If the universe had cared about effect and aesthetic, the night would have been stormy, with plenty of dramatic lightning and booming thunder, the kind of night that promises suspicious figures in cloaks, dealings in the dark and plenty of drama. But the universe, alas, has not been known to have a sense of drama. Instead, it was a very pleasant night in late summer. It was warm, with the moon shining in the sky, stars twinkling. Nobody lived on this coast, which was vast and empty, and far out to sea a small shape was visible in the clear night against the sky, the start of the island.

Had anybody been watching the sea on that grey, stony beach, they would have seen a strange shape swimming through the sea, getting closer to land. Sometimes the dog sank, and sometimes he swam. He was so cold, so hungry and so delirious that it felt like it had been years since he had entered the water, which tossed him like a ragdoll in its waves. There was no light in the darkness of the water but the luminous silver of the half moon above him, and the dog swam desperately, knowing his life depended on it, though he was weak. It was a long time before the black dog reached the shore.

His fur was sodden and lay flat to his body, and his legs collapsed, and the watcher on the beach would have then seen a strange sight – the dog disappeared, and in its place lay a man. He was skeletal, dressed in black rags, his long hair tangled and dripping wet. He shivered, and then Sirius Black was violently sick onto the hard grey pebbles of the beach. The only thing in his stomach was seawater, and he coughed and spluttered, rolling onto his back and gasping for air. There would not be much time to rest, he knew – he had no idea what time it was, but the dementors checked the cells every twenty minutes. He lay on the grey pebbles, gasping, hardly daring to believe that he had made it, hardly daring to believe that he was out –

A shrill alarm broke the silence of the night, light glowing on the faraway island. Though he was still shivering, Sirius Black stumbled to his feet. He could already see the dark shapes swooping above the island. It had been such a very long time since he had apparated, but he had no choice.

A light breeze blew through his fur, and a faint noise came from his throat, half a sob. It had been twelve years since he had felt wind blow over him, since he had smelled the rich smell of plant life, and it was heightened with his canine nose: Sirius could smell every leaf, every inch of fresh earth, every small animal that burrowed or ran. In Azkaban, all he had smelled was the salt of the seawater that surrounded them for miles, the acrid stink of human filth, and the deep, wrong smell of dementors. Being a dog had been the only thing that had saved Sirius from going insane in there, but now, out here in the fresh air, he was almost afraid that he was insane. Perhaps he was still in his little cell in Azkaban, raving and screaming like all of the others.

But the wind that blew over his fur felt real, the hard mud underneath his paws felt real, the deep indigo of the sky, shot through with the silvery light of stars, seemed too beautiful even for a dream. Sirius Black took a deep breath. There had been plenty of faces keeping him company in Azkaban, plenty of voices that had whispered to him in the night, but only one had been a constant. Remus. He had dreamed of his face every night, but to his shame, the picture was getting less and less clear.

He could no longer be sure what colour Remus' eyes were – brown, he was almost certain, but then again, were they blue? What did his voice sound like? The only thing Sirius could remember were those long ago nights, at Hogwarts and afterwards. He could remember the smell of Remus' aftershave, and how he always wore woolly jumpers, how he carried cough sweets everywhere. He could remember James, his best friend, his glasses and his crooked grin, his laughter, the days at Hogwarts, Lily and hair the colour of fire, baby Harry......and he could remember Peter.

I'll kill you, he thought, as the picture, printed black and white in a newspaper, came back into his head. I'll kill you, Peter Pettigrew.