the_debt_of_time

head first in the direction that called to him. He could feel Remus sprinting after him, and
the sweet scent of Hermione close behind, but he pushed on at record speed.
All the while, he cursed Remus and his stupid sense of honour and loyalty, cursed
Hermione for following him to the edge of the forest and putting herself so close to danger,
cursed Harry for his arrogance and sacrificial love for his friends. He even cursed James
and Lily for ever thinking he was capable of dealing with their headstrong, stubborn, but
oh-so-loving son.
The scent in the air changed, and Padfoot turned into a clearing, gazing wide-eyed
down upon a sight he had hoped to never see: Harry's body on the ground, unmoving.
He watched closely from the shadows, trying to see if Harry was breathing.
Listening for the soft sounds of a heartbeat. It was impossible to catch a sign of life with
the loud crowd at his back on their way toward him and his own heart pounding in his
chest, filling him with dread.
The gathered Death Eaters in front were crowded around another body that was
rousing.
"That will do," Voldemort said. "The boy... is he dead?"
There was a complete silence in the clearing. The Death Eaters looked too terrified
to approach Harry.
"You fear a dead child?!" Voldemort snapped, and immediately, several Death
Eaters jumped into action.
A protective paternal feeling washed over his rigid body, and Padfoot lunged from
the bushes with a growl, placing himself in between the Death Eaters and Harry, snarling
viciously. The Death Eaters all took a step back, reaching for their wands and aiming them
at him. He continued to growl as he stalked forward, his focus set on the red eyes of
Voldemort.
While Bellatrix's blood had tasted like vengeance in his mouth, Voldemort's would
most certainly taste like justice.
He readied his body to pounce, knowing that he could effortlessly clear the men
standing in front of their master. Padfoot let out one last, low growl and leapt forward,
paws and claws eager to tear through skin, jaw open and waiting to grip flesh. There was
no plan; there was only raging temper and clouded vision. This personality trait was one
that always came back to nip him in the arse: running headlong to confront Peter in a