.
"It's alright, Harry. I've got you," Sirius murmured, though his own heart was hammering against his ribs.
It had taken ages for Sirius and Esme to decide how to move the boys. Uncle Marius had warned them—the word 'magic' wasn't a fairy tale to Harry; it was a threat. To him, anything unexplained was synonymous with pain, cupboards, and starvation.
As the cold North Sea wind whipped around them, Sirius felt a black, cold rage bubbling in his gut. He wanted to go back. He wanted to find those Dursleys and make them experience a fraction of the pain they had inflicted.
"This way," Esme said, her voice barely carrying over the roar of the surf as she turned toward the jagged edge of the cliff.
Sirius squinted through the spray, shielding Harry's face. "Where exactly is this stasis chamber, Esme? All I see is a drop into the North Sea."
Esme didn't answer with words. She simply smirked, a sharp, French elegance to the expression, and swept her wand in a wide, commanding arc.
The air shimmered. Space itself seemed to fold and groan as the illusion shattered. In its place stood a fortress of dark, salt-encrusted stone, clinging to the cliffside like a gargoyle.
Sirius stared, his jaw nearly hitting his chest. "That's a castle!" He whirled to look at her, his eyes wide. "You have a castle?"
It was massive—not the sprawling, sentient mountain that was Hogwarts, but certainly grander than any manor house in Wiltshire. It looked weathered, the grey stones bitten by centuries of Atlantic gales, indicating it had stood empty for a long time. Sirius knew enough of estate magic to realize the cost of this; without the constant magical 'charge' provided by a small army of House-elves or expensive Goblin maintenance contracts, a place like this should have crumbled into the sea decades ago. Most noble families had long since retreated to sensible manors or townhouses, unable to fuel the ancient wards such a structure demanded.
Even Blackwood Castle, the primary home of the House of Black, was a castle in name only. In reality, it was just a sprawling, over-indulgent mansion designed for comfort and the display of wealth. But this place? This was a true fortress, a relic of an age where magic was built for survival rather than social standing. It felt less like a home and more like a sleeping titan of stone.
"It is a Peverell estate," Esme said, her gaze lingering on the dark towers. "And right now, it is the only place on earth safe enough for what we must do."
"Wait. The what?" Sirius looked at her. He has heard about the Peverell's. Another ancient and noble family that has been lost through the ages. Why does Esme have access to such an estate?
"Questions later." She spoke. She led the way, her boots clicking sharply against the stone bridge that spanned a dizzying drop to the churning surf below.
Sirius couldn't help but look around, his mind still reeling. They reached a pair of large golden doors, but as they drew closer, Sirius realized they weren't made of wood, nor even a standard magical alloy. They shimmered with a strange, oily, alchemical light, etched from top to bottom in runes that made the hair on Sirius's arms stand on end. It felt like walking toward a localized lightning storm.
Goblin silver was the standard for magical conductivity, but Sirius didn't recognize this. As a man who had grown up surrounded by the most expensive—and often most dangerous—relics in Britain, he knew the 'feel' of valuable materials. This was older. It felt denser, as if the metal itself were alive and watching them.
Esme didn't knock. She pressed her palm to a central seal, and the doors groaned open with the heavy, industrial sound of grinding metal gears.
Inside, the transition was jarring. The biting cold of the North Sea was cut off as if by a knife, replaced by an atmosphere that felt heavy, still, and strangely sterile. It smelled of ozone, crushed herbs, and the sharp, clean scent of a Muggle infirmary. Sirius blinked in surprise. He'd spent enough time in the Muggle world to recognize that antiseptic tang, but he'd never expected to find it inside a magical fortress.
He froze. The entrance hall didn't lead to the expected grand staircase or a dusty ballroom. Instead, it opened into a vast, vaulted chamber bathed in a soft, amber glow.
"Merlin's beard," Sirius breathed, his eyes widening.
Esme moved with clinical efficiency, guiding the unconscious Nathan onto the nearest bed. The moment his body touched the stone, the runes on the floor flared to life with a low hum. The crystal ball beside him suddenly filled with a frantic, muddy grey mist that churned with a violent, oily energy.
"He is in stasis," Esme said, her voice dropping into a clipped, professional tone. She tapped the crystal ball with her wand, and the grey mist slowed, though it remained dark and ominous. "The magic here will monitor his core and his vitals. It will alert me the moment there is a shift. Until then... we have time."
Sirius walked deeper into the room, his boots echoing against the stone. His eyes caught movement further down the row, and he stopped, his heart skipping a beat.
There were two more occupied beds.
A girl with a wild nest of curly brown hair lay in the first, looking impossibly small against the white linen. In the next lay a toddler, barely two years old, so still that Sirius would have taken him for a statue if not for the faint, rhythmic pulse of light within the crystal ball beside him.
"Esme," Sirius's voice was a low growl of disbelief. "Who are they?"
Esme didn't look up from Nathan's diagnostic runes. "The last of the Peverells, Sirius. Penelope and Pietro."
"Why are they here?"
Esme finally looked at him, her expression weary but resolute. "You are not the only one who has godchildren, Sirius."
Sirius felt a small, sharp tug on his hand. He had almost forgotten, in his shock, that Harry was still anchored to his side.
The five-year-old was staring at Penelope and Pietro with a look of profound, silent horror. To Harry, this wasn't a hospital; it was a morgue. He had spent his life being told he was a "freak," and now he was standing in a room full of children who looked like broken dolls, trapped under glass and stone.
Harry's gaze shifted from the sleeping Peverells back to Nathan. Seeing his brother, lying so still on a slab of stone was the breaking point. He didn't cry out; he didn't have the breath for it. Instead, he began to tremble so violently that Sirius could feel the vibrations through his leather sleeves.
"Harry? Pup, look at me," Sirius knelt, trying to block the view of the stasis beds with his own body.
Harry didn't look up. His eyes were fixed on the runic circles pulsing beneath Nathan's bed. "Is... is he in the cupboard?" he whispered, his voice tiny and cracked. "Is the magic putting him in the cupboard?"
The question hit Sirius like a Bludger to the chest. To Harry, "stasis" wasn't a medical term; it was just another version of being locked away.
"No, Harry. No cupboard. Never again," Sirius said, his voice thick with a sudden, fierce protectiveness. He reached out, and for the first time, Harry didn't flinch away from the touch—he collapsed into Sirius's chest, hiding his face from the glowing runes and the antiseptic smell that reminded him too much of the doctors the Dursleys never let him see.
Esme paused, her wand hovering over a diagnostic rune. She looked at the small, trembling boy huddled against the Black heir. For a moment, the clinical mask slipped, and Sirius saw a flash of raw, French temper in her eyes—not directed at them, but at the world that had allowed this.
"He is not in a cupboard, petit," Esme said, her voice softer than Sirius had ever heard it. "He is in the stars. I have put his pain to sleep so that I may heal him."
Harry didn't understand her words, but he understood the tone. He gripped Sirius's jacket tighter, looking over his shoulder at the crystal ball beside Nathan. The muddy grey mist was still churning, but under Esme's hand, it seemed less like a monster and more like a secret.
Sirius tightened his hold on the boy, his gaze meeting Esme's over the soft, rhythmic hum of the stasis fields. Outside, the North Sea roared against the cliffs, but inside chamber, the silence was absolute. The rescue was over, but as Sirius looked at the row of sleeping children, he realized there was more to be done.
Author's Note:
To my Wattpad readers. This story has always been slow build since I started it. So, if you are going to wonder when Harry will enter Hogwarts, it's gonna be a while. The focus here is actually Sirius and the Black family first. I hope you all be patient.
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