Chapter one:

I had no idea where I was.

Time slipped in and out; darkness and light alternated in a strange dance I couldn't keep up with.
I tried to anchor myself to something, but even my thoughts seemed to slide out of my reach.

The only idea I remember contemplating was that I must be dead. How else could I account for
the soft noises and the white lights? I was unable to think beyond that, and it was such a comfort
to simply exist—or not exist—in this strange dull fog.

But when my brain came out of the fog—six days later, I was eventually told—everything
changed. The noises were sharper. It was as though every footstep, every conversation, was
amplified. I could hear disembodied voices bouncing around inside my head and wondered if I
had finally gone insane. The soft white lights were now harsh and overbright. But most
disconcerting of all was the fact that I was chained to a bed and Albus Dumbledore was staring
at me from a nearby chair.

"You are in St. Mungo's Hospital," said Dumbledore, as though reading my mind. His voice was
casual, but there was something about his expression that unnerved me. I wasn't sure if I could
trust the bizarre situation in front of me as real, and I could only stare blankly back at him. "I do
not suppose you will remember being brought here—the transition can be quite a shock."

St. Mungo's.

Why the hell would I be in St. Mungo's?

The lights were too bright and the voices too loud; St. Mungo's was like hell. But more
disconcerting was the look in which Dumbledore was watching me. His old face was impassive
and blank, but his eyes were sharp and clear. He was looking at me in exactly the same way
everyone had in my nightmares.

"Do you recall our last conversation at Azkaban?" he continued.

Just the name made my heart stop beating. The simple mention of that dark black hole sucked
the air out of my lungs and I suddenly felt suffocated. How was I not there anymore? Was I
dead?

"Do you remember my coming to Azkaban?"

It took me a moment to realize he was asking a question, and I racked my brain for an answer.
My thoughts didn't have a clear timeline; everything was blurred and out of place. Before I could
come up with a reply, however, Dumbledore spoke again.

"Peter Pettigrew was found several days ago, in perfect health. Evidently life as a pet rat offers
its benefits. I came to see you in Azkaban, and asked whether you would be willing to submit to
some questions regarding the afternoon in which Peter supposedly died."

Oh. That's right. I remember now.

"And I am here today to determine whether you are still in agreement," Dumbledore added in a
pressing tone.

"What about it?"

My voice surprised me. It was obviously my voice, because Dumbledore certainly hadn't spoken,
but it sounded nothing like me. One day Dumbledore would tell me how mutinous I sounded, but
right now all I could do was marvel that my throat hadn't wasted away into dust.

"You don't have to answer now," said Dumbledore in the same calm and collected voice. "I'm
sure the Ministry would like to hear in on this one."

No.

Fuck no.

Panic and anger seized up in me. The emotions were so sudden that I almost felt sick. "I don't
want to talk to the Ministry."

"We can wait until you have recovered more fully—"

"They can fuck off," I clarified.

There was a pause in which Dumbledore took a steadying breath and sized me up. His pale eyes
were hesitant, watching—looking for some explanation he wasn't going to get. "But you are
talking to me," he said pointedly after a long moment. He straightened up in his chair. The lights
surrounding him were so bright that Dumbledore almost looked like a ghost. It was hard to see
his face clearly.

And the noise.

The constant footsteps, the slamming doors, and inane chatter inside my head was
overwhelming. I wanted to just sever my brainstem and cut the lights. I wanted silence.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

It was like having someone invade my mind and control my thoughts. Suddenly I was wrenched
into a blown-apart street. Red hair was sprawled out in front of me. Dust fell from the collapsed
ceiling like snow, and the air tasted like iron. Somewhere in the distance of my hollow mind was
laughter, and the scurry of a single grey rat down a hole. How badly I had wanted to tell someone
—anyone—what really happened. For years, while I rotted away in Azkaban, I had wanted
someone who would listen to ask me that simple question.

"I will come back tomorrow," said Dumbledore, getting to his feet. As he did so, he set a
handkerchief on the bed near my free hand. I stared at it dully, not understanding the meaning of
its presence until I tasted salt on my lips.

Somewhere in the distance a door slammed. The lights were over bright before everything fell
dark again.

Chapter two:

5:52 am

A sudden bright light and loud bang brought me back to reality. I jerked awake and looked
around for the source of the noise, but the sudden harsh light made it impossible to do anything
but squint and cover my eyes. As I moved to do so, however, my hand suddenly snagged on
something.

Oh, right. Chained to the bed.

"I need a set of vital signs, so I'm going to need you to sit up for a few minutes," said the intruder.

I must have sighed or done something equally offensive, because then the woman said in
clipped tones, "I saved you for last on my rounds, sir, so I need you up now. You can go back to
sleep when we're done."

My limbs might as well have been jello for all the support they gave me. Slowly I managed to
push myself into a sitting position, conscious of the fact that the nurse was watching me. One
hand was chained to the bedrail and was subsequently useless; the other was tangled up in
some sort of IV line. I tried to extract my legs from the blankets, which had somehow managed to
wrap several times around me, and I realized that the hospital gown I was dressed in was hiked
up well past my knees. Quickly I tried to cover myself again to preserve what little dignity I had,
and turned to look at the nurse.

She was pink-faced with dark hair, and was pretty in spite of the scowl set deeply into her face.
For some reason it embarrassed me further to have a young nurse seeing me in such a
ridiculous position. I was sure I lost all my former charm while imprisoned, so it wasn't as though
I could smooth-talk her into setting me free in order to go find Peter. I told myself it didn't matter
what she looked like, and tried to keep a neutral expression.

She worked silently and methodically. She appeared to be skillful, but I still found it strange for a
nurse to be so closed-off. Wasn't a big part of their job bedside manner? Oh, but then she
thought I was a murderer. I gave an involuntary sigh at this realization, and wondered if perhaps
she was the only one brave enough to come in here. As she worked, I found I had nothing to do
with myself, so I tried to make out the letters on her nametag.

Hestia Jones.

Once finished, Hestia put her equipment away in equal silence.

"Will I live?" I blurted before I could stop myself. I wasn't in fear of dying, but I felt like I needed to
say something to fill the awful silence.

Hestia turned to look at me. I couldn't read her expression. "Your vitals are good, but your blood
pressure's rather low. It's to be expected in your case, but try to drink more fluids," she said
clinically.

Yeah, why didn't I just ask the dementors for some pumpkin juice more often? I pushed this
sardonic thought away and ran my hand over my arm, feeling goose bumps there. "Is it always
cold in here?"

She glanced up halfway as she wrote in a chart—my chart, I assumed. "Usually. We're in the
oldest part of the building, so the heat regulation isn't as good."

Another silence.

Hestia moved to the door and knocked twice, giving some sort of signal to a person on the other
side. It opened, and I found myself staring at a stony-faced Auror. Great.

Wordlessly, he moved to my bed. I felt my heart accelerate in spite of myself. I thought briefly
that he might curse me for some sort of misdeed against the nurse, but the Auror simply
unchained my hand from the bedrail. I looked toward Hestia, who was waiting with the chart
pressed underneath folded arms.

"I need your weight and a few other measurements," she said by way of explanation.
As I had no choice, I followed Hesita down a narrow corridor. She had removed the IV from my
arm and given me a set of hospital-issued socks. My movements were still slow and ungraceful,
something that became obvious to everyone as I tried to walk down the hallway. I had to lean
onto the old brass handrail that protruded from the wall, conscious of the fact that the Auror and
nurse were waiting for me with slight impatience.

Well, maybe you ought to introduce an exercise program at Azkaban, I thought bitterly.

We passed several locked doors, some of which had a bored-looking security guard outside.
Hestia led us toward a small room on the left, waving her wand at the enchanted lights as she
went. Floating baubles suddenly lit up like bulbs, filling the room with an over-bright white glow.
The door closed with a soft click, and I was conscious of the silent Auror standing guard over it. I
considered telling him that watching me like a hawk was unnecessary—he saw for himself that I
could barely walk on my own two feet, let alone make a wild dash for freedom.

I obeyed Hestia's instructions in silence. She obtained my weight—an alarming 53kg—and wrote
extensive notes in a chart while a charmed tape measure wrapped itself around me, producing
numbers that didn't mean anything to me. After a while, she let me sit on the examining table
while she continued her assessment of my obvious poor health. She checked my fingernails, the
circulation in my feet, and the quality of my vision. She searched my skin for any marks or scars,
my balance for any leaning, and listened to what seemed like every organ in my body with a cold
stethoscope.

Finally satisfied, she folded up my chart and—completely ignoring me—turned to the Auror. "We
can head back, now."

Fifteen minutes later, I was back in my hospital bed, chained to the rail, and completely
exhausted. It was pathetic that a simple examination could zap me of all my strength. On the plus
side, it only took minutes before I was out like a light.

9:30 am

True to his word, Dumbledore showed up that day. But before I met with him a second time, a
wizarding psychiatrist was sent to my locked hospital room.

He must have been unnerved to meet with a supposed mass murderer, but he hid it well. The
man was probably ten years old than myself, with light brown hair and perfectly-kept robes. He
sat in the chair next to my bed and balanced a roll of parchment in his lap, at the ready. I was so
taken aback by his earnest interest in me that all I could do was stare. The few nurses and medi-
wizards who entered my room made sure to leave it again as soon as possible.

"My name is John Young," he said in a clinical voice. "I'm a psychiatrist with the Ministry. I want
to ask you some basic questions."

I didn't say anything, but he must have taken my silence for the go-ahead.

"Can you tell me your name?"

I raised an eyebrow. Is this for real?

"Yes," he said, careful to keep his features schooled. I suddenly felt self-conscious at the
realization that I had spoken aloud. "It's not uncommon for severe breaks in one's psyche to
occur as a result of long-term exposure to dementors."
Oh. "Sirius Black."

"Do you know where you are?" he continued. His voice was clinical, but it wasn't unkind. It was
such a huge contrast to the harsh tones in the minimal conversation I had with everyone else.

"St. Mungo's," I said, still conscious of the way my voice sounded. Before, it had been rough and
gravelly; now it was just pathetic, weak, and barely above a whisper. It was as though my vocal
chords had died away from disuse.

"Where were you prior to coming to St. Mungo's?"

I felt stupid being asked these questions, and said as much.

"It's only to determine if you're oriented to time and place," said Young patiently.

"I know where I was," I replied flatly.

Young gave me a leveled look. "Do you know what year it is?"

I managed to roll my eyes at that. "I didn't exactly keep a calendar in prison."

Young smirked a little as he made a few notes on the parchment in front of him. It had been so
long since I had seen anyone smile at me. I couldn't stop staring at him; it was as though that
smirk never existed if I looked away. "Well, it's now 1991."

Ten years. Ten years since I had been locked away, since anyone so much as looked at me. I
couldn't believe it.

Young stood up with an air of satisfaction. "Dumbledore will be by to speak with you more later
this afternoon. We will probably speak again, but in more depth." With that, he exited the room
and left me alone with my jumbled thoughts.

11:56 am

When Dumbledore came by, I was still surprised for some reason. I wasn't sure how I felt about
his return; Dumbledore had always been a symbol of hope and trust, but now—to me—he was
more like a beacon of fear. His testimony helped to ensure I never left Azkaban.

I thought I would be more with it, but my brain was still in a thick fog. I suppose it takes a lot more
than a six-day sleep to recover from Azkaban. I was halfway though forcing myself to drink a
thick, tasteless nutrient potion when he came in. The Healers wouldn't let me eat real food until
they could be sure I wouldn't throw it up.

"You look more rested," was his greeting.

I wasn't sure how to respond to that, so I didn't say anything. I hadn't glanced at a mirror, but I
was certain I looked like crap.

Dumbledore sat down in Young's vacated chair and folded his hands contentedly in his lap. He
gave me a level look, which I returned flatly. "Where was he?" I finally asked.
"It appears he was living as a pet rat to the Weasley household," said Dumbledore. "He belonged
to one of the elder Weasley children. It is—to my knowledge—a lucky misfortune that the boy
was given a pet owl as a gift for earning Prefect status at Hogwarts. The owl, you see, attempted
to prey upon the rat, which had been passed on to a younger brother. In all the commotion, it
appears Peter transformed back into his human form."

All these feelings inside me were tangling up together, making it difficult to come up with a
response. All I could do was stare at Dumbledore in earnest silence.

"Since that time, Peter has remained with the Ministry. He has stated—rather profusely, you see
—that you were trying to kill him ten years ago, and you would do so again."

That statement tugged at the deep hatred and anger I had lived off of while in Azkaban. It had
been pushed aside a little to make room for the confusion and surprise I felt at being in St.
Mungo's, but now it was back. "If he was an innocent man, why would he hide as a rat for ten
years?"

Dumbledore gave me a look I couldn't quite place, but I didn't really care. I wanted to blast Peter
into pieces. "It seems he was sure you would come after him."

"I was in Azkaban," I replied shortly.

There was an awkward silence in which Dumbledore watched me with a stony expression and I
fought the urge to wrestle free from my restraints and hunt down Peter.

"Did you know Peter was alive all this time?" Dumbledore asked.

I suddenly felt impatient with his questions. The anger inside me was swirling around, making it
difficult to think. "Of course I knew. Why do you think I survived Azkaban?"

Dumbledore's frown deepened a little at that. "How do you mean?" he asked calmly.

It occurred to me that I would have to explain everything—how I had believed Remus to be the
spy, how we switched Secret-Keepers, about the three of us being Animagi—but that would take
too long. Peter was living it up with a wizarding family, particularly one that had children attending
Hogwarts, where Harry would be going. I didn't have time to explain everything, because every
minute wasted was a chance for Peter to escape again. "Where is Peter now?"

"He is with the Ministry," said Dumbledore simply.

I tried not to roll my eyes. "I know that, but where?"

"I cannot tell you that, Sirius."

Now I did roll my eyes. "That's not what I—Is someone keeping an eye on him? Making sure he
doesn't get away?"

Dumbledore adjusted his position in the chair. While I was feeling horribly anxious, Dumbledore
was sitting with perfect calm. It was infuriating. I wanted to make him understand, but I couldn't
make sense of the jumbled mess inside me.

"Get away from who?"

Merlin, this was aggravating. "From the Ministry!" I said exasperatedly. I'm sure my words would
sound more significant if my voice wasn't cracking so much. "You can't let him escape again!"
"Escape from who? Sirius, why would Peter escape? You make it sound as though he is guilty of
something."

Damn it, he is! "He's the Secret-Keeper!" I tried to yell, but all that happened was that my voice
sounded more hoarse than ever. "He's the one! We switched, and I was the only one who knew
—"

Dumbledore started shaking his head sadly. I stared at him in bewilderment. "Sirius, you are
mistaken. Lily and James Potter chose you as their Secret-Keeper, not Peter."

I was too stunned to speak. I could feel my breath catching in my throat, and my heart beat
furiously against my chest. While in Azkaban, it had always played out like this: I dreamed I
finally had the chance to tell someone what really happened, and they still didn't believe me. But
this wasn't Azkaban, so why…?

"You have to believe me," I finally said. There was a desperate note of pleading I didn't
recognize. I searched Dumbledore's face for some sign of hope, but it was flat and
expressionless. "If you let Peter get away again, then he's going to go after Harry!"

This seemed to snag Dumbledore's attention. His closed expression suddenly turned into one of
surprise and concern. "What about Harry?"

"I was too stupid to see it," I said hurriedly. "Peter was the one—and since everyone thinks it was
me, he's in the perfect position to hand Harry over to Voldemort at the first opportunity. You said
yourself that Peter had been living with a boy who went to Hogwarts—you think that's
coincidence?"

Dumbledore gave a small sigh. "Sirius—"

"No, listen to me!" I interrupted roughly. I realized I was still holding the foul potion the Healers
had given me, and slammed it roughly on the bedside table. "I don't care what you do with me,
but you have to protect Harry! Half the Death Eaters in Azkaban know Voldemort isn't gone for
good—and how many other Death Eaters managed to avoid Azkaban? You don't think it's likely
that they would try to find him?"

"If Peter's a Death Eater, why didn't he try to rejoin them after you were arrested?"

I wanted to shake some sense into Dumbledore. It was lucky I was chained to the bed, or I
otherwise might have. "Why would any of them? Peter was always a coward—he wouldn't go
back unless he knew Voldemort was strong enough to protect him. And who would dare say
Peter double-crossed them if he could hand Harry over?"

"That is a very serious accusation," said Dumbledore. His tone was still calm, but I could see
something in his expression that was uneasy.

"Oh, what, and locking me in Azkaban forever isn't?" I snapped in spite of myself. I could feel
myself shaking from anger. Why wouldn't he listen to me? Didn't he realize how serious this
was? "Why is it so hard to imagine that Peter was a spy and a Death Eater, but it's perfectly
acceptable to think I murdered my best friend's family?"

Dumbledore stood up suddenly, like he was about to leave.

"What will it take for you to believe me?" I tried to yell. Instinctively, I pulled against my restraints.
I felt like a caged animal, and I'm sure I looked like one. "Veritaserum? My memories?
Legilimency?"
"I'll be in touch with you again as soon as I can," was all Dumbledore said. He wasn't even
looking at me. Before I knew it, he had exited my room, leaving me completely alone and
overcome with anger.

8:02 pm

I was in a foul mood the rest of the day. I refused to touch the disgusting nutrient potions the
nurses brought, and even challenged them to force it down my throat. I wouldn't speak to Young
the Ministry Psychiatrist, and I could barely stand to suffer the knowledge of the Auror guard
wasting their time outside my door when Peter was running free.

Eventually people stopped trying to enter my room, leaving me alone to fight the urge to break
out. There was no Daily Prophet or even a Witch Weekly floating around, so I was left with
nothing but my own thoughts to occupy myself. All I could think about was Peter casually strolling
through the Ministry, perhaps having tea with Barty Crouch and telling him all about how I was a
psychotic murderer. Well, if I could get out of this horrid hospital, I would certainly become one.

A knock at my door interrupted me from my brooding. I looked up to see Hestia standing in the
doorway, a towel-laden wheelchair nearby.

"The Ministry wants to see you tomorrow," she said, leaning her weight onto one foot. "I figured
you might want to clean up first."

I didn't know how to respond to this. I was still furious with Dumbledore, but the idea of a shower
was luring. I figured I shouldn't irritate Hestia, or she might not offer me the opportunity again. I
sat up in the bed and eyed the device near her. "Do I have to use the wheelchair?"

Hestia gave me a look. "Yes."

Fine.

Once more, my Auror guard unchained me from the bed. I grudgingly sat in the wheelchair,
feeling even more foolish than before. Hestia set the towels in my lap and wheeled me down the
same corridor we passed through that morning, but this time took me into a large bathroom on
the opposite end.

The bathroom looked like a smaller version of the ones at Hogwarts. Thick stained glass
windows glinted in the enchanted candlelight in panes of green, yellow, and red. There were no
portraits in here, but the largest window held an image of what appeared to be saints treating the
criminally ill. Of course. Tile covered the floor and blended almost imperceptibly with the stone
walls. Near the front door were a row of sinks and two toilet stalls. On the opposite end were four
steel shower heads, protruding from the wall like snakes ready to strike. I immediately noticed
that the only barrier that would be between myself and Hestia was a low tiled wall that marked
the boundary of the showers.

Almost immediately I considered asking Hestia to turn me back into my room. Before I could,
however, she shut the bathroom door behind her and parked my wheelchair nearby.

"Er…" I began hesitantly, looking toward the open shower heads.

"In this part of the hospital, the patients aren't allowed to be unsupervised," she said as way of an
explanation.
I sighed. "Right."

"I trust you can manage on your own?"

I balked at that. "Yeah—of course I can—"

"Good," she said, signaling for me to stand up. "I'll wait here—don't worry, I'm not going to watch
you—and you can tell me when you're ready."

I looked back at the shower. While there was a wall dividing it, it suddenly looked much shorter. I
hated the idea of having a babysitter while I did something as private as shower, but I supposed
it wasn't so bad if it was only Hestia. I think I might have changed my mind if the Auror guard
insisted on sitting in.

Hestia piled the towels on the tiled wall before waving her wand at the taps. Instantly, the one on
the far side gushed into life, releasing a steady spray of hot water. "All yours," she said, settling
herself comfortably in my vacated wheelchair. She propped her feet up on the edge of one of the
sinks and began thumbing through a copy of Witch Weekly.

More self-aware than I had ever been in my life, I hesitantly stepped into the tiled shower. I
glanced at Hestia to confirm that she was preoccupied. I didn't know why I felt so embarrassed at
the prospect of someone seeing me naked; somebody obviously had when I was first brought
here because my hair had been cut short, my prison robes removed, and the grime from
Azkaban washed from my skin.

I fumbled with the ties on my hospital gown and draped it over the wall alongside the towels.

"There's soap and shampoo already there," Hestia called over the sound of the tap. "And there's
a clean gown with the towels."

"Er…thanks."

The moment the hot water touched my skin, however, I had completely forgotten about being
embarrassed. I just stood there for what seemed like forever, letting the water run over my skin.
Remembering the soap, I lathered it into a thick cloud of white bubbles and began to scrub.
Slowly the final bits of grime of Azkaban were removed, making me look less like an animal and
revealing human skin.

I scrubbed my hair and body at least three times, trying to commit to memory everything about it.
The slightly flowery scent of shampoo, the tightness of my skin from the cheap soap, and the
way my tense shoulders were forced to relax in the steady stream of hot water.

Hestia kept her word and busied herself with the magazine until I awkwardly cleared my throat as
a signal that I was finished.

"You can just leave the towels, I'll get them later," she said, turning the wheelchair around to face
me. Obediently I sat down, letting Hestia wheel me out of the bathroom.

The Auror guard had been reading the day's newspaper outside the door, and silently followed
us back to my room where I was once again chained to the bed and left to wonder what on earth
was going on outside my hospital room. Soon afterwards a Healer appeared and ordered me to
drink the two potions she had brought. I forced them down in silence, trying not to choke on the
bitter taste of the last one. The Healer left my room as brusquely as she entered it, and before I
knew it, I was out.
Chapter three:

8:19 am

It was strange to sleep without dreaming. The Healers had given me a Dreamless Sleep Potion
the last two nights. While I was grateful for it, the potion did have the irritating effect of making it
almost impossible to wake up in the morning. My brain seemed to be in a perpetual fog, but I
would take that over the nightmares any day.

I was due to unwillingly meet with Ministry officials any moment now. While I was still chained to
the bed, I was at least more presentable. Hestia had come by my room late the night before,
offering to shave my face for me. When I thanked her, she said it made me look less like a
psycho killer.

Now all I could do was wait for the dreaded meeting to be over. There was no clock in my room,
so I had no way of keeping track of the time. I hoped it would be a bunch of strangers; if Barty
Crouch walked in my room, I might rip the guard rail off the bed and try to strangle him.

Finally a knock came, and I looked over to see four figures enter my room, Dumbledore included.
I doubted whether Dumbledore now suddenly worked for the Ministry, but it still didn't surprise
me that they relied on him just as if he had. There was only one chair in my room, which had
been moved to the far corner. All four of them stood flanked around me like I was on my death
bed.

"Good morning, Sirius," Dumbledore began, his tone calm and his face impassive. I hadn't
forgotten about our meeting the day before, and fought the urge to continue yelling at him. I
could save that for later; now, I wanted to know what in Merlin's name the Ministry was up to. If
they were going to believe Peter's outrageous lies about how I was the traitor, then why bother
removing me from Azkaban at all?

"We have some questions regarding Peter Pettigrew, and the afternoon of November first, 1981,"
began the official nearest me, a middle-aged Auror with a balding pate. He withdrew a piece of
parchment and a quill, which stood poised on its own accord, ready to take notes. "Dumbledore
says you stated you were aware Pettigrew had been alive all this time. Is this true?"

How many times were they going to ask this? "Yes," I said flatly.

"How did you know that?"

"Because I never killed him," I replied impatiently. "I wanted to, but he got away from me."

The Auror frowned. "Why did you want to kill him?"

Now they wanted to know? I rubbed the tension that had begun to form in my temple. I could tell
this was going to be an extremely long day. "I was never the Secret-Keeper. I told James and
Lily to use Peter instead of me, because I was the obvious choice. Voldemort—" the Aurors
jumped a little at the name, which only further irritated me. "—would be sure to come after me, so
I tried to use that to our advantage. I told them to switch to Peter, and we told everyone it was
me." A deep knot had formed in my chest at these words. I tried to ignore it, but the guilt began
to rise up to my throat.

The Aurors were all looking at each other with skepticism and raised eyebrows. I tried not to roll
my eyes.

"Why did you choose Peter?" Dumbledore asked.

I sighed. Why, indeed. "Because I thought they would be safest with him. Peter was weak and
without talent—I doubted whether Voldemort would genuinely suspect him as a possible target."

"So you're saying that Pettigrew was the one who divulged the Potter's whereabouts to You-
Know-Who?" the balding Auror asked me.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," I said impatiently. "We knew there was a spy close to Lily and
James—the only possible people were myself, Remus, and Peter. I knew it wasn't me, so I just
worked through process of elimination," I continued, trying to ignore the rising feelings of stupidity
at having suspected Remus. "And I made the wrong choice. That's why I went after him."

The Auror nearest me sighed, long and heavy. "So tell us what happened the next day—the day
after the Potters died."

It was like setting a bone. I hated re-living the events of that day—and hated the act of telling a
group of disillusioned Aurors—but I knew it had to be done. These people had to know what
Peter was like so they could protect Harry. "When I found out what had happened, I went after
Peter, knowing what he must have done," I began slowly, trying to keep a calm control over
myself. "I found him the next afternoon, trying to buy an illegal Portkey in Diagon Alley. I chased
him into the street outside of the Leaky Cauldron... I wanted to kill him." I took a deep, shaky
breath, then continued, "He suddenly stopped and yelled something like 'Lily and James, Sirius,
how could you?' There were Muggles everywhere, and they had stopped to watch. Then, before I
could curse him, he blew apart the street with the wand behind his back. In all the chaos, he cut
off a finger and transformed into a rat before speeding down into the sewers."

"Did you know he was an Animagus?"

"We all were—James, Peter, and I," I said. I hesitated, unsure of how to explain this without
incriminating Remus. I was vaguely aware I was admitting to being an illegal Animagus, but what
were they going to do? Throw on another year at Azkaban on top of my life sentence? "James
and I thought it would be fun—we could sneak around the school as animals—"

"Around the school?" someone else blurted.

"Yes," I said distractedly. "We started studying it in second year, and managed to pull it off by
fifth. Peter wanted to learn it too, and he needed all the help he could get. You heard he was
living as a rat with a wizarding family, didn't you?"

The enchanted quill was writing furiously on the parchment, which was trailing to the floor by
now. The Aurors, who had entered my room with a resigned trepidation, were all now exchanging
surprised glances. Dumbledore had remained silent in the background, examining his folded
hands while I spoke. His movements suggested indifference, but I knew he had been listening
very carefully to everything I said. That was just how Dumbledore was.

The balding Auror ran a hand distractedly over his sparse hair. "Is there anyone who can vouch
for this? That you and Pettigrew switched."

"If there was, do you think any of this," I said, pointing to my chains. "would have happened? We
didn't tell anyone what we did."

"Why not?"

Because I'm a complete git. "I was trying to protect them. Including Peter."
The Auror grabbed the chair from the corner of the room and brought it closer, sitting down
quickly. He leaned closer to me, looking interested for the first time. "You said you chose
Pettigrew over your other friend—Remus, was it?—why was that?"

I sighed, feeling foolish. "Peter was always a bit of a coward. Average at best. For some reason I
thought that made him innocent, but I should have realized that was the very type Voldemort
went after when looking for supporters—he was easier to corrupt. All that time, I was suspecting
everyone except the most obvious person."

"Was there anything suspicious about Pettigrew?"

I wracked my brain for something. For ten years I had done nothing but relieve those two days,
so it was difficult to recall anything from the time before that. "He was always gone—he used to
disappear a lot, sometimes for days. And he was skittish. But we were all like that, it was the
middle of a war," I added quickly. As I spoke, I realized that was the very reason I had suspected
Remus over Peter.

"Did he ever say anything about joining You-Know-Who?"

I frowned, trying to remember. "No. Not to me, anyway."

The Auror ran another hand habitually over his head. "So there was no reason to suspect he was
working with the Death Eaters."

I stared at him, frowning. Was he implying that I was making it all up? "No, there wasn't," I said
roughly. "Which is why I told Lily and James to use him!"

"But Pettigrew said there was reason to suspect you," the Auror continued.

Anger exploded in the pit of my stomach. "He did, did he?" I said coldly.

"Your brother and cousin were known Death Eaters," said the Auror calmly. "You were always
disappearing, you barely had any contact with anyone except the Potters. He said any little thing
used to set you off."

"He's lying!" In that moment, I didn't care about talking with the Aurors. I was prepared to rip
Peter limb from limb. "Of course he's going to say that crap! I framed me for everything then, and
he's doing it now! Look, I'll do whatever you want—Veritaserum, Legilimency, even a Muggle lie-
detector—"

"That won't be necessary," said the Auror, still irritatingly calm. "We just want to hear your side."

It took forever to explain. It was torture to lay myself bare, admitting every stupid decision I had
made to be scrutinized by the Aurors. They didn't say very much while I spoke, and I had no idea
if they were taking me seriously or if they just thought I was wasting their time.

When the meeting was over, I thought that I would feel some sense of relief, some sort of
vindication that I had finally been able to expose Peter. Instead, I was left feeling completely self-
conscious of my own incredible stupidity. I revealed every mistake I had made on the way—
suspecting Remus, switching without telling anyone, trying to go after Peter in blind revenge—
and they all seemed a hundred times more obvious in hindsight.

The Aurors left with the promise to return to collect an official statement. They wouldn't tell me
anything about what was happening with Peter, if they were even considering my words, or what
was going to happen. I was left to lie in the hospital bed, fighting my way through the jumbled
mess of emotions inside me.

There came a knock at my door shortly thereafter, for which I was grateful this time. I hadn't seen
anyone since the Aurors left, and there had been no one to pester about what was happening.
For the fourth time in three days, Dumbledore entered my room. He must have noticed the
exasperated expression on my face, for he held up a hand to signal that he wanted to speak first.

"I'm sure you have many questions, some of which I am sure I have the answers to," he said,
settling himself in the lone chair. "Peter is—and will remain—in Ministry custody. There is no
need to worry about him leaving until this matter is resolved. The Ministry is considering
launching an investigation into the events of November first, and I daresay it will include the
matter of James and Lily's deaths. They are coming back tomorrow for your official statement.
The issue, you see, has grown more complicated. Upon Peter's sudden reappearance, the
Ministry had hoped to gain a confirmation of Peter's statement."

I raised an eyebrow at that. "You pulled me out of Azkaban hoping to hear, 'Yes, it was me'?"

Dumbledore ignored my rudeness and continued. "There are some peculiarities in Peter's
statements. The Ministry would normally be quick to dismiss yours as made-up in light of the
evidence, but with my advice, they are proceeding to tread lightly."

I sighed. "What does that even mean?" I asked impatiently.

"As we speak, the Emmett and Ramiro Law Firm has decided to represent your case, free of
charge. Presently they are putting through a request for a warrant for a skilled Legilimens to
interview Peter," said Dumbledore calmly. "They need a certain level of reasonable suspicion in
order to do so, however, so it may or may not get through."

I raised an eyebrow, careful not to get my hopes up. "And what happens if Peter happens to
know Occlumency?" I asked sardonically.

"That is a possibility, which is why a trial cannot be built upon that interview alone, should Peter's
statement support yours. I suspect a full investigation—not only into Peter's reappearance, but
your statement—is likely."

I stared at Dumbledore, dumb-founded. "When the Ministry was here, they didn't seem to take
me seriously at all."

"Ah, well, they just need some strong encouragement," said Dumbledore.

That comment made no sense to me at all. So if the Ministry wasn't taking me seriously, why was
some law firm trying to represent my case? Regaining my senses, I asked incredulously, "Why?"

Dumbledore raised a quizzical brow. "Why?"

"Why did you bother to drag me out of Azkaban at all? Everyone is obviously taking Peter's word
over mine, so why bother?"

Dumbledore gave a small sigh and was silent for so long that I was sure he wasn't going to
respond. "I will admit that I was initially inclined to believe Peter. However, something you told
me yesterday changed my mind."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You asked me why I thought an innocent man would hide as a rat when there was no danger,"
explained Dumbledore calmly. "When I returned home, I did have a very long think on the matter,
and determined that I could not imagine a reason for any such thing. You also made a comment
about protecting Harry. I must admit, it was rather…unexpected."

What was Dumbledore talking about? When I had said those things, I had also made it very clear
I wanted to kill Peter. What, did he just overlook that part? I ran a hand wearily across my eyes,
impatient with Dumbledore's irritating habit of being vague. "Let me ask you something," I said
harshly. "Do you even believe me?"

Dumbledore stood up to leave, looking at the floor as he did so. He turned back from the door
and fixed me with a sober expression. "I must admit that I am afraid to." Without further
elaboration, Dumbledore left my room.

What the hell was that?

The next day, 9:14 am

I realized being woken up at the crack of dawn for a brief examination was becoming a routine.
Hestia wasn't here this morning, so instead I had to put up with a different nurse who refused to
make eye contact. Hestia wasn't exactly brimming with pleasantries, but she did at least
acknowledge me. I was forced to sit in the freezing examining room while the usual
measurements were taken, and wordlessly wheeled back to my room. I'm sure I would be able to
walk the distance by now, but the nurses never gave me the opportunity.

I was unable to fall back asleep once woken, because the Healer was brought to my room. This
was perhaps only the second or third time I had seen him, as it was usually the nurses who
came. The Healer decided I wasn't gaining weight fast enough, so he doubled my intake of foul
nutrient potions. I had to bite back my tongue at this—"why bother" seemed to be all I could think
lately. Why bother make me regain my health if I was going to be chucked back into Azkaban?
Why bother to harass me about statements and explanations if the Ministry was going to believe
Peter?

I had to promise to force down the thick potions, otherwise the Healer would send someone to
babysit me and make sure I drank it anyway. I asked him when I would be allowed to eat real
food and was given a look that clearly said, "Don't bother me with those questions. Be grateful
we're giving you Nutrient Potions instead of Azkaban sludge."

So by eight in the morning, I was stuck chained to my bed, trying to force down the potion while I
itched to just walk around my room. Didn't muscles atrophy from disuse? Surely I could persuade
the Healer to let me just take a turn about the room a few times. Before I could think of how I
would get the Healer back to my room in the first place, there came another knock at the door.
No one really knocked to get permission, it was more of a signal that someone was coming.
Again, why bother—it wasn't like they were interrupting me in some new murderous plot.

A woman I had never seen before was standing in my doorway. The first thing I noticed was how
formal and professional she appeared, and what a ludicrous comparison it was to me, lying
wrinkled and barely-kept in a hospital bed. Her shoes clicked on the floor as she walked across
the room, holding a hand out deftly in front of me. I stared at it for a moment. I knew what she
meant by the gesture, I just couldn't figure out why she was making it at all. Tentatively I took her
hand and shook it, gazing up at her in slight apprehension.

"My name is Anna Novak. I work for the Emmett and Ramiro firm, and I'm your legal counsel—"
"My what?" I interrupted in spite of myself.

"Your counselor," she repeated calmly, as though she had this exact conversation with people
every day. "We have a lot to discuss, so I want to get right to the point."

"Er…sure," I said hesitantly. Dumbledore had mentioned that some group had volunteered to
represent my case, but I couldn't figure out why. It wasn't like anyone cared about defending me
ten years ago when it mattered.

She took the chair near my bed and opened up the briefcase she brought with her, pulling out
multiple files, pieces of parchment, and notebooks. "When the Ministry comes to speak with you,
I'll be there at all times. If they attempt to talk to you without me present, you are not to answer."

I raised an eyebrow. "Okay."

"When they come to collect your official statement, I will read over it before you sign it," she
continued. "The Ministry will be prepared to use anything they can against you."

"So what's going on?" I asked, frowning. "Why am I getting a counselor?"

Ms. Novak gave me a straight look, her hands folded in her lap over her notebooks. "They're
dropping the murder charge against you for Peter Pettigrew, but they are going to just replace it
with attempted murder. As for the twelve other murder charges," she continued, hesitating
slightly. "They are still registered with the Wizengamot, but that might change. If we can instill a
reasonable amount of doubt that you didn't cause the explosion, then I can fight to get the
charges dropped. Pettigrew faked his death, and that looks suspicious, so as long as we can
show there was no proof—"

"Hold on," I said, straightening up in bed. "I didn't do it—any of it."

Ms. Novak gave me a level look. "That's what I hear. Your case was specifically recommended to
us."

I raised an eyebrow. "By who?"

She shrugged. "My firm typically represents victims of international crimes, particularly the poor
or those affected by major catastrophes."

Well, that didn't make sense. I wanted to ask why they would defend me if that was the case, but
I couldn't figure out a way to phrase the question that didn't sound rude.

"Look," said Ms. Novak seriously. "Right now, it doesn't really matter if you did it or not. It's my
understanding you were convicted without trial—that's illegal, even in wartime. Not to mention
your conviction was based largely on eyewitness testimony, which any legal counselor can tell
you is highly unreliable."

I frowned, exasperated. "How am I supposed to convince the Ministry to believe me if my own

counselor doesn't?"

Ms. Novak tapped a quill impatiently against the parchment in her lap. "Are you willing to submit
to an interview with a court-appointed Legilimens?"

"Yes, and you can make me drink a bucket of Veritaserum on top of it," I snapped.
"Veritaserum is no longer used in official Ministry proceedings," said Ms. Novak. "Statistically, it
has too high a rate of false results."

"Oh, well that's just fantastic," I said sarcastically. "Anything else I can do?"

Ms. Novak sighed, obviously tired of my rebellious behavior. "My job is to try to keep you out of
prison. If you're insistent on holding onto a not-guilty plea, then there's not a lot I can do to help
you—"

"But I didn't do it—"

"But if you were to plead guilty to the charges I cannot get dropped, then we can talk your
sentence down," she continued as though I hadn't spoken.

"And what about Peter? He just gets off with a 'whoops, we had it wrong'?"

"Pettigrew is under an investigation as a suspect—like I said, we might be able to prove it was he

who blew up the street. But that does not erase the fact that you are still being charged with
Death Eater activity and the murder of the Potters. But like I said, we can talk that down. Claim
you gave them up under duress, and when we factor in time served, maybe only another five
years in prison. It's better than a life sentence."

I stared at her, completely appalled. "I am not pleading guilty to something I didn't do."

She sighed, obviously exasperated. Well, hell, I was exasperated, too. "Okay,
she said resignedly. "But you must know that your chances are very poor. All the evidence says
you gave the Potters away of your own free will, that you tried to kill Pettigrew, and finally that
you killed a dozen bystanders in the process. The Court isn't going to be persuaded, even with
Pettigrew being alive. If you want to avoid a life sentence, my advice is to agree to a guilty plea
bargain."

This had to be some kind of joke. "So either I admit to something I didn't do and spend only some
time in Azkaban and my whole life as a convict, or I spend my life in prison? What kind of justice
system is that? Since when is it a matter of trying to prove my innocence instead of my guilt?"

"If we can find more evidence, I can petition to re-examine your case," said Ms. Novak. "Is there
anyone at all who can vouch for you? Anyone who knew you even suggested switching Secret-
Keepers?"

"The only people who knew other than myself and Peter are dead," I said dully. Again, that
horrible mistake was coming back to me. How could I have been so stupid?

She sighed. "Well, then let's focus on finding enough to instill reasonable doubt in the Court. Like
I said, it's not going to be easy to overturn a conviction without any new evidence. The Court
might even reject a petition to hear it. Unless Pettigrew confesses to everything, you're still
looking at your original sentence."

This had to be some kind of punishment. A lifetime in Azkaban wasn't enough to atone for my
stupidity. Clearly I had to have my freedom dangled right in front of my face and watch Peter
walk away with it. I couldn't believe that things could possibly get any worse. How much more
would I have to suffer until fate decided I had atoned enough?

I sighed heavily. "Okay. What do you need?"

Chapter four:
6:23 PM

I wasn't sure how much time had passed. In fact, I wasn't sure of anything anymore. Just when
my brain was beginning to lift from the fog, I suddenly felt like I was hit by the Hogwarts Express.
I felt hot and cold at the same time, and there was a dryness in my throat that water didn't help. I
must have spent quite a bit of time sleeping, because the only things I remember are various
mediwitches—that's what they were called, I remember now—bringing potions they advertised
as breakfast and dinner.

There was a mediwitch in my room now, a pretty one with robes the same color as her cheeks.

"I'm going to assume that's the fever talking, Black."

I swallowed thickly and forced my brain to focus on her face. I knew her face. Where did I know
it?

The woman was fiddling with some kind of plastic bag, hanging it upside-down on the bedpost.
She was attaching a long tube to it, a tube that trailed down to the mattress and disappeared
inside the back of my hand. I stared at it, wondering how on earth I had missed the Healers
shoving needles in me again.

"Two nights ago, when your fever spiked," the woman said, turning to look at me.

Was I talking aloud? I wasn't aware of doing that

"Are you feeling up to eating something?" she continued, placing her hands on her hips. I think
her name was Hestia. She didn't have her nametag on for some reason.

Food. Right. Like they would give me something other than those nasty potions. I scoffed, which I
immediately regretted. It set off a spasm that reached to my very core, and it was as though my
lungs were trying to expel every last breath of air inside me.

With the help of a glass of water, I managed to get a grip on myself. My throat felt raw, and there
was a dull throb in my head I hadn't noticed before. My limbs felt useless and drunk, and I had a
great deal of difficulty keeping the glass steady; so much so, that Hestia had to help me.

"You chose the perfect time to get sick, you know," said Hestia. I noticed she was standing
casually by my bed, not doing anything even remotely nursing-like. That meant she was
choosing to stay in here, talking to me. Why would she do that? "The Ministry came by to collect
your official statement, but you were too out of it. That was two days ago. And judging by all the
Ministry gossip I've overhead lately, you've turned things into quite the mess. Half the Ministry is
convinced you're still a guilty murderer, and the other half want all your charges dropped."

I didn't understand any of that. It was like my brain had become dislocated. But even if the words
didn't make sense, I caught on to her tone. I stared at her for a long moment, frowning. "Why are
you nice to me?"

She raised an eyebrow at that. "What do you mean?" There was some kind of anxiousness in
her tone, but I didn't understand that, either.

"No one looks at me," I manage to say. I hear the words in my head, but I have no idea how they
sound aloud. Probably raspy and a little disconcerting. "They don't talk to me. I'm just a wild
animal."

She sets her face in a flat expression and adjusts her weight on her feet. "They're just afraid."
My head sinks back into the pillow, which feels hot and damp against my skin. "But you're not."

"Do I need to be?"

I fight the urge to scoff again, but the sharp pain rises in my throat anyway. Once the coughing
subsides, I say a little too roughly, "I'm a wacko murderer, aren't I?"

Hestia's expression hardens. "Is that what you want everyone to think? You made a big show of
trying to convince Dumbledore of your innocence, and now you don't care?"

What? "I don't care that I'm innocent, or I don't care if people know?" I ask, barely
comprehending.

"You should rest," she said roughly, setting a glass down on my bedside and filling it with a
smoking potion. What potion used to do that? She picked up the thick chart from the foot of the
bed. "Drink this, it'll clear your head. Your fever's gone, so tomorrow you're getting arraigned."

A rained. A reigned. Hestia left the room before I could ask her what she was talking about.

7:33 AM

At least I could walk without looking like a fool. That's what I kept telling myself all morning.

I still felt like crap, but my brain was significantly less foggy. I managed to dress in the
assortment of clothes that were brought to me—clothes that looked suspiciously like those dug
out of the Lost and Found trunk. Still, I couldn't complain. They were better than the hospital
gown that revealed more of me than I cared to show.

I was forced to meet with Dr. Young again, who asked me ridiculous questions about the
wizarding legal system. Did I understand what murder was, did I know what I was being accused
of, blah blah blah. He must have determined I was fit enough, because then the Aurors continued
about their business, barking orders at my sluggish brain and body to hurry up.

I shaved again, and was ordered to force down another nutrient potion before my Auror guard
showed up to escort me to the Ministry. In a slightly different scenario, I might have marveled at
the surroundings outside of my hospital room, which had been the only four walls I'd seen other
than my prison cell in the last ten years. But out here, the lights were too bright and the noises
too loud, and so I focused on the floor as we moved, trying to block out the overwhelming
stimulation. I was so focused that it wasn't until we reached the main entrance that I realized I
wasn't in chains.

Either they didn't consider me a dangerous murderer, or they just didn't consider me dangerous.
My footsteps were slow and a little heavy, and I'm sure I looked downright pathetic and fragile. I
don't think I managed to put on enough weight to please my Healers. The Aurors might have
suspected an owl could overpower me if I tried to run. They might be right. In spite of the nearly
two weeks of hospitalization, I almost felt worse than I had in Azkaban. Healing really took its toll
on the body.

We apparated to the Ministry, which was a poor choice of travel in my opinion. The sudden jerk
back to reality nearly knocked me off my feet and made the contents of my stomach leap up. I
managed to hold it together, thankfully, and passively allowed the Aurors to lead me wherever
we were going. We walked through a series of corridors and narrow passages before I was
dumped on a low wooden bench in one of the hallways. There were four more Aurors here,
obviously waiting for me. There were bars on the walls and hooks in the ground, which clearly
served as anchors to which prisoners were chained. But for whatever the reason, the Aurors
didn't put me in shackles. They just stood flanked around me, restless and constantly whispering
to each other.

I pressed the side of my head against the cold stone of the wall, resting my eyes. We hadn't even
made it into the courtroom and I was already exhausted. I didn't have long to recuperate,
however, because then the Aurors cleared their throats and beckoned for me to stand up. I
guess it was time. I had no idea what for.

The courtroom was huge. I had never actually been inside one before, but it was definitely a lot
grander than I had imagined. The floor was a polished black marble, and the walls were almost
thirty feet high, made of smoothly cut stone and intricate pillars. On either side were rows upon
rows of wooden benches, all of which were empty. Between them stood an even grander set of
seats, no doubt those belonging to the highest court officials. At its head was a high chair and
podium, behind which sat a middle-aged witch in purple robes. There were various other officials
surrounding her, but I didn't recognize any of them. They were all in the same purple robes, with
a silver W embroidered onto the front.

The Aurors led me to the single chair that stood in the middle of the floor, clearly visible from
every seat in the room. By now my brain's senses had sharpened, flooding my veins with
adrenaline. My heart was beating furiously against my chest, and I shakily sat—or fell, rather—
into the chair that was clearly meant for me. There were chains around the armrests, and they
snaked their way around me. Guess they did still think I was a dangerous murderer.

It made me feel like a caged animal, and I had to fight the rising fear and try to focus. I glanced
around, and immediately recognized Ms. Novak sitting on the bottom bench nearest me. She had
a briefcase next to her, which had numerous files protruding. She was writing hastily on a slip of
parchment, however, and took no notice of me. I scanned the other faces, half-expecting to at
least see Dumbledore there.

He wasn't.

For some reason, my heart sank a little at that. Dumbledore had a huge part of the blame when it
came to wrongfully imprisoning me, but as fate would have it, the old man also had most of the
power to get me cleared.

I didn't recognize anyone else there. A stupid part of me had half-hoped I might see Remus, and
I felt my chest tighten when he wasn't there, either. Ms. Novak was the only person in this room
on my side, and she didn't even believe me.

I turned back to the witches and wizards in front of me with a shaky breath. They weren't looking
at me, either. Before another moment passed, however, the witch at the forefront called the
courtroom to order and a deathly silence fell.

"The case of the Wizengamot versus Black," said a young wizard, handing a file to the witch in
the high seat. She skimmed through it very briefly, then turned her gaze onto me. I tried to make
it out, but her expression was remarkably neutral.

"Do you understand the charges against you?"

So they were still charging me. I hesitated. In the beginning, I had understood my supposed
crimes perfectly, but if they had Peter, what exactly were they charging me with now?
The woman didn't hesitate a second longer. "Twelve counts of voluntary manslaughter, two
counts of accessory to murder, and treason against the Ministry of Magic. Do you understand
these charges?"

Well, they weren't letting that go.

"Can you speak up, Mr. Black?"

I repeated myself a little louder, confirming that I understood.

The witch made a quick note and then asked, "How do you plead?"

"Not guilty."

I hadn't spoken, and turned to see who had. Ms. Novak still had her parchment out, but she was
looking at the court officials with full attention. She was standing now, too, which I thought made
her look more official.

"Very well," said the witch. "Trial is to be set September fourth. Is there any request for remand,
Mr. Rochester?"

A man seated on the opposite side of the room from Ms. Novak stood up and cleared his throat,
and said clearly, "Yes, Madam. We request that Mr. Black be held in full Ministry custody—"

"Madam, a return to Azkaban would only incapacitate my client," interrupted Ms. Novak loudly.
"Due to the severe nature of a dementor's effects, I think it would be highly irresponsible to return
him to Azkaban—"

"It would also be 'highly irresponsible' to let a murderer walk freely through the wizarding
community," Mr. Rochester countered. He was looking at Ms. Novak as he spoke. He was a tall,
thin man, with graying hair and mustache. He looked an awful lot like Barty Crouch.

"My client has not been convicted," said Ms. Novak firmly, shooting a dark look at her opponent.
She looked back at the witch overlooking this bizarre legal affair, and continued, "Mr. Black has
not yet completed his medical treatment at St. Mungo's Hospital—"

"And what do you propose?" the witch asked, raising an eyebrow. "He cannot stay in the hospital
forever."

"We are working on filing a petition to have Black held in alternative arrangements," said Ms.
Novak. "I have included the paperwork in the filing."

I had no idea what any of that meant. This event was supposedly about me, but I had only said a
single word. Everything these people were saying just sounded like legal nonsense.

The woman skimmed through the folder in front of her and began to read. I had no idea what Ms.
Novak was talking about—alternative arrangements—but at least it wasn't Azkaban. The witch
sighed, giving Ms. Novak a level look. "I will have a look at this petition. If it fails, then Mr. Black
will be held in Ministry custody here in London. The court is adjourned."

Everyone got to their feet except me. I was still chained to the chair. I wasn't sure what I was
supposed to do now, but I figured someone would come and collect me. Sure enough, my Auror
guard appeared a second later and escorted me back into the corridor. I sat down heavily on one
of the long benches, completely confused as to what had just transpired.
I heard the sound of clicking heels, and turned to see Ms. Novak coming toward me, looking a
little pleased, which only confused me further.

"Well, that went quite well," she said when she reached me.

I raised an eyebrow. "What just happened?"

"That was your arraignment," Ms. Novak said. It was that word again. "It was your formal
presentation of charges and your plea."

"Okay," I said slowly, rubbing my eyes tiredly. "So I'm still being charged?"

"Yes," said Ms. Novak. She almost sounded pleased by this. What on earth...? "Mr. Rochester
was determined to prosecute your case last week. It seemed clear-cut enough at the time; but
with all the evidence I've managed to present in the last three days, he seemed to get second
thoughts. He offered a plea bargain, which I refused on your behalf. If you plead out under his
conditions, it would have meant five more years on top of time served."

Five more years in prison? For what? They had Pettigrew, and I told Ms. Novak as much. She
sensed my irritation, and said more seriously, "I'm taking your case to trial because I think we're
going to win. Normally, in light of the circumstances, the Wizengamot would have a hearing to
determine if the circumstances warranted a trial, but any case involving Death Eater activity is
automatic grounds for a full trial." She paused, taking in my expression. "It doesn't feel like it, but
this is a good thing. If I didn't think you had a chance, I wouldn't refuse the plea bargain.
Rochester probably wouldn't have even offered it—"

"So does this mean you believe me, now?" I asked. My irritation slipped through, and my voice
came out more sardonic than I had intended.

Ms. Novak sighed. "I have a few things to take care of at the office, but I'm going to stop by the
hospital this evening so we can discuss proceedings."

Great. I look forward to it.

The journey back to the hospital was a haze. With the arraignment behind me and a lot of
irritation on my mind, I could barely focus. It was a wonder I was able to change my clothes and
get into my bed without someone forcing me. While I hadn't been restrained on the journey to
and from the courtroom, I was still chained back to my bed at the hospital. This little injustice only
further soured my mood.

Finally, when the Healers, Aurors and mediwitches all left me, I was left with room to stew in my
own muddled thoughts. I wanted to see Remus, but I doubted whether he wanted to see me. I
had no reports of any visitors at the hospital, and he wasn't in the courtroom. No one had
mentioned him. I was sure Remus was fighting his own battles at the news of Peter and myself,
but I almost didn't care. Remus was understanding and patient, and I wanted him to be on my
side again.

But if Remus didn't believe me, then what did it matter? What did any of it matter? If I was
cleared and released, so what? It wasn't like I had anywhere to go, or anyone to return to. As
long as Peter didn't escape, I really didn't care what happened to me. I didn't have Remus, and I
didn't have Harry, so nothing mattered.

I must have fallen into an uneasy sleep, because I suddenly jerked awake with a gasp for breath.
My skin was cold and damp. I ran a shaky hand over my eyes, trying to force out the images
from my dreams. For a while there, I was sure Remus had been in the courtroom, and he had
accused me of being a murderer. But as my heart rate slowed and my brain reawakened, I
remembered I had never seen Remus at all.

There came a knock at the door, and Ms. Novak appeared, heavy briefcase and all. She opened
her mouth to speak, but seemed to change her mind over her words as she caught a glimpse of
me. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," I muttered, self-conscious. I straightened up in the bed and gave her a level look. I hoped
she wouldn't press me about how jacked up I must look.

She got the hint and took a seat in the usually empty chair by my bedside. She withdrew a scrap
piece of parchment from one of the two dozen folders. "I've compiled our witness list, and I
wanted to go over it with you. The prosecution is going to have their witnesses, too, so some of
these are repeats. Let me know if you know of anyone else I should add."

I gave a non-committal half-shrug. "Okay."

"Albus Dumbledore, the Weasley family, Remus Lupin, and Alastor Moody, George Proudfoot,
Auriga Savage, and John Dawlish, who were the Aurors present at your arrest," read off Ms.
Novak. "We're also calling various experts to testify, which includes a lot of Ministry officials who
gathered the evidence against you the first time around. Rochester is going to try to include the
Muggle eye-witness testimony, but I'm fighting to have that thrown out," she added.

"What if they don't want to testify on my behalf?" I asked, thinking of Remus.

Ms. Novak shook her head. "It doesn't matter—they're legally bound. I will subpoena all of them if
I have to. I've established a pretty strong case so far, but I want to go over everything again to
make sure I haven't missed anything."

Great.

"Just tell me everything from the beginning," she said, withdrawing a roll of parchment and a
quill. "And I'll ask questions afterwards."

It was a lot of talking. There was so much to explain, so many stupid mistakes of mine that I had
to elaborate. I started from the time we were all at school and became Animagi, careful to leave
Remus' condition out of the story. I had to stop several times, trying to recollect my thoughts. The
more glaring points were still at the forefront of my brain, as Azkaban had forced me to relive
them for ten years. It was the other stuff, the good parts, that were hard to recall.

An enchanted quill wrote down everything I said. It scribbled across the parchment so fast I
almost found it distracting. When I had finished, Ms. Novak was watching me with a strange
expression. It reminded me uncomfortably of Dumbledore for some reason.

"Did you ever suspect Peter?" she asked after a brief silence.

God, that question again. It was almost as bad as being back in Azkaban. "No," I said dully. "In
hindsight, I should have. It's obvious now, isn't it? But I didn't see it at the time." I paused, then
said, "What about Peter? What's happening to him?"

"Pettigrew?" Ms. Novak said. "He's still in Ministry custody, being investigated. As soon as we
can prove your innocence, I'm going to charge him with the crimes."

There was a ringing silence. I raised an eyebrow. "So you do believe me."
Ms. Novak gave me a level look. "I never said that. It's not my job to believe or disbelieve."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "It's not like I'm going to fire you if you don't—you're the
driving force keeping me out of Azkaban."

"The law is very clear about innocence until guilt is proven," she said in a very diplomatic tone.
"Your guilt has never been proved, and is unlikely to be. Legally, you are innocent."

I did roll my eyes at that, completely exasperated with all this legal garbage. Who cared about
pleas and arraignments? They had Peter, and with a cauldron of Veritaserum, the truth would be
in their faces. Why on earth were they side-stepping and tip-toeing now? It's not like they cared
about due process of law when I was chucked in prison.

"You want your name cleared, don't you?" she asked testily.

I snorted. "What does it matter? Even if I'm cleared, no one believes me anyway. And what am I
going to do? Ring up my old school friends and check if my flat in London hasn't been blasted
away?"

"Well, we can worry about that when we get there," she said firmly. I could tell she was annoyed
with my behavior, but I didn't care. I was annoyed with her, too. "Right now let's just focus on the
things at hand. Do you know how a trial works?"

"Nope, never had one."

She didn't take the bait. "The first part is the arraignment, which we did today. When the trial
starts, the entire Wizengamot will be present. Mr. Rochester and myself will give our opening
arguments to the court. Mr. Rochester will then present his witnesses and testimony, and then
it's our turn. We're allowed to question each other's witnesses, so be prepared for Mr. Rochester
cross-examining you. He's going to try to get you to slip up, because he doesn't have much of a
case outside of the Muggle testimony. After that, we give our closing arguments, then the court
deliberates. If you're found innocent, then that's the end of it."

"And if I'm not?"

"And if you're not," she allowed slowly. "You're given a date for a sentencing, which is usually
within a few days. After the sentencing we would petition to appeal."

"So it's only if I'm found innocent that you can charge Peter."

She hesitated. "Yes, that's true. So that's why you need to take this very seriously."

I reflected on that. It was mind-numbing to be put through the ringer when everyone was so
skeptical, but Hestia and Ms. Novak had both said that the Ministry was half-put to dismiss my
charges. That had to mean people were coming around, didn't it?

"Back in the courtroom, you said something about alternative custody," I said slowly. I was
nervous to ask what this meant, but anything had to be better than Azkaban.

"Yes," she said, nodding. "There are various options to pursue. Some people are held with no
more than their word, there's house-arrest, and minimum security jail settings."

"So where am I going?"

"I'm working on that," she said confidently. "The only thing I want you to focus on is your trial. I'll
take care of everything else."

I wasn't sure how much I was comforted by that. Ms. Novak seemed like a competent counselor,
but I doubted even she could do much for a mad, mass murderer.

There came a knock at the door, and Hestia appeared in her usual pink robes, balancing a tray in
her hands. "Knock, knock," she said, stepping inside and closing the door with her foot.

Ms. Novak stood up, collecting her things as she went. "I'll be in touch with you again tomorrow
morning," she said. "I have a few more things to do for our testimony, and then I want to prepare
you for examination."

"I look forward to it," I said stonily. I tried to think of something to say to Ms. Novak that sounded
kinder and more appreciative, but this entire affair was so overwhelming that I couldn't focus my
thoughts enough.

When she had left, Hestia approached my bed with the tray. I had been expecting another array
of nutrient potions, but was stunned to see real food on the tray.

"You've been upgraded to applesauce and soup," said Hestia, balancing the tray on one arm as
she reached into her pocket for her wand. She levitated the tray so that it was at the perfect
height in front of me.

It was a very plain tray, consisting of little more than clear soup, a piece of plain bread, and a
plastic bowl of applesauce, but to me it looked like heaven. I had been living off of Azkaban
sludge for ten years, and the nutrient potions were almost as foul. This was the first time I had
seen real food since I was arrested. I barely remembered to thank Hestia before I tore into it.

"Don't eat it too fast, or you'll throw it all up," warned Hestia, taking a seat comfortably in Ms.
Novak's vacated chair.

"I didn't know I was being allowed to eat real food," I noted, stuffing a large piece of bread in my
mouth.

"Technically you're not starting until tomorrow," said Hestia, examining her cuticles. "But I tried
one of those nutrient potions on a bet this morning, and they taste disgusting. I thought I'd give
you a break. Besides, you've managed to gain six pounds, so I think that warrants what I could
sneak from the cafeteria."

It was a little awkward to only eat with one hand—the other was still chained to the bed—but I
quickly took no notice of it. The soup wasn't my favorite—a bland version of chicken and rice—
but I downed all of it. To me, it tasted like the best meal I had ever had.

Several minutes passed in silence, and Hestia got up to remove the tray when I had finished.
She hesitated by the bedside, then said, "I spoke with your Healer this afternoon. He says you
can be discharged as early as this weekend."

"Oh." I didn't know what to say to that.

"And then I ran into your legal aid, Ms. Novak, right before she came in here," Hestia continued.
Her hands were on her hips, and she was staring at the floor. She paused, then said, "So I guess
you should talk to her about preparing for wherever you're going. We've whipped up a big
discharge plan for you, so make sure Novak tells us as soon as she's sure."
I had been trying not to think of that, but I suppose it had to come sooner or later. I couldn't stay
in the hospital forever. I still didn't know where Ms. Novak was petitioning to put me. She said I
should only worry about the trial, but it was hard to fixate on only one problem when everything
was screwed up. I made a mental note to harass Ms. Novak until she told me.

8:55 AM

I had lain awake through most of the night in spite of the various potions the mediwitches got me
to drink. My brain was out of the Azkaban fog for the first time, and I was wired. I couldn't think
about anything other than escaping and going after Peter myself. I knew that wasn't likely,
however, so I tried to focus on other things while I waited for morning.

Ms. Novak returned to my room that morning shortly after breakfast, which consisted of a nutrient
potion and a bowl of oatmeal. At least I was being upgraded.

"The mediwitch told me I was being discharged this weekend," I said as soon as she entered. "Is
that true?"

Ms. Novak hesitated, her face falling a little. The door shut softly behind her. "Yes, that's true."

I didn't miss the look on her face. "So where am I going?"

Ms. Novak set her briefcase down and took the chair next to my bed, crossing her legs. She was
dressed in very professional robes and heels again. Madam Bones hasn't approved my petition
yet. "It's tied up in a legal mess right now, so until it's sorted, you would be held in Ministry
custody."

Of course. I have no idea why I hadn't expected it would go to shit. I wanted to swear at that, but
managed to resist. "So what does that mean?"

Ms. Novak sighed heavily. "The Ministry has a limited-capacity short-term jail in the Department
of Magical Law Enforcement. If Madam Bones approves my petition for your remand, then you
would be released and held elsewhere."

That must be what Hestia had been talking about the previous night. And Madam Bones had
mentioned it during the arraignment yesterday as well—as long as I was hospitalized, I couldn't
be jailed. And why was jail my only option at all? Why was I still being treated like a criminal
when the proof was sitting right under their nose?

Ms. Novak read the disconcerted expression on my face, and said, "I don't want you to worry too
much about that," she said firmly. "It'll be temporary, and I'm going to fight it. And it's not set in
stone yet, either. You have to be released first."

What the f—

7:13 PM

I managed to pick up on the pattern of Hestia's schedule, and waited impatiently for her to arrive
that evening. As soon as she had, I immediately cornered her on the issue of my being
imprisoned before the trial. I doubted whether Hestia was being filled-in on my legal mess, but
she was the only one who told me anything, and I hadn't been able to think about anything else
all day.

"I talked to Ms. Novak this morning," I said when she entered with my chart, preparing to take the
usual vital signs.

"Did you?" she asked idly, flipping through the pages until she found the one she wanted.

"She told me that if I was released this weekend, I would be jailed."

Hestia paused, giving me a strange look. It wasn't pity, but I couldn't quite place it. "Well, things
can change before you know it," she said, taking my wrist to check my pulse.

"Well, jail seems pretty straightforward to me," I said, annoyed.

She was silent for several seconds as she counted, then said, "Well, Novak isn't the only one
fighting for you. And I'll tell you what—if it really comes down to it, we can always screw up your
treatment at the last minute and prevent you from being released."

I stared at her, mystified. "Why are you helping me?"

She gave me a squared look, her hands on her hips again. "Do you really think everyone has
abandoned you, and left you to the wolves?"

Feels like it.

"Look," she said, sighing heavily. "I can't pretend to imagine what it must be like to be in your
position right now, but people do care, and they do believe, and they are trying to help you. You
probably don't see it because you're locked in here all the time, but on the outside, it's glaringly
obvious. Your legal aid's law firm is one of the most reputable in the wizarding world.
Dumbledore's got enough ties in the Wizengamot that he might as well have Madam Bones' job.
Ninety-percent of the Daily Prophet is about you, and nearly all the articles say how you were
wrongfully imprisoned—people you don't even know are on your side. The system has failed you,
and we all see it. That's why we're helping."

I was not expecting that speech. My first instinct was to disbelieve Hestia—all I had seen were
the Aurors' accusatory glares and heard nothing but how I was still being charged—but she was
right. Maybe there really were people fighting for me outside and I just hadn't seen it. I was wary
to believe any such thing, however. Azkaban had long taught me not to hope for something as
insane as that.

"I asked Ms. Novak, and she said it's true that anyone accused of Death Eater activity is
automatically tried, regardless of how asinine the accusation is," Hestia continued. "Otherwise all
this would have been dropped, already. We all see it. That's why we want to help."

I really had no idea what to say to that. Hestia was saying everything a small part of me had
dared to fantasize about, but I couldn't possibly believe it was real.

"So," she continued. "Don't resign yourself just yet. Things can change."

My brain was having a hard time processing everything Hestia had just said, like her words
merely hit a brick wall. If strangers and the media believed me, then why didn't Remus? Or
maybe he did, but he hated me anyway. Maybe he still blamed me for what happened. I blamed
me.
"Is it so impossible to believe that anyone wants to help you?" she asked after a long silence.

"A little bit," I allowed. I was in prison for ten years and I doubted anyone lost sleep over it until
Peter showed up.

"Well, stop being such a prat," said Hestia. That surprised me. Were mediwitches allowed to
speak to patients like that?

"Only the ones who are being gits," answered Hestia. "Now get up, because it's shower night."

Oh, right. I still needed a babysitter for everything I did. At least they didn't follow me into the loo.

Chapter five:

11:39 AM

Hestia had left her copy of Witch Weekly behind, and I was re-reading an article about hair
potions for the third time. There wasn't a lot to do after being in the hospital for three weeks, and
so I had to settle on what I could find.

By the time I had moved on to the latest trend in housekeeping charms, there came a knock at
the door and a moment later, Dumbledore was standing in my doorway.

"There is an exceptional article on enchanted fall-themed sweets. The recipes for pumpkin
pastries seems particularly good."

I couldn't tell if Dumbledore was being facetious. I closed the magazine and examined the cover.
I knew the article, because I had read it myself. On the right-hand corner, there was a picture of a
toothy witch holding a tray of the aforementioned baked goods. I don't know how I felt about
Dumbledore reading Witch Weekly, but somehow it didn't surprise me.

I set the magazine down on the bedside table and turned to face Dumbledore squarely. He had
taken a seat in the chair at my bedside.

"Please do not allow me to interrupt," said Dumbledore. "I would be happy to wait until you have
finished reading."

Reading Witch Weekly?

"What are you here for?" I asked, unable to summon the energy for pleasantries. I know I
sounded a little rude, but I didn't care. I was still in the hospital and chained to a bed, after all. I
had a right to my irritation.

"To indulge my nagging curiosity, and to check on how you were doing," was Dumbledore's
reply.

I felt my eyebrows rise. Now he was interested? I had been here three sodding weeks. "Well, I
don't rightly know," I said heatedly. "Everyone seems determined to handle my affairs for me, but
they won't tell me what's going on."

"I must interrupt you for a moment," said Dumbledore, holding up a hand. It was exactly as if I
was a misbehaving student all over again. "And then you may continue to place all of your anger
on me. It is me, you see, who has been meddling in your affairs." Dumbledore gave a sigh,
suddenly looking tired and much, much older. "When you were arrested, I had a suspicion that
we were not getting the whole picture. I will not say that I imagined you and Peter had switched,
but I did entertain the suspicion that you were perhaps forced into giving up the information of
Lily and James' whereabouts. I chose, however, not to act on these suspicions," he continued,
his voice heavy. "I have a great many contacts and favors in my pockets, and a talent for pulling
strings—"

"I'm not blaming you for what happened to me," I interrupted. "It looked bad—even I know that.
The fault is with myself and Peter, not any of you—"

"You are very kind," said Dumbledore sadly. "And please do not think that I mean to suggest you
are accusing me. I merely want to explain myself so that I can earn your full irritation." He paused
for a moment, then continued in the same heavy voice, "As I said, I had it within my power to
investigate your alleged crimes, and I did not. When Peter Pettigrew showed up several weeks
ago, I was determined not to repeat that mistake. I pulled you from Azkaban as soon as I could.
Andras Ramiro has been a longtime friend of mine, and agreed to defend your case upon my
word. I also happen to have significant influence over the Wizengamot, which I intend to use to
my full advantage."

It took a moment for my brain to process all of that. Dumbledore must have seen something in
my expression, because then he said, "I shall start with the most pressing events first, shall I?

"Kingsley Shacklebolt, an Auror with top marks and a favorite of the Minister's, has conveniently
rented a cottage home that I suggested to him one afternoon when we were discussing vacation
getaways. The home is in –shire, half a kilometer from your old friend, Remus Lupin, who also
happens to have volunteered himself to be your custodian. Due to this lucky coincidence, the
Wizengamot approved Ms. Novak's petition for house arrest."

That was shocking. Never mind the house arrest part—I didn't know what stunned me more:
Remus agreeing to be my babysitter, or the fact that the Ministry approved it. I wondered if they
knew he was a werewolf.

"Remus will come collect you tomorrow afternoon," Dumbledore continued, ignoring the
dumfounded expression that was no doubt on my face. "As for your trial, I am sure that Ms.
Novak has kept you updated. As I said, I have a rather large amount of influence over the
Wizengamot.

"Finally, as you are doubtlessly wanting to know, Peter Pettigrew remains in Ministry custody. He
is going to be subpoenaed into giving testimony. He is currently being held on charges of being
an illegal Animagus and fleeing the scene of a crime—a small comfort in light of the bigger
picture, but it gives the Ministry reason to keep him. I have no doubt that as soon as you are
cleared, Pettigrew will be charged."

It was a strange thing to process this information, because instead of diffusing my anger, it
actually increased it. "Why didn't anyone tell me? I've been locked in here for three weeks with
no idea if I was getting out or being chucked back into Azkaban."

Dumbledore gave me another one of his looks, one with a hint of pity mixed in the patronizing
expression. Awesome. "There are two reasons, both of which are my doing as well," he said.
"First, I was rather busy stepping on as many toes as possible. Second, I had hoped to prevent
you from worrying unnecessarily. I did not want to suggest I could place you in Remus' care if he
did not agree, or if the Ministry rejected it. Forgive me—I didn't want to disappoint you so early
on."

Well, damn. Now I almost felt guilty for being angry. I supposed that was a perfectly good reason
—of course he would be busy if he was trying to keep my arse out of Azkaban—but it made me
feel like such a child. Like I had misbehaved and Dumbledore was swooping in to fix the mess
before bedtime.
"Can I see Remus?" I asked after a long silence.

"He's engaged at the Ministry for the next several hours, preparing for your detainment," said
Dumbledore. "I daresay he will not have the time until tomorrow, in which he is picking you up
anyway."

I sighed, trying not to think about the tightness that had formed in my chest at that. I wanted to
ask Dumbledore if Remus was mad at me, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I was tired of
verbally admitting I was a fuck-up.

"I can only imagine how difficult this must be," said Dumbledore after a while, bringing me out of
my brooding. "And I am sure you know that there are still many obstacles to climb. But no matter
how difficult or hopeless it seems, know this—you have friends who care very much about you.
With that kind of friendship, I believe that you can get through anything."

Yeah, friendship. I lost Peter, messed up with Remus, and killed Lily and James.

I didn't want to think about them. It hurt to think about them.

"Knock, knock."

I looked up to se Hestia in the doorway.

"Well, I suppose I should take that as my cue to leave you," said Dumbledore, getting to his feet.
"I daresay there is quite the amount of discharge work to be done. I will be in touch with you
soon, Sirius."

I couldn't get my vocal cords to work right, so I gave this sort of half-shrug and half-nod in
response to Dumbledore.

"I brought you some real food," Hestia said when Dumbledore left. She held out the container
she had been carrying. I straightened up slowly—as I gradually became more aware of my own
body, I noticed my joints often ached—and took the container she handed me. Inside was the
most delicious-looking stew I had ever seen.

"Did you make this?" I asked, lifting the container a few inches.

Hestia's already-pink cheeks reddened further. Was she embarrassed? She shouldn't be,
because the food was amazing. I'm sure even if I wasn't starved I would have found it marvelous.

"So there's going to be a load of paperwork to finish before tomorrow morning," she said. "Some
of it you have to fill out, some of it Lupin has to. The Ministry is also coming by tomorrow,
because they have stuff, too."

"Oh. Okay." It was a dumb response, but I really didn't know what else to say. I was still used to
people talking at me, not to me.

Hestia talked with a noncommittal tone while I ate, telling me a few stories about patients she
had seen in the past. I didn't interrupt her, enjoying the brief relief from my own disastrous life.
Finally, when I had finished, she took my bowl and traded me with a thick stack of papers.

"There's a self-inking quill in there. Just follow the instructions. I'll come back in a few hours for
rounds, but you'll probably be asleep. Just leave them on the nightstand or something, and I'll
pick them up."
I looked at the first slip of paper, which was an enormous sheet of parchment detailing a medical
history. It listed off diseases and conditions I had never heard of, and there were little check
boxes next to each one.

"Aren't I supposed to fill this out in the beginning, not the end?" I asked, holding it up.

"Normally, yeah," she said. "But you weren't in good condition when you came, so we just went
off of our old records we had on file. Just fill it out to the best of your knowledge."

When she left, I looked through the rest of the folder. There were questionnaires about side-
effects from the potions I had been taking, about my sleeping habits, and my general mood and
sense of well-being. There were forms about liability, about the risk of contracting Dragon Pox in
a hospital setting, and quizzes about potion allergies. Near the back were legal forms, including
promissory notes to take my potions as instructed, and page after page of medical and legal
jargon.

Ugh.

9: 25 AM

I didn't sleep at all that night. I couldn't get comfortable, and I couldn't shut my brain off in spite of
the two sleeping draughts the Healer gave me. All I could think about was Remus. If I was honest
with myself, I was more terrified of seeing Remus than I was of returning to prison. I would lock
myself up in a cell if it meant Remus couldn't look at me with that disgusted, accusatory glare I
had always imagined for the last ten years.

Just as Hestia had warned, there was a lot of paperwork and a lot of interaction with the Ministry.
Most of it went over my head and I was ignored; it seemed the most important stuff was between
the hospital and the Ministry.

I was unchained from the bed, and Hestia brought me a change of clothes from the Lost and
Found trunk. She must have taken her time going through them, because the clothes she
selected nearly fit, even if I looked like my grandfather in them. I was given a packaged pumpkin
pasty that was probably picked up from the cafeteria as breakfast, and then forgotten again.
Eventually everyone left my room, and I was left to sit in agonizing anticipation.

I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, trying to ignore the desperate pounding of my heart.
My anxiety made me feel light-headed, and I figured passing out on the floor couldn't possibly
help matters. I suppose I shouldn't have been too nervous; it wasn't like I was being forced to
return to Azkaban, after all.

The door to my room opened, and my heart stopped.

"Are you just about ready to go?" Remus asked.

I knew to expect him, but for some reason I was still surprised. Maybe a small part of me had
expected Remus wouldn't show up, or that it was all some kind of joke. Either way, I couldn't gain
enough control over myself to act normally.

Before I had to, however, the door opened again behind Remus and my Healer appeared,
followed by Hestia and numerous Ministry officials whose faces I recognized but didn't know the
names to.
"These are your discharge instructions," said the Healer. He was talking to me, but he handed
the thick roll of parchment to Remus. "Follow them very carefully. These—" he added, beckoning
to Hestia, who carried a tray laden with bottles. "—are your potions. The instructions are in the
discharge papers."

Without another word, the Healer left. I didn't have time to marvel at his rudeness, because then
Hestia stepped forward and said, "They're all labeled, so you shouldn't have too much trouble
with them. We have a Sleeping Solution, some Pepper-Up Potion to perk you up, and your
favorite—nutritional potions." She conjured up a bag and threw all the bottles inside. She turned
to Remus, then added, "Make sure he takes them, or he'll wind up in here again. Once the
bottles are empty, it's your choice if you want refills on them. The apothecary in Diagon Alley
carries them for a good price." She checked her watch, then said, "I have to get going, but do
you have any questions?"

"No, I'm sure it'll be fine," said Remus kindly to her.

"All right—well, you can always owl the hospital if something changes."

Hestia and I made brief eye contact, and I wanted to say something to thank her for how kind she
had been to me. Before I could open my mouth, however, the Aurors stepped forward and Hestia
was blocked from my view.

"We'll go over the security plan in more depth once we get there, but I want to make sure you
understand the conditions of your house-arrest," said one of the Aurors. I think his name was
something like Dawlish. John Dawlish. He was going to testify at my trial. He seemed nice
enough, but he was kind of stuffy and too official. "You are not to leave the boundaries for any
reason other than pre-determined Ministry proceedings or trips to the hospital. You are not to
have a wand, practice magic, or perform any magical tasks." Well, that sucks. My brain went
straight to my dog transformation. I had told the Ministry I was an Animagus, but I wondered how
closely they would be able to track that. "If you leave the premises, an Auror guard will be there
to escort you at all times. If you try to leave, we'll come in. If you break the terms of house-arrest
at any time, it's back to Ministry custody. Does that make sense?"

Of course it did. Azkaban put me in a fog; it didn't give me irreparable brain damage.

"All right," said Dawlish, looking to the two other Aurors present. "Let's sign the discharge papers,
and head out. Meet us at the mediwitch station as soon as you've collected your things."

What things? I was wearing charity clothes and Remus had all my official hospital rubbish. I
didn't own anything to leave behind.

The Aurors stepped out, leaving Remus and I alone again.

"Sirius?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but I couldn't make myself say anything. What should I say? I'm
sorry? It wasn't my fault? Please forgive me? Somehow, none of those sounded right. I was
afraid if I said any of it, Remus would walk away, just as he had always done in my dreams. I
needed him to stay, to understand…

Remus sighed. He placed his hands on his hips and stared at his feet for a long moment, then
said heavily, "There's a muggle taxi waiting for us outside. The Ministry doesn't want to run the
risk of allowing magical transportation. We should probably get going."
All I could focus on was the fact that Remus wasn't looking at me as he spoke. Fear filled my
heart, and I wondered if perhaps he had been forced into this. Without really being aware of it, I
managed to get to my feet without falling. Remus was still carrying my bag of minimal belongings
and held the door open for me.

As expected, there was my usual Auror guard to escort us through the hospital. It wasn't Dawlish
this time; I don't know where he went, but I had two Aurors I had never seen before escorting us.
In spite of the hour, there were still plenty of spectators. I felt self-conscious under their stares,
and tried to make myself as invisible as possible. That, of course, was easier said than done
when you were once considered Voldemort's second-in-command. For three weeks, my face had
been all over the papers. I never stood a chance to be overlooked.

The walk out of the hospital seemed to take ages. The lifts seemed to never arrive, the hallways
incredibly long, and the floors endless. Finally, after what seemed like much too long, we were
outside. We exited through a doorway that—on the outside—appeared to be little more than a
side-exit of a muggle warehouse. The Aurors waited by the door, one of whom withdrew a pack
of cigarettes from his coat. Feeling their stares on the back of my head, I followed Remus to the
street, where a distinct yellow taxi was waiting.

When we got inside, there was an Auror that I vaguely recognized as Kingsley Shacklebolt
already inside. Didn't Dumbledore say he was my official Ministry-appointed babysitter or
something? He merely nodded to us when we got in the cab, and returned to the puzzle he had
been working on.

We drove in complete silence. The muggle taxi driver appeared to know where we were headed
already, and so I seemed to be the only one in the dark about it. I doubted whether Remus was
still living in his tiny flat in Diagon Alley that he had rented out after graduating. I didn't want to
ask, however, because Remus still hadn't said a word since we left my hospital room. Instead, I
tried to occupy myself with the scenery flashing past. I should have been absorbed by it—it was
the first time in ten years I had seen anything other than my cell—but my thoughts were
preoccupied.

I must have fallen asleep during the drive, because I suddenly jerked awake and realized the car
had come to a stop. The shape beneath me moved a little, and I realized with extreme
embarrassment that I had fallen asleep on Remus. I quickly sat up, rubbing sleep from my eyes.
Remus must have been repulsed to have me so close, but he was too nice to wake me up and
push me away. I wanted to disappear, but instead settled for opening my car door and stepping
outside. Well, it was better Remus than the Auror.

We were definitely in the middle of nowhere. We were parked outside a small cottage, and it
appeared to be the only house around for miles. Wasn't Kingsley supposed to have a place
nearby?

Remus beckoned for me to follow him as the taxi backed out of the narrow drive. In silence, I
followed him the rest of the way up the gravel drive and toward the small house, with Shacklebolt
right behind me. One side was completely obscured by poplar trees, and the lawn was wildly
overgrown. There were a few tiles missing from the roof, and the shutters seemed to be hanging
on their last nail over the windows. The vegetable garden, however, was immaculately-kept, and
provided a stark contrast to the general run-down appearance of the rest of the property.

The stone steps leading to the door were worn and mossy, and I noticed Remus had to put a bit
of force into opening the front door. He stepped back to let me enter, still silent, and hung up his
jacket on the rack nearby.

I hardly knew what to do with myself, so I hovered in the entryway until Remus gave me some
kind of direction.
"The bedroom upstairs is yours," he said, waving his hand absently at the lamps. The oil erupted
into flame, casting a steady yellow glow around the house. "There's only one bathroom, and
that's across the hall from you," he continued, leading me deeper into the cottage. "The linen
closet is right by it, and there are fresh towels in there, though they might be a little doxy-chewed.
The kitchen's back here, and you're welcome to help yourself to anything. Are you hungry?"

I unstuck my throat. "No, I'm fine... Thanks," I added. When did I become so awkward around
Remus? Remus, with whom I had shared a dorm for seven years.

"Tea?"

I hesitated. "Uh, sure."

"Kingsley?"

"Yes, thank you."

I followed Remus to the kitchen. While he busied himself at the stove, I took a seat at the old
dining table squeezed into the corner. Kingsley sat down at the head of the table, folding his
hands in front of him comfortably. Remus didn't seem the least bit conscious of Shacklebolt here,
and it made me wonder if they knew each other.

"I don't know how much Dumbledore has told you," said Kingsley, turning to me. "But—as you
know—you'll remain here until the investigation is over."

"I thought it was a trial."

Kingsley shrugged, a slight grimace on his face. "It's not a trial in the true sense of the word.
Ministry justice has changed considerably when it comes to wizarding terrorism."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I remained silent. So not only was I a murderer, but I was
also a terrorist. It just kept getting better.

"The boundaries are going to be magically sealed as soon as I leave," Kingsley continued. "They
go from the line of poplar trees outside to the creek in the back, and from the well in the front to
the clothesline," said Kingsley, gesturing to his left. "But if anyone should ask, it's strictly the
walls of this house."

Well, at least I could get outside, even if it wasn't far.

"I will be checking in twice a day on schedule, and may occasionally come by unannounced to
verify that you're keeping to the conditions," said Kingsley. He paused, then reached into his
pocket and withdrew what looked like a bulky leather watch. "In spite of the boundaries and my
supervision, the Ministry wanted a little more security," he added, holding the band open toward
me.

I hesitated. Was I supposed to put my hand in that? And what would happen if I did?

"It wears like a muggle wristwatch," said Kingsley. "It doesn't hurt."

Grudgingly, I held out my arm. Kingsley buckled the thick strap around my wrist, making sure it
was snug but not too tight. Within seconds, the buckle disappeared, leaving no way to take the
thing off. It wasn't very heavy, but it suddenly felt like I was in shackles all over again.
"It senses when you attempt to cross the established boundaries or perform magic," said
Kingsley in his slow, steady voice. "It also prevents any attempt from apparating or using the
Floo Network."

"What happens if I do all those things?" I asked dully, examining the strap with a dark
expression.

"It will send a burst of magic straight through you, rendering you unconscious immediately. It also
notifies the Ministry, and provides a signal of your location. It's tamper-proof, so it's impossible to
destroy without blasting off your entire wand arm."

There was just no end to being a supposed criminal. I felt like a caged animal all over again.

Remus came to the table then, setting a mug of tea in front of me, prepared—I noticed—exactly
how I had taken it when we were in school. I opened my mouth to thank him, but instead I blurted
out, "I'm sorry you have to do this, Remus. I'm sure you were too nice to say no, and I…just want
you to know that I really do appreciate it. A lot."

The look Remus gave me stopped my rambling dead in its tracks. It was one of mingled surprise
and disgust. I wasn't necessarily taken aback that he was looking at me like that, but it didn't stop
the awful sinking feeling in my chest.

Remus sighed, still standing near the table. Then, wordlessly, he picked up the other two cups of
tea from the counter and returned to the table, settling himself directly across from me. "Don't
apologize. And don't feel like I'm doing you any kind of service, or that it's because I pity you," he
said in a clear, low voice. He paused, then continued, "For ten years, I have been the biggest
prat on the planet."

That stunned me. Remus had never said anything like that in my nightmares.

"The thing is, I always suspected something was amiss…but I didn't do anything about it," he
continued. "I think that's worse, don't you?"

"Remus—"

"And you're not talking me out of it, either," Remus interrupted, guessing my thoughts exactly. "I
want to do this. I want you to forgive me."

There was a pregnant silence at that. I stared, completely dumb-founded, at Remus, who silently
sipped his tea and looked at me straight-on. My brain was sagging under the weight of what he
had just said. A million thoughts were racing through my brain, all with the aim of telling Remus
he had no need to be forgiven. But the thoughts were jumbled up, and all I could do was stare
like an idiot.

"Perhaps it might help to explain everything that has been going on," said Kinsgley, breaking the
silence. "Behind the scenes, that is."

"Right," said Remus, setting his cup down. "We've been working quite a bit, so I apologize if our
explanations jump back and forth. Er, well, I guess you should know that the Ministry is extremely
wary of admitting they were wrong."

I rolled my eyes at that.

"Back during the war, everyone was happy to lock up Death Eaters," said Kingsley slowly. "But
things have changed in the last ten years, and people are focusing on progressive justice. This
puts the Ministry in an awkward position—most of its officials were appointed in wartime when
the wizarding community thirsted for blood. So it's very split—half want to follow the books and
pursue real justice, and the other half says that it doesn't matter."

"Mostly what's going on is the Ministry is fighting with itself over what to do about you and Peter,"
Remus added. "It keeps going back and forth between a full trial and an investigation—that's one
of the complaints in the Prophet, that the Ministry can't even put a name to what they're doing.
It's almost turned into a case of self-preservation; if they admit they were wrong, they risk being
voted out."

"Oh, well, Merlin forbid that ever happened," I said sardonically.

"I didn't say it was right, just that it's what they're all thinking," said Remus placatingly. "So while
all this is going on, the rest of us have been doing everything we can to put pressure on them.
Dumbledore has the Wizengamot, Kingsley here is admired by the Auror department, and
Andras Ramiro's law group is the best in the wizarding world. This is all food for the media, of
course, so we've—er—been helping that along a bit," added Remus, glancing at Kingsley. "You
know, to put the information out there, and to put pressure on the Ministry."

I had nearly forgotten my tea was there. I took a sip, trying to sort my thoughts, then said, "So my
trial or whatever isn't even about me anymore."

"No."

"It's a political stunt."

Remus hesitated. "Kind of," he said slowly. Leave it to Remus to always be just a little forgiving
of everyone.

There was a strange tapping sound on the roof. I looked around, but neither Remus nor Kingsley
seemed to notice it. I looked out the window, and sat that it was covered in water droplets. It was
raining. I hadn't heard that sound in ten years.

"Here," said Remus, getting to his feet. He rummaged through a wicker basket by the fireplace in
the tiny sitting room and returned with an old, folded newspaper. He handed it to me, and I took it
slowly, unsure of what I was going to find.

It was me. Everywhere. Every single page had a mention of me. There were articles about my
arrest, my upcoming trial, and all of it sounded angry. There were photographs, too, ones I didn't
even remember being taken.

"Read the one on the second page," said Remus, sitting back down heavily at the table.

Ministry Mayhem: Bungling the Black Case

London, England- Sirius Black, the 31-year-old wizard accused of murder and Death Eater
activity, has been removed from Azkaban to submit to an investigation launched August 2nd by
the Ministry of Magic.

The Ministry has given an official statement today, verifying that Peter Pettigrew—presumed
dead after the infamous 1981 attack in Front Street in London—has been discovered alive.

"Peter Pettigrew is in fact alive," said Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, in an official statement
released this morning. "While we cannot divulge the details at this time, we are launching a full
investigation into the matter. We cannot say with certainty what happened between October
31st and November 1st until our investigation is complete."

Sirius Black was arrested ten years ago for the murder of twelve muggles and one wizard, Peter
Pettigrew. He was long considered the second-in-command to the Dark wizard, He-Who-Must-
Not-Be-Named.

"Keep reading," said Remus encouragingly, seeing the expression on my face. I took a deep
breath, sighing, and continued on.

While the Ministry has not confirmed it, various rumors are circulating, claiming Pettigrew was in
hiding with a wizarding family. Other sources indicate Pettigrew was an unregistered Animagus
and used his animal form as a disguise. Owls to the Ministry regarding confirmation of this matter
were not immediately returned.

An official close to the case, who agreed to speak under condition of anonymity, reported that
Pettigrew's sudden reappearance is cause for concern. "When we came in, he was very nervous
and skittish. He kept claiming he had remained in hiding out of fear of Black, and was insistent
that Black would try to locate him if he knew he [Pettigrew] was alive." Additionally, when asked
about Pettigrew's condition, the official went on to say, "Pettigrew was in perfect health, outside
of missing a finger on his hand, which appeared to have been cut off at the base."

In the explosion in London, a severed finger as all that was discovered of Pettigrew at the scene.

"What am I looking for?" I asked, frowning. It seemed to just be a regurgitation of information,

and I couldn't figure out why Remus was showing it to me.

"Here," said Remus, moving around the table so he could see the paper. He pointed to a section
near the end of the article. "Read that."

"At this point, it is irrelevant if Black is guilty or innocent," said Bob Ogden, Head of the
Department of Magical Law Enforcement Patrol. "The facts remain clear: Black was arrested and
imprisoned without trial or investigation. The evidence used to suspect—and I say suspect,
because one cannot be convicted without due process of law—was mishandled and poorly
documented. Black was imprisoned based largely on hearsay and eyewitness testimony with no
opportunity to defend himself. While Black certainly remains a suspect, he is still innocent until
proven otherwise."

Rufus Scrimgeour, newly-appointed Head of the Auror office, had a different opinion.

"We had approximately thirty-two witnesses claim they saw Black cause the explosion that killed
Pettigrew and twelve muggles. Various wizards close to the Potters and Black have given
evidence against him. In a time of warfare and Death Eater terrorism, there is no time to launch
trials and follow legal technicalities—not when the evidence is so abundantly clear and lives are
at stake."

Regardless of Ministry opinions, Madam Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law
Enforcement and a member of the Wizengamot, has made it clear she intends to follow the
books on this case.

"Clearly there's a lot of information we're not getting right now," she said from her Ministry office.
"If a wizard who is supposedly dead can appear one day, then there could very well be vital
details we're missing in this case. I have every intention of treading carefully, making sure that
the truth is our end result."
Pettigrew and Black are both being held in undisclosed locations, though it is suspected that
Black has or currently is receiving medical treatment at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical
Maladies and Injuries.

That was the end of the article.

"Who is Rufus Scrimgeour?" was all I could think to say.

"He's the Head of the Auror Department," said Kinsgley. "He's one of those officials I mentioned
earlier, who was elected in war-time because of his staunch anti-Death Eater view. He has
strong opinions on your case, but no real power over it."

"He's the Head, and he doesn't think there's anything wrong with throwing every single person
into prison who might be a suspect?" I said heatedly.

"The point is, there are a lot more people on your side than there are people against you," said
Remus earnestly. He took the paper from me, as though getting it out of my sight would diffuse
my irritation.

There were still a lot of questions, and a lot of things I didn't understand, but my brain was too
fuzzy. "So how did you manage to get approval for—er, all this?" I asked, looking at Remus. I
really wanted to ask him if he forgave me, but I couldn't bring myself to say the words.

"Dumbledore pulled a lot of favors," said Remus. "The Ministry doesn't know I'm a werewolf, so
we've been very careful to keep that out of conversation. They were still hesitant to allow it, but
the next house over was for sale, so Dumbledore rented it out and Kingsley here agreed to stay
there for a while. The Ministry was here all last night, making sure everything was sound."

I felt a little awkward at this information. It seemed Dumbledore was working to help me left and
right. While I knew it was certainly in my favor to let him, it still made me feel like a misbehaving
student all over again.

Kingsley checked his watch. "I should head back. I'm supposed to report that we got here without
incident. Do you have any questions before I go?"

I realized Kingsley was directing this last piece at me. "No," I said. "I think I'm caught up for the
most part."

"I'll be by again tomorrow," he said, standing up. He nodded to myself and Remus, then
disapparated.

I looked down at the strap around my wrist with a dark expression. I had the wild urge to try to rip
it off—I almost didn't care if it took my arm with it—but I placed my hands in my lap where they
were out of sight.

It had grown dark while we were talking—or rather, while Remus and Kingsley were explaining
things to me. I looked back at Remus nervously, and saw that he had collected the tea mugs and
was washing them out in the sink. I tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind. I
had no idea how to make small talk anymore.

"You should take a shower and go to bed," said Remus, shutting off the rusty faucet. "It's been a
long day. I'm sure you're tired."

"Where did you say the bathroom was?" I asked after a minute of silence.
"Upstairs, on the left. Your room's right across from it."

"Right."

I hesitated, but Remus didn't see. He was busying himself with organizing his kitchen and wasn't
looking at me. I got to my feet awkwardly and stepped into the hallway. The narrow staircase
creaked with every step I took, and the second floor landing wasn't any better. I found the
bathroom, and noticed there was already a stack of fresh towels sitting in the sink.

I shut the door and turned on the tap, letting it run for several minutes before I looked at myself in
the mirror. I hadn't seen my own reflection yet, but I knew it must be awful. And I was right. I
looked like the living dead. My skin was pale and thin, making the deep shadows on my bony
face look even worse. My eyes were dull and lightless. Even my hair, despite being cut and
clean, looked awful.

I sighed, frowning. So this is what had become of me. I didn't even recognize myself.

I stepped into the shower, reveling in the hot water beating down my back. Remus' tap was
touchy and dribbled more than it sprayed, but I barely noticed. I stood there forever.

I may have still been a prisoner, but as I climbed into the creaky bed an hour later, I felt normal
for the first time in ten years.

Chapter six:

Two things happened last night that made me consider throwing myself into the English Channel.

First, I had nightmares. I had forgotten to take the potions from the hospital before crawling into
bed. I hadn't dreamt that vividly since I was in Azkaban, and it threw me into a sort of strangled
shock. There were images of James and Lily lying dead in their half-destroyed house, with a
crowd of people accusing me, blaming me, with Remus at the front.

Second—and I'm not sure I can ever live the embarrassment down—Remus found me. I don't
know how I reacted to being woken up, but I remember sitting in the tiny kitchen fifteen minutes
later and being told a hundred times to drink the hot chocolate in front of me. It was kind of foggy,
but I had the suspicion that I might have made a fool of myself because I definitely remember
Remus hugging me at one point. So much for not embarrassing myself in front of him.

At least I didn't start crying. I think.

Remus was pacing in front of me while I sat at the table with the crooked legs, watching the
steam rise from my drink. Neither of us had spoken in several minutes. My brain was starting to
clear, and I wanted to die of shame at what had just transpired. Finally, Remus turned to face me
squarely, but he still hadn't spoken. I noticed he was in his day clothes, and I vaguely wondered
what time it was. I took a sip of my hot chocolate to give myself something to do.

"Are you mad at me?"

I accidentally sipped too much at that and could feel the hot liquid burning my tongue. I quickly
set the mug back down, my hand going to my mouth. "What?" I choked out.

"Are you—" Remus stopped himself, shaking his head. "That sounds childish. What I mean is…"
He broke off again, clearly struggling to find the rights words. "Are you angry with me? For…
everything."
I stared at him, dumbfounded. My brain was still recovering from that horrible sleep, and Remus
was asking what?

"Don't get me wrong," Remus continued quickly. He was pacing nervously. "You should be
angry. That's not what I'm saying. I guess I just…I don't know." Remus was talking himself into
an even more agitated state. He had a habit of doing this when he was nervous.

"Remus, I'm not mad," I said slowly without being aware of it.

We stared at each other so long it almost felt like a contest.

"Why?" he finally managed to say. He sounded exasperated. "Why?"

Now I really didn't know what to say. Umm, because I'm not?

"I believed every awful thing about you," said Remus heatedly. His voice had a note of
accusation in it, but I wasn't sure if it was directed at me or himself. "I let them take you to
Azkaban, I didn't question any of it—and you're not mad at me?" He stared at me, as though
trying to find answers in my bewildered expression. "But you've barely said a word to me. You
hardly even look at me."

I really had no idea what to say. All my social cues were gone. I knew I was supposed to interrupt
him at this point, but I didn't know how.

"I'm sorry, that's presumptuous," said Remus quickly, overriding himself. He started pacing
again. "I could have just asked, in fact I should have just asked. I guess I just thought…" He
shook his head, looking out the window. "I don't know."

"Remus. Moony," I added sharply when he still didn't look at me.

He sighed. "It's just…I'm really happy to have you here. I can't explain what it means to me to
have you back. But…" he hesitated again, looking more nervous than ever. I had never seen
Remus this awkward before. Had he really changed that much? Or maybe he had always had
this habit, and I just couldn't remember. "I want to apologize. I know it doesn't change anything
you went through, and especially not the fact that I left you in Azkaban. But I want you to know
I'm sorry, Padfoot."

Padfoot. No one had called me that in ten years.

"And I don't blame you for anything that happened, either," he continued, softer this time. "It
wasn't your fault."

Wow, now that sounded like déjà vu.

I frowned. He was basically refuting everything my dream version of him always said. Wait—

"Was I talking in my sleep?" I asked, sure I didn't want to know the answer.

"Yes," said Remus slowly. I could tell he was thinking the same thing I was thinking. It
wasn't talking so much as screaming bloody murder.

I disappeared behind my hands, wishing I could disappear on the spot. As if I wasn't

embarrassed enough…
I could hear Remus quickly taking the seat across from me. "Hey—come on," he said
encouragingly. "It's not a big deal."

"Says the one who hasn't made a complete arse of himself in one night," I countered,
straightening up.

"Sirius, we've known each other since we were eleven," said Remus placatingly. "I don't think
that's possible anymore." He paused, then added more seriously, "Dream or no dream, I just
wanted you to know. Now, while you're up again, I want you to eat something. It's not much, but I
made some soup."

Remus pointed his wand at the pot on the stove, which gently poured a hot, yellow liquid into two
bowls. A wave of the wand later, there was a heaping bowl of soup and a dented spoon in front
of me.

We ate in silence. I remembered to drug myself up this time, and crawled back into bed. It still
wasn't late—only 9 pm—but I felt like I had been up for days.

So now—this morning—I was back in Remus' tiny kitchen waiting awkwardly while he cooked
breakfast. We hadn't said anything about my impressive display from the previous night, but I
could tell Remus was still thinking about it. He tended to dwell on things that bothered other
people, and practically carried their burdens for them. He was selfless like that.

While he worked, I tried to busy myself with the daily crossword puzzle in the newspaper. It was
a Thursday, so the puzzle was a little more challenging. I used to be able to whip out answers in
minutes, but my brain wasn't as fast anymore.

"I'm stopping into town this afternoon," said Remus, setting a plate and mug of tea down in front
of me. "Will you be okay alone for a few hours?"

I raised an eyebrow. "I dunno, I might start experimenting with illegal potions or burn your house
down. Throw a party."

"Shut up, I was just asking."

"I'll be fine, Remus," I assured him, buttering a piece of toast.

"I'm also going to run by the market while I'm out. Is there anything in particular you want?" he
continued, sitting down across from me.

I frowned. "What, like food?" I had eaten nothing but Azkaban sludge and stale bread for a
decade. Anything sounded delicious in comparison to that. "Er, not really. Just get whatever you
normally do."

We went back into that awkward silence.

That's exactly how the next week passed. We adopted this routine where Remus cooked
breakfast each morning—I was always groggy from the potions and couldn't manage a stove
without setting myself on fire—and I prepared dinner. In between times, Remus was typically in
and out of the house. Sometimes he never told me where he was going, and I didn't ask, though
I was curious. I settled for occupying nearly all of my time with reading or sleep. Every once in a
while I would go outside, but it felt strange to stand out there knowing I couldn't go more than
fifteen feet from the house.
During this time, the weather began to deteriorate in spite of the season. It was almost always
raining each morning, and the gloom matched my mood perfectly. Remus had taken to making
tea nearly every hour, convinced the warmth would cheer me up. Unless he put a Cheering
Charm on the mug, I didn't think that would be possible. I didn't tell Remus that, of course.

I stood by the window in the sitting room, sipping my third cup of tea. Outside, I could see a
muggle car parked at the end of the drive. They had been sitting there for the last hour. That was
strange.

I heard Remus enter the room.

"There's someone at the foot of your driveway," I said.

Remus moved toward the window. "What? Oh—yeah, that's a Ministry car."

I raised an eyebrow. "What are they doing here?"

"Security," said Remus, moving away from the window and adding a stack of old Daily
Prophets to the kindling pile by the fireplace. "They come by every now and then to make sure
everything's fine."

Through the glass, I could see the shape of two people in the front seats of the car, one smoking
and one reading the paper.

I sighed inwardly, taking another sip of tea. "All right."

It was halfway through the second week when I heard news about my trial from anyone. Knowing
I couldn't leave the house, Ms. Novak sent an owl notifying me that she intended to stop by that
afternoon.

"I was beginning to wonder when they would contact you. The trial is in two weeks," said Remus,
reading the note over my shoulder.

I had been trying very hard not to think of the upcoming trial, but that was pretty much
impossible, especially now.

I spent the rest of the day in agitation, unable to focus on anything I tried to do. Finally, shortly
after a late lunch, the doorbell rang and Remus and I both jumped.

"I'll get it," said Remus, getting to his feet quickly.

I stayed where I was at the kitchen table, dreading the inevitable legal preparations.

"Sorry I'm late," said Ms. Novak as Remus led her into the kitchen a moment later. "I meant to
come earlier."

"No, no, it's not a problem," said Remus politely. "Tea? I'm just starting a pot."

"Er—yes, thank you," said Ms. Novak, sounding a little distracted. She was dressed in regular
street clothes, and I found it completely bizarre. I was so used to seeing her in nothing but
expensive robes and high heels. She set her briefcase down and took a seat on my corner.
"How're you holding up?"
"I'm okay," I said. I didn't know if I was lying to her or not.

She took a deep breath, then said, "So I'm going to meet you at the Ministry on the twenty-fourth,
at eight-thirty. The opening arguments will start at nine. For the first several days, you won't have
to do anything except show up. Rochester hasn't called you as a witness, so you won't have to
testify until the end."

I tried to fight the rising panic in my chest. "How long will it all take?"

"It varies," she said. "But it'll probably be a week or two until we give our case—the prosecution
goes first, and they have to get through all of their testimony. It really just depends how much
they have. As for our side, I'd say about two weeks."

"A month of this?" I asked, rubbing my temples. A headache was already forming behind my
eyes.

"Longer is possible," warned Ms. Novak. "Now," she continued, changing directions and
sounding official again. "I've finished all the preparations for our testimony. I've divided our case
into three major parts, so we're presenting witnesses in that order. You'll be the last one I call,
but I want to prepare you for cross-examination. Rochester's going to do everything he can to
make you slip."

"Now?" I asked, a little taken aback.

"The more practice you have, the better off you'll be," she said.

I knew this part was necessary, but it really wasn't what I wanted to be doing.

"So let's start with the night the Potters died," she said brusquely, jumping right in. "Is it true that
they made you their Secret-Keeper?"

"No," I said. "They used Peter."

"So they never used you," said Ms. Novak. She was looking at me directly, and I was sure she
wasn't blinking. "Even though various witnesses gave testimony claiming you were?"

"I was in the beginning—"

"So you lied. You were their Secret-Keeper."

I stared at her, stunned.

She sighed. "Stick to short answers. Use yes and no as much as possible. Don't try to explain
your answers; just stick to the facts. Let's try again. Were you the Secret-Keeper?"

I sighed, already exhausted with this. "Yes."

"So you told You-Know-Who their location—"

"No," I interrupted. "We switched."

"With who?"

"Peter Pettigrew."
"Can anyone vouch for this?" she asked sternly.

"No," I said, feeling stupid. "We didn't tell anyone we switched."

"Why not?" she pressed.

"I knew Voldemort would come after me," I said wearily. I felt like I had said this story a thousand
times. "So I told them to use Peter, and we didn't tell anyone. This way, Voldemort would come
after me and Peter would be safe."

"Why not tell your friends? Or Dumbledore?"

"We knew there was a spy," I said, voice heavy.

"You thought Dumbledore might be a spy?" she interrupted.

"No," I said quickly.

"Then why not tell him?"

I hesitated, and she jumped on it. "Isn't it convenient that the only people who can confirm this
story are dead, Mr. Black? Otherwise it's your word against Mr. Pettigrew's."

I stared at her, at a loss for words again. Was this really how it was going to be? I might as well
blow myself up and get it over with.

Remus had been watching us, immobile near the sink.

"It's better to admit a mistake then to let a question go unanswered," said Ms. Novak, her voice
gentle now. "If you hesitate, the prosecution is going to fill in answers for you. Rochester is
trained to set up traps, and he'll push you right into one."

Remus set down two mugs of tea on the table between us. He hesitated as though unsure if he
should join us at the table, but decided on it a moment later.

"Why didn't you tell anyone you switched?" Ms. Novak continued in the same brusque voice.

"I wasn't thinking clearly," I said, forcing the words out with difficulty. It was like scraping my soul
against jagged rocks. "I didn't trust the same people Dumbledore trusted. If it was only myself
and Peter who knew, then I could be absolutely certain James and Lily would be safe." I chanced
a glance at Remus, who was staring into his mugs, both hands wrapped around it. I wondered
what he was thinking, but his face was unreadable.

"Where were you the night Lily and James were killed?" Ms. Novak asked. She said it in such an
emotionless voice that it was like she was reading off a potion ingredient list.

"I had arranged to check on Peter that night," I said, trying to push the images away. "But when I
got to his apartment, it was empty. There wasn't any sign of a struggle, nothing. I knew
something was wrong, so I headed straight to the Potter's." I stopped here.

Ms. Novak watched me for another minute. "And?"

I rubbed my temples and the back of my neck. An enormous headache was forming there. "Do
we have to do this?"
"Yes," said Ms. Novak, but her tone hadn't changed. She still sounded like a cold prosecutor. "It's
going to be a hundred times harder when we're in court, because once you're on the stand, I
can't help you. The only way to prepare yourself is to practice. You have to say these things out
loud."

"Can I just declare insanity instead?" I asked.

"Do you want to switch from a prison cell to a hospital cell?" she asked, her voice betraying a hint
of annoyance.

I looked at Remus from between my hands. He was sitting across from me, watching me with a
small frown. At first I was afraid I'd see pity there, but it was something else etched in his
features.

"When I arrived at their house, I realized what Peter must have done," I said, still looking at
Remus as I spoke. I paused, then said, "Hagrid was there. He had Harry."

"Who's Hagrid?"

"He's the gamekeeper at Hogwarts. He said Dumbledore sent him to collect Harry and take him
to his Aunt and Uncle's house. So I gave him my motorbike and went after Peter."

"What were you going to do once you found Peter?" Ms. Novak asked. This time her voice was
quiet and mine was aggressive.

"I was going to kill him."

"You found Peter the next afternoon. Is that correct?"

"Yes," I said, trying to ignore the anger that was swirling in the pit of my stomach. I could feel my
hands starting to shake, and I had to put them around the tea mug so it would stop. "He was in
Diagon Alley, trying to buy an illegal Portkey off a wizard. When he saw me, he ran for it and I
followed. He stopped once we reached the muggle street outside. He yelled for the whole street
to hear that I betrayed Lily and James. Then, with the wand behind is back, he blew it all up and
killed anyone within twenty feet of himself. He cut off his finger and transformed into a rat,
disappearing beneath the sewers."

"Did anyone see him transform?" Ms. Novak asked, her voice becoming stern again.

"No. There was too much chaos."

"Then how did you see it?"

"I knew what I was looking for," I said bitterly. "Besides, I was right in front of him. I saw
everything."

Ms. Novak took a deep breath, then said, "Okay, I think that's enough for tonight."

The air had grown heavy and intense, and it felt like a dark cloud had made its way into the
house. Remus got up and refilled everyone's mugs before laying more wood on the fire in the
kitchen stove. Satisfied that the air had warmed somewhat, Remus sat back down and Ms.
Novak turned to me once more.

"Do you have any questions?" she asked. Her voice was gentle, but it still didn't sound quite right
after she had just mentally assaulted me.
I tried to think of something. I'm sure I did—I still wasn't completely sure how a trial worked—but I
couldn't think of how to organize it into an articulate thought.

"Is it public? The trial?" Remus asked.

"No," said Ms. Novak firmly. "No, it's completely private, even against the media. The Ministry
doesn't want anything to get out before they get a chance to explain it."

"Will I be allowed in?" he continued. I turned to look at Remus. I should have expected this, but
for some reason, I was still a little surprised. I guess I was still getting used to the idea that he
didn't hate me.

Ms. Novak hesitated. "Most likely, but I'll find out for sure."

"Once I get there, where do I go?" I asked. It was a dumb question, but I genuinely didn't know.

"There will be Aurors to escort you," she said, taking a sip of her tea. "But we'll meet up in the
corridor outside the courtroom—the same one from your arraignment. When it's time, the Aurors
will escort you in. Through most of it, we'll be sitting together off to the side. The center chair is
for whichever witness or professional is giving testimony. The Wizengamot will be arranged the
same way they were at the arraignment. Rochester and I will give opening arguments, and then
Rochester will start presenting his evidence. Like I said, the only thing you're going to have to do
is be present for the first several days. When the day is over—and Madam Bones makes that
declaration—we'll meet up with Remus in the outside corridor and you'll come back here. Every
day, that's how it's going to work."

"Is Peter going to be present?" Remus asked. His voice was civil, but I caught the way his jaw
tightened when he spoke.

"Not to my knowledge," said Ms. Novak, shrugging. "But Rochester can introduce witnesses at
any time, as long as we're notified before Peter actually gives testimony."

"So what exactly are they charging Sirius with?" Remus asked.

Ms. Novak sighed. "They're not introducing anything in the legal sense of the word, because
officially Sirius has already been charged."

I rolled my eyes at that.

"This trial is more like an appeal. The court is to determine if there is enough evidence to warrant
your conviction."

"So I'm still legally guilty."

"Yes," she said slowly. "But the court is holding very little to that ruling since it was given
illegally."

I looked at Remus, who had a similar expression as me. "What does that even mean?"

"In wartime, the Wizengamot handed off sentences based solely on the evidence collected by
the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. According to Wizarding law, a legal proceeding
must occur for a witch or wizard to be declared guilty of a crime. But it was wartime, and no one
questioned the great lengths the Ministry went to in order to put Death Eaters away. Ten years
ago, your conviction held full legal weight. Now, however, the Ministry is returning back to
following their own rules, so to speak. Your trial is a very unique case."
"So what happens when he's cleared?" Remus asked.

I smiled wryly at that. When, not if.

"Your record's erased, and you're free to go."

"He doesn't have to return for any sort of discharge?" Remus continued, sipping his tea. I had no
idea how Remus had learned so much about wizarding law and enforcement.

"There will be paperwork, but I'll be the one to fill it all out," said Ms. Novak. "If they need
anything, I'll let you know."

Remus turned to look at me. I realized he expected me to ask something, but I had no idea what
to say. "Er, yeah. That sounds…"

"Dreadful?" Ms. Novak suggested wryly. "No trial is easy. But you'll get through it," she said,
nodding in Remus' direction. "You have friends to help you out."

Remus and I looked at each other again, and there were a thousand things conveyed between
us in that look. How I had suspected him of being the spy, how he had allowed me to be thrown
into Azkaban, how we were both convinced the other only had hatred for ourselves…the last
eleven years had been nothing but mistrust and fear. But somehow we had both survived, and
were still friends at the end of it.

Ms. Novak stood up to leave, picking up her briefcase. "I'll keep you posted when anything
changes before the start of the trial. All of the important details are taken care of, so just try to eat
and sleep well before the twenty-fourth."

"Thank you for coming," said Remus, nodding to her.

When Ms. Novak had disapparated, Remus and I were left in the kitchen, staring at the table
between us in heavy silence. Remus hadn't asked me about why I'd thought he was the spy or
how Peter had escaped, but now he pretty much didn't need to. Would he still forgive me,
knowing now that it had been my stupidity that killed Lily and James?

Remus collected the empty tea mugs and rinsed them in the sink before staring absently at the
contents of his pantry. "What do you feel like eating?" he asked.

I sat back in the chair, shrugging. "I thought about doing something with the potatoes." It didn't
sound very exciting—we ate potatoes nearly every day because they were easy to grow—but I
didn't want to use up the food Remus had purchased from the market too soon.

Remus closed the pantry door, obviously as uninspired as me. In truth, I didn't feel like eating;
the meeting with Ms. Novak had completely killed my appetite.

Remus opened his icebox and withdrew a wrapped pound of butcher's meat. "Does stew sound
all right?" he asked, turning to look at me.

I half-shrugged. "Stew sounds fine."

Remus started preparing dinner, even though it was typically my routine to do so. I didn't have
the energy for it, however, so I let him cook without comment. Once everything was simmering
on the stove, Remus sat back down at the table across from me. He gave me an earnest look
that made me feel self-conscious.
"You okay?"

I returned his look with a dead one of my own. Was I okay? I felt like I was walking to my death
with a bag over my head. But I also felt an overwhelming relief knowing my darkest nightmares in
Azkaban hadn't come true. Remus didn't hate me. People believed me.

"I'm okay."

Chapter seven:

My life had a very consistent pattern that month. I would wake up at what I considered an
ungodly hour, and half the time when I came downstairs, Remus was already there. He would
make a plain breakfast, often little more than oatmeal with different things thrown in. Then we
would each retire to different parts of the house; Remus favored the sitting room, and I tended to
haunt the crooked back porch. It rained most mornings, but often the afternoons were sunny and
warm. I sat outside for almost six hours the first time the sun crept through the rainclouds. It was
the first time I had seen bright, blinding daylight in ten years.

In an attempt to keep myself occupied with anything but thoughts of the trial, I tried to persuade
Remus to pick up cigarettes from town. I was never an avid smoker before, and Remus knew
this. Perhaps that's why he just rolled his eyes at me and brought home a few paperback
crosswords instead. On another afternoon he returned with a paper bag full of old clothes meant
for me, including a decent muggle-style suit. I knew this was obviously meant to improve my
ragged appearance at the trial. I appreciated it, but at the same time thoughts concerning the trial
at all tended to put me in a dark mood.

"I had a few friends put some things together," said Remus by way of explanation.

"What, you don't like sharing your clothes with me?" I tried, taking a stab at being humorous. In
truth, I was an awkward shape to fit. I had always been a few inches taller than Remus, but now I
had shrunk a thousand sizes smaller, too. I usually rolled up the shirt sleeves to hide the fact that
they were too short, but the trousers still came at least three inches above my ankle, and I had to
poke an extra hole in the old belt I used.

"You look like a mess in them," said Remus, folding the shirts he withdrew from the bag.
"Besides, if I remember right, you have an affinity for muggle clothing anyway."

Ms. Novak still came to the house regularly, and so did Kingsley Shacklebolt. Even though he
was supposed to be my intimidating Auror guard, I had grown to like Kingsley quite a bit. Ms.
Novak, for her part, kept me updated on the status of all the evidence being compiled in a rush
before mid-September. In addition to drilling me with leading questions, she also prepped all of
the witnesses, especially Remus. Ms. Novak didn't hold back, and I felt bad for him.

"Tell me about Mr. Pettigrew," she began one evening in early September, when we were all
sitting in Remus' tiny kitchen. Ms. Novak had a cup of tea, but Remus and I decided to go with a
bottled beer each.

"He was our friend in school," Remus began steadily. "We grew up together, and remained
friends after graduation. For the first year, Peter and I shared a flat together."

"Did he ever talk about an interest in joining the Dark Lord?"

"No," said Remus calmly. "No, like us, he seemed committed to fighting Lord Voldemort."

"Were you aware of the Potters going into hiding?"

"I was. I was one of the few people who knew."

"And how did you feel when the Potters chose Mr. Black as their Secret Keeper?"

Remus shot me an apologetic look, to which I waved a hand dismissively. Remus took a deep
breath before saying, "I was worried."

"Worried?" Ms. Novak repeated before Remus could elaborate. "Why?"

"Because we knew someone close to the Potters was handing over information," said Remus
slowly. "The only people it could have been were myself, Sirius, or Peter."

"So you suspected Mr. Black."

Remus hesitated for a split second. "Yes."

"You can't hesitate," instructed Ms. Novak in the same brusque voice. She was young, probably
even younger than me, but she was incredibly intimidating. "I know it's hard, but you have to be
quick. Be straightforward. If you don't look one-hundred percent certain, then Rochester is going
to make sure the court sees it."

Remus nodded curtly. "Right. Okay."

"Let's try again."

By the time the trial rolled around, it was hard to tell who the bigger wreck was, me or Remus.

Neither of us slept well the few days before, and it showed. Remus had a little more meat on him,
but I still looked like a skeleton in a used grey suit the morning of the trial. I was trying to figure
out the plain black tie, but my hands were shaking too badly and I couldn't focus. Remus took
one look at me and was instantly impatient with me. He pulled out his wand, and in one easy
flick, the tie worked itself into the proper knot.

Remus had been allowed to attend all of the proceedings, and so he was dressed in his best
threadbare blazer and old slacks. He kept encouraging me to eat breakfast, but he hadn't
touched anything himself.

I thought I would throw up for sure.

Ms. Novak showed up for a few minutes earlier that morning, offering words of encouragement.
She looked pretty confident, but I had no idea why. Her energy made me edgy.

Kingsley showed up too, accompanied by Dawlish. They would escort me to the Ministry.
Dawlish offered a good morning, but otherwise remained pretty quiet. Kingsley tried to be
encouraging, but I still dropped my mug of tea twice before I could force down a piece of toast.

We used the Floo Network to get to the Ministry, which is all very well. If we had apparated, my
meager breakfast would be on the floor.

We were in the bottom-most floor, in the Department of Mysteries. The floors were shiny and
back, and the walls stained so dark they almost matched. Ministry officials were everywhere, and
there were Aurors guarding rooms labeled "Witness." I followed Kingsley and Dawlish through
several corridors, trying to ignore the sinking feeling forming in my gut at all the stares I was
receiving. We went through a narrow doorway, and I found myself in the same waiting hall I had
been to during my arraignment. Remus sat down on one of the benches, but I was too anxious to
sit still.

"Are you all right?" Kingsley asked me in an undertone.

I had no idea how I appeared on the outside, but I was sure it was complete shit. I felt awful. I
gave a weird sort of involuntary shudder in response.

Kingsley reached into his pocket and withdrew a small vial, no bigger than a pod of Venomous
Tentacula seeds. He uncorked it and handed it to me. "Here, this should help."

I trusted Kingsley not to try and poison me, and so I downed the pale orange solution in one
swallow. Just as I did, some stuffy-looking court official appeared in the doorway, flanked by an
Auror I didn't recognize. "The court is ready for you, now."

Shit.

Remus was directed to the main entrance to take his seat. I hovered in the hallway with Kingsley
and Dawlish. I no longer had the urge to run away, but I still felt sick to my stomach. Once
everyone who was official had taken their seats, Kingsley and Dawlish were allowed to escort me
in, like I was the main attraction to some demented circus.

"I'm sorry, but we're required to," said Kingsley, withdrawing a pair of shackles.

My heart fell when I saw them, but I still held out my hands in resignation. I wondered if I would
ever live to see a day where I wasn't viewed as a monster. The shackles felt a lot heavier than I
remembered, but that was probably because I was out of my mind when I had been arrested.

It was the same courtroom I had been in before, but this time it was packed. The Wizengamot sat
in their usual seats with bright purple robes, and on either side of them appeared to be some sort
of lower court wearing dark red. The rest of the occupants were strangers; I supposed a lot of
them were other Ministry officials, but I wasn't sure. Dawlish and Kingsley led me to the far side
of the coutroom, where a table and three chairs sat; Ms. Novak was in one of them. She looked
up for a split second when I was sat down in the chair next to her, but quickly returned back to
the pile of parchment she was sifting through. Kingsley took the seat next to me, obviously meant
to keep guard.

I looked around the courtroom, trying to find Remus or Dumbledore in all the chaos. I was very
aware that almost everyone in the room was watching me. Their whispers buzzed around the
court like a swarm of bees.

Before I could, however, a gavel echoed and the room fell silent. Like everyone else, my gaze
instantly moved to Madam Bones, who was at her usual high seat.

Satisfied that the room had quieted down, Madam Bones said in a projecting voice, "Monday,
September fourteenth, the full Wizengamot court convenes to hear testimony regarding the case
of Sirius Orion Black." As she spoke, I could see at least three scribes in the bottom rows
scribbling away hastily with elaborate quills. Madam Bones adjusted her monocle and looked up.
"Is the accused present?"

"Stand up," whispered Ms. Novak suddenly, nudging me as she got to her feet.
I did as instructed. I felt like all the lights had gone out and a single, overbright spotlight was
directed towards me.

"Let the record show that the accused is present," continued Madam Bones, her tone so clinical it
almost sounded bored. She made a mark of some sort on the parchment in front of her, and then
turned her attention to the other side of the room. "And will Ms. Novak and Mr. Rochester step
forward?"

Ms. Novak gestured that I could sit down again as she slid past me and stepped onto the open
floor. Mr. Rochester followed, looking smug with his hands in his pockets. Unable to do anything
to fight the urge to shake the man senseless, I had to settle for cracking my knuckles over and
over.

"Will you state your positions for the record?"

"William Rochester, Chief Prosecutor for the Ministry of Magic," said Rochester clearly. He
glanced around the courtroom and his gaze fell on me for a fraction of a second before turning
back to Madam Bones. "My duty is to represent the public in the case of Sirius Black."

"Anna Novak, Defense Attourney for Sirius Black. I am representing him in the case of State
versus Black."

I had never been to a trial before, and found the formalities strangely hypnotizing. Perhaps
because it was my fate this whole affair was about.

"All right, Mr. Rochester," said Madam Bones, giving the man an oddly challenging look. "Please
provide us with your opening argument."

Rochester waited until Ms. Novak had returned to her seat next to me. He took a long sip of
water from the pitcher on his own table, watching me. I stared back, trying to prepare for
whatever he was about to say.

"I graduated Hogwarts in 1962," Rochester began. "I studied and worked until I had managed to
obtain a position with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in 1965. At this time, the Dark
wizard we became to know as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had begun his reign of terror across
the wizarding world that would last for almost 16 years.

"Like many of you, I lost family and friends during this time," Rochester continued. "My brother
and his family, numerous friends, and countless co-workers died at the hands of You-Know-Who
and his supporters. I often wondered whether I would survive, or my mother, who was muggle-
born. Like you, I feared for myself and everyone around me.

"Ten years ago," he continued, his voice echoing around the coutroom. "The Wizarding world
saw the most evil wizard to have ever existed finally fall. Surely an end to such a tyrannical
wizard meant the end of his regime. This was not so," he stated, his tone suddenly taking force.
He spoke like an overzealous Minister. "Evil still lingered. Supporters of the Dark Lord remained,
and continued to commit terrible atrocities—atrocities which include the calculated betrayal of
two innocent members of our community, the attempted murder of a third, and the senseless
mass destruction of twelve muggles in the middle of a November afternoon."

Well, Rochester certainly had a penchant for theatric language. In only a few sentences, he had
managed to paint me as a monster worse than Voldemort. I chanced a glance at the
Wizengamot, and wondered how on earth Ms. Novak would be able to turn that around.
"We must ask ourselves, how do we respond to such an evil act?" Rochester continued. "How do
we restore peace and a sense of goodness into a community constantly torn apart by
wickedness?" He paused, letting that sink in before continuing. "With justice," he finally said,
looking around the courtroom. "Justice will see to it that Dark magic is eradicated from our
community, and justice will keep those who wish to see your sons and daughters dead are
locked up forever. Justice will make sure Sirius Black remains in Azkaban prison, where he
belongs.

"I will present to you evidence which supports the charges facing the accused. You will hear
testimony regarding Black's affiliation with Death Eaters, his penchant for violence, and most
importantly, facts regarding his crimes. You will be presented with evidence that proves Black
was the only possible suspect to hand over Lily and James Potter to You-Know-Who, resulting in
their murders and thus orphaning their only son. You will be presented with evidence both
disturbing and terrible. But it is your duty to hear it, and to serve that justice. Justice that will
avenge the deaths of twelve people, and countless other crimes not yet brought to light. Justice
that will keep a Death Eater and a cold-blooded killer in Azkaban."

Rochester looked over the entire courtroom once before nodding to Madam Bones and returning
to his seat on the opposite side of the room.

Madam Bones looked like an enormous weight was just pressed to her chest. "Ms. Novak?"

Ms. Novak didn't waste any time. She got to her feet and crossed to the center of the room in a
few clicking strides. Unlike Rochester, she didn't size up the room; instead she turned to face the
Wizengamot head-on. "Mr. Rochester is correct in his retelling of the dark days during You-
Know-Who's effort to overtake the Wizarding world. In an attempt to combat the rising darkness,
the Ministry did everything within its power to keep up—things which, today, we might reconsider.
It was a dark time, yes, we all remember. But let's also remember that everyone was a suspect.
The Ministry could arrest you and search your house without probable cause. They could detain
you indefinitely, question you without representation, and even charge you for crimes and throw
you in prison without proof. While this was a temporary response to the escalating violence and
terror perpetuated by You-Know-Who and his followers, these are still facts—and without all the
facts a half-truth is nothing more than a cowardly lie.

"I will present to you hard evidence and witnesses who can attest to these facts—facts that prove
Mr. Black is not responsible for the crimes for which he is accused. You will hear testimony
regarding the night of the Potters' murders and the following afternoon in which twelve muggles
were killed. You will be presented with testimony by Mr. Rochester condemning my client as a
Death Eater and a murderer, and you will hear facts that prove Mr. Black is innocent, caught in a
terrible system of half-truths that took away ten years of his life."

Ms. Novak briefly looked over the Wizengamot when she had finished speaking, then returned to
her seat next to me.

It was only the opening arguments, and I was completely overwhelmed. I don't know what I had
been anticipating, but I wasn't prepared for this whole affair to be as huge as it was.

Madam bones twirled her quill in her fingers distractedly for a moment, seemingly waiting for
something. She set it down roughly all of a sudden, and called out clearly, "Mr. Rochester, you
may present your evidence."

The moment the court was adjourned for the day, I felt like throwing up but I managed to keep
myself together. Kinglsey led me into the narrow hall adjacent to the courtroom, which was
blessedly private. My legs felt weak and I fell rather than sat onto the wooden bench. Kingsley
unlocked my shackles for me, but I wasn't sure if he was allowed to yet. Thinking about anything
suddenly felt so overwhelming, and I quickly bent over, holding my head between my knees to
keep from vomiting.

"You did well," came a familiar voice.

I looked up to see Ms. Novak standing over me. "I didn't do anything."

"You held it together very well," she continued firmly. "Rochester was hoping to get a rise out of
you this morning, and you didn't respond."

I let my head disappear back between my knees. I had no idea how I was supposed to sit
through weeks of this; let alone survive the time when I would be the one questioned in front of
the entire court.

I hardly paid attention to the journey back to Remus' house. I yanked the tie off my neck and slid
out of the jacket; my clothes suddenly felt too constricting. Remus offered to make dinner, but at
that mention, I did finally throw up in the sink. There wasn't much of anything in my stomach, so
most of it was fighting the urge to dry heave.

Remus and Kingsley went into action around me, preparing a small glass of whiskey, a cold
washcloth, and a pot of tea on the stove. Remus directed me to the small dining table, where he
forced me to sit. Kingsley handed me the glass of whiskey; I downed it like a shot at a party,
though I'm sure he meant for me to sip on it. I shuddered at the burn of liquor in my throat and let
my forehead rest on the table. Remus laid the damp cloth against the back of my neck.

"It won't get easier, but you'll get used to it," said Kingsley in his slow, deep voice. Suddenly his
hands were on my shoulders, and his thick fingers began working the knots out of my neck. I was
surprised by the contact, but the feeling—deep enough to be just on the cusp of painful—was too
much for words. "I've worked enough trials to know. And I've seen enough Aurors chase empty
leads to know how to work away that anxiety attack," he added.

I didn't want to believe it, but after a minute or two, the urge to explode had abated and I
suddenly felt more rational. I sat up, removing the damp washcloth from my neck. Kingsley took
the cup of tea Remus handed him and poured a generous amount of whiskey in it before
handing it to me. "Sip it this time around."

The taste almost made me gag, but the heat of the tea and the heat of the liquor helped settle my
stomach. "Kingsley," I said after a moment. "Be honest with me—do I have a flying fuck of a
chance?" I knew swearing wasn't the most graceful way of putting it, but I didn't exactly care.

Kingsley took a seat at the table heavily, watching me for a moment. Remus was leaning against
the counter, arms folded. "Yes, you do."

I raised an eyebrow. "You sure?" I gave a weak laugh.

"More than a flying fuck's worth," he said seriously.

In spite of myself, or perhaps because I was so flooded with complicated and overwhelming
emotions, I chuckled at that.
The next week was definitely the hardest of my life—I would count the week in which James and
Lily died, but a lot of that was foggy and I didn't remember it clearly.

Each morning I forced myself out of bed after a terrible night's sleep; I managed to have
nightmares in spite of the potions from St. Mungo's. Kingsley and Dawlish would show up to
escort Remus and I to the Ministry. Remus would take his usual seat somewhere in the
courtroom, and Ms. Novak would meet with me before it was time for the shackles and the
testimony given by Rochester.

On the third day, Rochester didn't waste any time calling up Remus as his first witness after the
short lunch break. We knew to expect this, and yet I felt terrified for my friend. I was afraid that
they would somehow find out about his condition, or else condemn him for associating with me.
But Remus took his seat calmly, even a little proudly, and faced Rochester with a stoic
expression.

"How long have you known the defendant?"

"Since our first day at Hogwarts," Remus replied. "So that's…nearly twenty years."

"Please describe your relationship."

"We were best friends. Sirius, myself, James, and Peter."

"And by James and Peter, you mean James Potter and Peter Pettigrew?"

"Yes."

"How was your relationship with Sirius in particular?"

"Good," Remus replied without missing a beat. "Like I said, he was one of my best friends."

"But isn't it true that you two had a falling out sometime in your fifth year at Hogwarts?"

I felt my heart skip a beat at that. How did Rochester know about that? Remus hesitated, but
before Rochester could pounce, Ms. Novak was already on her feet. "I object, Madam. This has
absolutely nothing to do with the case at hand. Mr. Rochester is merely trying to goad the
witness—"

"I will make my point very clearly in just a moment, Madam," interrupted Rochester, shooting Ms.
Novak a dark look.

Madam Bones sighed. "I'll allow it, but you better make that point soon, Mr. Rochester. Mr. Lupin,
you may answer the question."

Remus quickly schooled his features again. "Yes, that's true. We didn't speak for three months.
But soon after the Christmas holiday, we made up and all was forgiven."

"What was forgiven?" Rochester prodded.

I wanted to disappear into the floor and die.

"We had an argument," said Remus stiffly. "I thought he was taking advantage of my prefect
status to fool around the school. I accused him of things that weren't true, and we stopped
speaking."
This wasn't even close to what actually happened, but I was impressed by how easily Remus
was able to lie.

"So you say Black had a penchant for 'fooling around the school.' Had he always shown a
disregard for the rules?"

"He liked to have a laugh," said Remus. His voice was calm, but I could tell he was getting angry
at Rochester for fishing around.

"That wasn't the question I asked," said Rochester coolly. "Did he or did he not have a habit of
regularly breaking school rules?"

"Yes," said Remus stiffly, his gaze cold.

"What about when you left school?" Rochester continued, hands in his pockets. He paced
around the open floor, completely at ease with himself. "How was your relationship then?"

"About the same as it was with my other friends," said Remus. "We joked, we went out, we all
went to James and Lily's wedding. But when Voldemort moved into the open, we were all
stressed out. It took a toll on my friendship with everyone."

"Did you know that Black was made the Secret-Keeper for Lily and James?"

"Yes," said Remus, folding his hands in his lap. "James told me the night before they performed
the charm."

"What was your reaction to the news?"

Ms. Novak had guessed well, and prepared Remus heavily for this question. "I was worried,
because I knew someone close to the Potters had been providing Voldemort with information for
over a year."

"You were worried that they chose Black?"

"The only people that could have been the spy were myself, Peter, or Sirius. I knew it wasn't me,
and Peter seemed like the least likely candidate."

Mr. Rochester pretended to look thoughtful at that. I wanted to smack the look right off his face.
Remus, however, kept remarkably calm up on the witness chair. "So tell me if I have this
correctly…because Black had a long history of breaking rules, an explosive temper, and had
direct ties to the Dark Lord himself through family members, he seemed the more likely
candidate?"

I wanted to disappear into the floor. Strangle Rochester. Cause a huge scene in the middle of the
courtroom. Anything to keep Remus from being forced to answer that question.

"Yes," Remus whispered. His jaw was clenched.

"Hmmm," Rochester mused with blatant disregard for, well, how horrible and fucked up his
questions were. "Do you believe Black was the Secret Keeper?"

"No," said Remus, his anger projecting his voice. "I do not. I believe that Sirius is telling the truth
when he says that he and Peter switched places."
Rochester chuckled at that. I felt a hand on my arm suddenly, and realized that I had moved
forward in my seat. Kingsley gave me a warning look, and didn't let go until I sank back into the
chair. "What changed your mind?"

"In hindsight, it's easier to understand the things I didn't ten years ago," said Remus. "Back then,
I was afraid. I was prejudiced against Sirius because half of his family were Death Eaters, so I
assumed it was a matter of time before he was one, too. I was too scared and too stupid to
realize that Sirius would never turn on his friends."

"Black's statement admits that he went after Mr. Pettigrew with the intention of killing him," Mr.
Rochester pointed out.

"Peter had just led our two best friends to their deaths. I can't judge him for how he felt after
that."

"Murderous," said Rochester loudly. "If his statement is true, then he acknowledges a plan to
commit murder. Why not turn to the Ministry, or to you? Why is Black's first reaction murderous
revenge instead of seeking the help of the law?" Mr. Rochester, eyes locked on Remus, took a
step forward. "Because that's a killer's first instinct. Someone who only knows how to respond
with violence."

That night was not an easy one. We traveled back to Remus's house in complete silence.
Kingsley and Dawlish took their leave soon after. Remus banged around in the kitchen angrily,
searching for something to prepare for dinner.

"Do you want me to cook?" I offered, frowning.

"No," Remus snapped, slamming a cutting board down on the counter and throwing a bag of
potatoes on top. He yanked open his cutlery drawer that the whole thing came out, spilling
utensils everywhere. Remus swore—a rare occurrence, and whipped out his want to clean up
the mess. One knife in particular had jammed itself deep into the old linoleum floor. Remus
yanked it out with more force than was necessary and threw it on the counter with the potatoes.

The potatoes themselves, it turns out, were rotted all around. Remus swore again and threw the
whole bag into the trash can. "Don't even have any bloody food—" I was sure he was ranting to
himself.

I knew I was putting a significant amount of stress on Remus by being here, especially
financially. Remus made a meager income by renting out his parents' old house, but it wasn't
much for one person, let alone two. "Remus, maybe we should talk about this," I tried carefully,
chewing on my thumbnail in anxiety.

"About what?"

"About me staying here—"

"What, you want to go to prison?" Remus said, rounding on me. "Because that's your other
option."

In spite of myself, that jab stung more than it should have. "No, but if I'm keeping you from eating
a damn meal each day—"
"Stop worrying about it!" Remus shouted. "Okay? Stop worrying about other people's problems
and focus on your own!"

"Well, right now your problems and mine seem to be just about the same," I said testily.

"Your problem is staying out of Azkaban," Remus snapped. I hadn't seen him this angry since we
were in school. "Which takes a whole lot of effort on everyone else's part, so why don't you forget
the stupid fucking potatoes and worry about that instead?"

I didn't want to argue with Remus, but I was under so much stress that it all came out anyway.
"So, what? Am I too much of a burden on you? Is that it?"

"I never said—"

"Because then maybe you and Dumbledore and everyone else should have just left me to rot in
Azkaban, like you did ten years ago!" I snapped.

Remus looked like I had just hit him. I guess for all intents and purposes, it was kind of like I did.
But I was running on wild anxiety and adrenaline, and it was too late to stop myself now. "Do you
think I'm that stupid, Remus? That I'm not taking this seriously at all, that I'm just so impulsive
and—stupid, I guess—that I don't realize how hard everyone is working to keep me out of
prison? I mean honestly, how do you think that makes me feel? Knowing that I have to rely on
everyone else around me to clean up for every stupid decision I've made?"

"Sirius, just shut up for one minute!" Remus yelled, trying to get a word in edgewise. "You are
being stupid, you know that? Not because of the trial, or because of what Rochester thinks you
did, but because you're all closed up and blaming yourself for things that you had no control
over! It's maddening to see you all twisted, blaming yourself while simultaneously trying to prove
you're innocent!"

"You know what else is maddening?" I yelled. "Fucking everything. The trial, Peter, being in this
house—all of it!"

"So, what?" said Remus coldly. "Are you saying you don't want to stay here?"

I couldn't argue anymore. I was furious, but I couldn't even form a cohesive thought pinpointing
the source of it. I just shook my head and disappeared through the creaky back door onto the
porch, where I spent nearly all of my time before the trial.

I sat down heavily on the wooden steps leading into the overgrown lawn. Darkness had fallen,
and a chilly breeze was working its way through the poplar trees that lined the side of Remus'
house. The cold air cleared my mind, and though I tried to stay angry, I just couldn't anymore. I
was too exhausted. This trial and everything about it seemed to suck the life out of me better
than any dementor ever did.

Several minutes passed until I heard the creak of the door, followed by a few hesitant footsteps.
Remus was standing next to me, but neither of us said anything right away. I bit at my thumbnail
again, staring across the dark lawn.

"Here," said Remus.

I looked up to see him holding a pack of cheap cigarettes out. I took them hesitantly, surprised.
"When did you get these?"
"I bought them two weeks ago, but I changed my mind about giving them to you right
afterwards," Remus said, sitting down next to me. "But I guess you're warranted to smoke them."

"Got a light?" I asked, pulling one out. I hadn't touched a cigarette in ten years.

Remus sighed, pulling out his wand.

"Thanks," I said, taking a hesitant drag off of it. The smoke was thick and irritated my throat a
little, but the familiar comfort came rushing back. "Want one?" I asked, sure of the answer.

Remus rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. Don't even tempt me."

We sat in silence for several long minutes. Even though we had been at each other's throats just
moments before, the whole ordeal had already faded into the background. Ever since my first
night here, I had been worried that the last ten years had irreparably damaged our friendship. But
after accusing each other of things we knew to be false, and then letting it just disappear into the
night air, I was relieved.

Maybe there was hope for us after all.

43Chapter 8

Chapter eight:

It was difficult having Sirius back. Being forced to see him move slowly around
my house, his joints aching and his body entirely too thin, almost felt like
punishment for me. And as sick as it was, I was glad for that.

When Peter had returned to the world as a man and not a rat, I was originally
overcome with joy. I'm ashamed of that, now. It took a conversation with
Dumbledore before we both agreed something was amiss. While Peter was
stuck at the Ministry being bombarded with questions about his survival,
Dumbledore gave himself permission to visit Azkaban and try to talk to Sirius.
This was a long shot, of course. Ten years had passed, and to be perfectly
honest, neither of us was entirely sure if Sirius was even alive.

That's what our friendship turned into.

So when Sirius was removed from Azkaban and handed over to a maximum-
security ward in St. Mungo's, I knew that I would have to face a lot of issues I
had been repressing for ten years. Like whether I actually believed Sirius was
innocent.

I was too cowardly to visit Sirius in St. Mungo's, but I doubted whether the
Ministry would have let me, anyway. But that was my routine; if I was unsure
about something, I just took the Ministry's word for it. And that's how ten years
came to pass where I never really knew if Sirius was even guilty.

So I made myself watch over Sirius like I was Madam Pomfrey. I wanted to cry
at the mere sight of him, but I sucked it up. It was selfish, but it almost felt
cathartic to make myself see him. Like I could finally start atoning for what I
had done to him. Or didn't do, I suppose. I think indifference is far worse than
outright hatred.

I can't deny that I was also elated to have Sirius back. I felt guilty a lot of the
time; I shouldn't be feeling happy that my long loneliness was finally gone. But
the occasional joke with Sirius, the revelation that some things about him
hadn't changed after ten years in prison brought joy into my life.

It was a struggle for a while. I had to fight the urge to force him to eat and
sleep, to try to cure him overnight. But with each slow day, Sirius managed to
put on a little more weight, sleep just a little bit longer, and felt like talking a
little more often. I wanted him to feel normal again, so I tried to back off most
of the time. It wouldn't be fair of me to break down and beg for forgiveness; I
didn't deserve it, but Merlin did I want it. So I encouraged him to cook, to read
through the newspapers even if I wanted to burn them, and most importantly,
to get outside.

I had managed to convince Kingsley to extend the security wards to the edge
of my property instead of my walls. He was reluctant at first, but when I
pointed out that Sirius needed fresh air more than anything else, he agreed.
So Sirius spent almost all day, every day, sitting on the steps on the backyard
porch. Just sitting. It rained a lot in the beginning, which disappointed me;
August was usually hot and sunny. But Sirius didn't seem to mind. Sometimes
I thought he even enjoyed it.

When the trial started, it was like all of Sirius' gains in the last month were
wiped away. He continued to have nightmares in spite of the potions we tried,
and could hardly stomach food. What little weight he had gained under my
care quickly slid off him. I wrestled with the idea of force-feeding him, but
decided against it. I was stupid to think I could really fix Sirius at all. The friend
I had left ten years ago was dead, and this ghost of a man was all that was
left.

It was true, I guess, that I was using the situation to punish myself. Sirius
refused to blame me, and it drove me nuts. Sirius would never forgive me if he
never blamed me.

So I tried to take care of my friend as best I could. Sirius' potions were a little
more expensive than I had anticipated, but I refused to let that stop me. That,
and trying to buy nutritionally-sound food. started to eat away at my pathetic
savings. I think Sirius secretly knew this, but maybe he also knew that he
would lose that argument if he brought it up.

We settled into a strange routine where we didn't talk much, but it never really
felt like we avoided each other. That kind of awkwardness wasn't there. I didn't
try to force myself back into Sirius's life. Instead, I just embraced the few
moments where he let me in. I know he had to have been mortified by all the
instances where I had to wake him from his own nightmares, but I took
whatever closeness I could get. I was just happy to have my friend back, no
matter the circumstances.

As the trial progressed, it took a toll on both of us. I finally snapped the night
after Rochester made me publically disgrace Sirius in court. I felt lower than
low after that; no advice from Ms. Novak could have prepared me for that. But
like he's inclined to do, Sirius forgave me without me even asking. I made sure
to keep myself in check after that. I wasn't the one on trial, so it wasn't fair of
me to require any comforting.

I would be strong for my friend. What kind of person would I be to let him
down again?

Chapter nine:

Rochester's horrible testimony took the better part of two weeks. I was up for grabs for any kind
of questioning he wanted, and Rochester knew it, which is why he built up this overwhelming
case and didn't bother to call me to the floor. He wanted to wait until Ms. Novak had built a
counter-argument, and then try to tear it all down. Rochester did end his testimony on a nice
note, bringing in some of the Hit Wizards who had arrested me.

"Was there any evidence to suggest that Black was perhaps under the control of a wizard, such
as the Imperius Curse?"

"No," said the Hit Wizard. "No, he didn't give any of the usual signs of being under the Imperius
Curse. In fact, he was laughing like it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. Whatever happened,
Black was in full control of his faculties."

After this, Rochester introduced his eye witness testimony. The muggles in question had long
since had their memories wiped, but there were official Ministry documents detailing what had
supposedly happened.

"The shorter man was running through the crowd. He was crying, and trying to get away from
something. He shoved me into a wall to get past, and before I could even get up, a second man
appeared. He was chasing the first bloke. They stopped at the end of the road. I didn't have a
good view of the portly guy, but the other one—the black-haired one—he was holding some kind
of funny stick. Before I knew it, the whole street had blown up," Rochester read in a loud, clear
voice. "People were screaming, car alarms were going off. Everyone was running around, but the
dust was so thick you couldn't see anything. But I did see that black-haired guy getting up,
laughing his head off."

It was nearly October when Ms. Novak's turn came. She sat through Rochester's evidence in
stoic silence, expertly tearing apart his witness testimony at any given opportunity. But whether it
was enough to convince the court remained a complete mystery to me.

Ms. Novak was deliberately bringing me up for questioning last. I'm not sure why, but I guess she
wanted her testimony to go out with a bang or something. A lot of the witnesses Rochester had
called were repeated by Ms. Novak, although they presented somewhat different evidence this
time around. Rochester worked to paint me like a monster, but Ms. Novak promised that she
would make the court see the truth. She was a big fan of facts; I'm not so sure about the
Wizengamot.

She called Arthur Weasley as her first witness, the father of the boy who had been unknowingly
harboring Peter all these years.

"How long was the rat in your family?"

"Ten years," said Mr. Weasley.

"And you were certain you thought he was a common garden rat? That seems like an awfully
long lifespan."

"We found him in the garden, and he took a great liking to my son, Percy. He was probably five
or six at the time. Percy used to carry him around in his pockets. But Scabbers—that's what we
named the rat—never seemed to age."

"Can you tell us what happened with the situation with the owl?"

"Yes," said Mr. Weasley, adjusting his weight in his chair. I had never met Arthur Weasley
before, and almost felt sorry that a complete stranger had become so entangled in my messy
affair. "When Percy found out he was made a Prefect this year, we decided to buy him an owl as
a present. Percy decided to pass down Scabbers to our younger son Ron, who's just starting
Hogwarts this year. When Percy let his owl out to hunt, Ron was playing with Scabbers in the
kitchen. The owl swooped down on the rat. My sons started freaking out; Percy attempted to get
the owl while Ron tried to chase Scabbers. The twins were there, too, trying to help. In all the
commotion and firing of who knows what spell, Scabbers had turned into a man."

"That must have been quite a shock."

"Yes, it was," allowed Mr. Weasley, adjusting his glasses. "We had kept this rat for ten years, and
had no idea it was an Animagus all this time. So we contacted the Ministry immediately. The man
was panicky; he refused to tell us his name. My wife and I were alarmed; we thought perhaps he
was on the run, or just trying to avoid paying any taxes by living as a rat. We were extremely
shocked to find out the man's true identity was Peter Pettigrew. My wife and I both clearly
remember the story about Mr. Pettigrew's supposed death."

"Can you think of any reason why Mr. Pettigrew would have chosen your family as his hiding
spot?"

Mr. Weasley shrugged. "Not for my family in particular, no. But I imagine he would have scouted
out a wizarding family just to keep an ear out."

After establishing the "suspicious circumstances" of Peter's sudden reappearance, as Ms. Novak
liked to call it, she moved in chronological order. Minerva McGonagall, my old Head of House,
was brought up to talk about my rocky relationship with my family during my last years at
Hogwarts. Dumbledore, stepping down from the tall rows of the Wizengamot, testified that the
Fidelius Charm had been recommended the court about the night Lily and James had died.

I knew Hagrid from school, and most of that time was spent with him chasing James and I away
from the Forbidden Forest. He had been a part of the Order ten years ago, but I'm sure we only
saw each other once or twice that entire time.

"What happened the night you went to Godric's Hollow?" Ms. Novak asked. Even sitting, Hagrid
was still taller than her.
Hagrid obviously looked uncomfortable, but his answers were confident enough. As much as I
appreciated his help, I wasn't sure how his testimony would help me. I had given Hagrid my old
motorbike so I could go after Peter.

"When I got there, the house was in ruins, what with the whole left side just blown ter pieces. An'
shortly after that, Black shows up on that flyin' motorbike he use ter ride. He about fainted when
he saw the house. White an' shakin', he was. He says to give 'im little Harry, says he was the
boys godfather an' that he'll look after 'im. But I had me orders to bring Harry ter his aunt and
uncle's house, an' I said no."

I had been listening in a sort of quiet stupor, but I felt the air change at that. I looked up and saw
alarm on several people's faces. They were whispering to each other in shock, shooting glances
down at me. Madam Bones was obviously not willing to tolerate it; she slammed her gavel down
a few times, signaling for everyone to be quiet.

"What happened after that?" Ms. Novak asked.

"Well, he argued o' course, but in the end he gave in. Gave me his motorbike ter use, said he
won' need it anymore. Gave a last goodbye ter Harry, an' off he went. Never saw 'im again."

Satisfied, Ms. Novak said, "Thank you, Mr. Hagrid."

It was Rochester's turn, and he had this stupid look on his face like he was about to just turn
everything upside down.

"How well did you know Black?" Rochester asked.

"'Bout as well as any other student," said Hagrid. "I saw 'im from time ter time after he left."

"You mentioned earlier that Black was Harry Potter's godfather," said Rochester slowly. "Did you
know this before the night of the Potter's deaths?"

"Yep, I did."

"So why were you so reluctant to hand Potter over? If Black was indeed the godfather, shouldn't
he have taken the baby?"

"That weren' my place to decide," said Hagrid. "Dumbledore said to bring 'im to his aunt and
uncle's house, an' I wasn' about ter change the plan."

"Did you know that the Potters had been hiding under the guise of a Fidelius Charm?" Rochester
continued, walking casually around the floor with his hands in his pockets.

"No," said Hagrid. "I reckon only the people involved knew."

"It really is good fortune that you didn't hand over Harry Potter to Black that night, isn't it?"

Hagrid frowned. "What d'you mean?"

"Well, Black might have pitched the baby off the motorbike halfway out to sea—"

"Objection, Madam!" Ms. Novak shouted, already on her feet. "Mr. Rochester is speculating—"
"I'm aware of that, Ms. Novak," said Madam Bones tersely. "Mr. Rochester, you will stick to
asking questions, you understand?"

Mr. Rochester had a smug look on his face. "No need, Madam, I have no further questions."

Next it was Remus's turn, and he spent the rest of the afternoon up there. He told the court
everything from when we graduated school up to the night Lily and James died. The morning
after that, Ms. Novak called what seemed like every Ministry official involved in my arrest.

"What happened to Black's wand after he was arrested?" she asked.

"It was destroyed, following protocol at the time," said the wizard, a balding man with a red face.

"Were any inquiries made into the wand's previous spellwork?" Ms. Novak asked. "Did anyone
check to see what the last spells were?"

"No, ma'am."

"So there is no record to state that Black's wand performed the spell that blew apart the street,
correct?"

The man adjusted uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, there was eye witness testimony—"

"But no official test performed on the wand in question?"

The man sighed, resigned. "Correct."

Next were the Hit Wizards who had arrested me. I don't think they were too happy about it, but
they explained how I had been moved from the wreckage of the street and straight into Azkaban
in less than twenty minutes. Not a single person had attempted to question me. My photo was
taken, I was branded with my prison number, and thrown in a cell. That was the end of it.

Rochester didn't bother to cross-examine these witnesses. I guess he figured he didn't need to. I
think he was saving it for when Ms. Novak put me on the floor.

And finally, on October seventeenth, she did.

It was a cold, grey morning, and I had just spent the previous night getting hammered drunk with
Remus. Luckily he knew a few remedies to prevent hangovers, or I would have been a complete
wreck between the alcohol and my nerves.

It was a god-awful morning, to say the least. My old suit was carefully ironed, and I had polished
the worn shoes Remus lent me to a high shine. There was over a month's worth of testimony that
had been presented for me, and I felt like all this lead up might kill me for sure. I couldn't get the
sinking feeling in my stomach to go away, and I thought my heart might explode from beating too
fast.

I was downright terrified.

Once the typical morning formalities were out of the way, Ms. Novak called me to the floor.
Kingsley had to help me stand up, but luckily I was able to walk to the center of the room on my
own. I felt every pair of eyes in the room watching me; it was like an overbright spotlight. I took
the center chair meant for me, and faced what would either be my freedom or my doom,
whichever way it worked out.
"We've heard a lot of evidence," said Ms. Novak calmly. Her blonde hair glinted in the light, and
now I really felt like there was a spotlight. "But right now, I want to hear your side. As I
understand it, this is the first time you have been given opportunity to defend yourself."

Please, please don't let my voice shake. "Yes."

Ms. Novak took a deep breath. We both agreed that my part of the testimony was most
important. "Did you do it?"

I couldn't look at the Wizengamot and keep my voice steady at the same time, so instead I
focused on Ms. Novak. "No."

Ms. Novak almost looked a little sad now. "Then what happened?"

It took up through the lunch break—almost four hours. I was mentally exhausted. A few times my
throat got too dry from speaking, and I had to stop to drink. My wrists were still chained, though,
so I imagine I looked downright pathetic. I held it together pretty well until we got to the part
where I had to explain the details of the night Lily and James died. I wanted to beat myself up,
but I couldn't stop to get a grip on myself like I could back in Remus's kitchen.

"There was no sign of a struggle. It didn't feel right—Peter would never leave unless he thought
his hideout had been compromised," I said, trying to talk over the lump in my throat. "So I set out
for the Potter's right away." I had to stop here, mentally forcing myself to get a grip. "And when I
got there…their, erm, house was completely destroyed. That's when…I realized what Peter must
have done. What I'd done."

I could feel it coming on, but Merlin did I fight it.

"That's when you ran into Mr. Hagrid."

"Yes," I said. "He had Harry. I tried to convince him to give Harry to me, but he wouldn't, he said
he had orders from Dumbledore. That's when it kind of hit me—that's when I started to
understand everything that was going on.

"So I gave Hagrid my motorbike—and I went after Peter."

"Did you ever stop to think that you should find someone first? The Ministry, or your friends?" Ms.
Novak asked.

I took a shuddering breath. I felt the slightest traces of hysteria. "No, I didn't," I said, staring at a
spot on the floor. "I wasn't even thinking about how bad it looked for me—all I could think about
was getting to Peter."

"What did you plan to do once you found him?"

I looked at Ms. Novak for a second. She was watching me with her arms folded and a strange
expression on her face. Was it pity?

"I was going to kill him."

Ms. Novak took a few steps to the side, pacing, then said, "When and where did you find Peter?"

"In Diagon Alley, the next day," I said. "He was headed into Knockturn Alley. When I caught up to
him, he was trying to buy an illegal Portkey off someone. But he saw me then, and ran for it. I
chased him onto the muggle street outside the Leaky Cauldron. It was crowded, so it was hard to
get to him. I tried stunning him, but I couldn't get a good view of him. I caught up to Peter just
down the road, though—he had reached a sort of dead end.

"We both had our wands out. He yelled for the whole street to hear, yelled 'Lily and James,
Sirius, how could you?' Before I could react, the street had blown up. I was knocked off my feet;
there was dust everywhere, the air looked brown. People were screaming. My wand had been
knocked out of my hand by the blast. Before I could find it, I saw Peter—he was standing near
the edge of this huge hole in the street. He had a knife, and cut off his own finger." My voice was
oddly monotone as I tried to recall the finer details. It had been a nightmare practicing it with Ms.
Novak, but now I was glad we did. "He turned into his rat form and sped down the sewers. He
had gotten away."

"What about these eye witness reports that state you laughed?" Ms. Novak asked.

"My best friends were dead. Harry was an orphan going to live with his awful aunt. I knew I was
going to Azkaban for everything—I knew all the evidence pointed at me... And I didn't even
manage to kill Lily and James's murderer before I was dragged off to prison. The whole reason I
switched with Peter was because I thought he was innocent. And he had gotten the best of me in
every way."

My questioning with Ms. Novak was done. Madam Bones decided to call a lunch recess before
Rochester had his turn with me. Kingsley and Dawlish led me to the usual hallway outside the
courtroom. I sank onto one of the benches, lightheaded. Kingsley removed the shackles, but I
hardly noticed.

"How are you feeling?" Ms. Novak asked a moment later when she had joined us.

"I don't know," I said truthfully. I looked up at her. There seemed to be genuine concern on her
face.

"Well, you did fantastically," she assured me, sitting on the bench next to me. "I know that wasn't
easy."

I didn't reply. I felt like I was floating outside of myself. I wasn't sure if I was horrified or relieved.
Maybe a little of both.

"You should eat something," she continued. "What do you want?"

"I want a hundred cigarettes," I replied honestly.

"I'll find him something," I heard Dawlish say.

I had gotten through everything we had rehearsed, and now it was just my interrogation by
Rochester. I knew for myself that Rochester wouldn't hold back, and I only hoped that I could
keep myself from trying to punch him. I had done everything I could to convince the Wizengamot,
so now it was like they were no longer in the picture. I just had to deal with Rochester.

Dawlish appeared a few minutes later, a coffee in one hand and a paper sack in the other.
"Here," he said, handing me the paper cup. "London's best. There's a bagel in here for you, too,"
he added, setting the paper bag down next to me.

"Thanks."
"And," he continued, pulling something out of his pocket. "Kingsley, I don't want to hear one
smart word about it," he added, shooting his partner a stern look. He withdrew a pack of Lambert
& Butler's, and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it before passing it to me.

"I'm pretty sure this building is off limits to smoking," Kingsley said in a disapproving voice.

Dawlish gave him a look. "The man's got to go back in there and take it while Rochester tries to
tear him apart," he said by way of explanation. Dawlish had always been so formal when I was
around him; it was surprising to see part of his real personality. "He deserves some coffee, the
best bagels in London, and as many cigarettes as he can smoke in forty minutes, all right?"

Kingsley just shrugged, showing that he wasn't going to argue.

"Come to think of it, I'll have one myself," Dawlish muttered, opening the pack again. "This whole
affair's going to give me a heart attack."

The lunch hour ended sooner than I was prepared for. Everyone filed back into the courtroom,
and I was flanked by my usual guard. Instead of my usual seat on the far side of the room,
Kingsley and Dawlish led me back to the witness chair in the middle of the floor.

Madam Bones checked her watch, then said, "Mr. Rochester, you may approach the defendant."

It was like an epic finale to a cat and mouse chase. Rochester had been working overtime to
make sure I stayed in prison, and now here was his last chance to push me over the edge. He
approached me with his usual calm demeanor, hands in his pockets. I sat rigidly in the chair, my
back unnaturally straight. Rochester stopped a few feet in front of me, not breaking eye contact.

"That was a remarkable story you told this morning," he began.

Story? For fuck's sake, it was the truth!

"But I have some questions about a couple things that caught my attention," Rochester
continued, frowning. Never before did I want to hit him as badly as I did now. "You said the
Potters made you their Secret-Keeper initially, but then you switched to Peter Pettigrew in an
attempt to fool He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. If you wanted to switch, why not with someone you
had been working closely with? Albus, Dumbledore, for instance. He said himself that he offered
to be Secret-Keeper to the Potters."

Rochester didn't waste any time trying to trip me up. I had no idea how to answer this question. "I
wanted it to be someone I thought Voldemort wouldn't expect," I said, finally. "And it had to be
someone close to Lily and James. Peter seemed to be the best candidate."

"Did you trust Dumbledore?" Rochester asked.

"Of course."

"Then why didn't you tell him about the plan?" he prodded. "You've explained why you didn't
inform your friend Mr. Lupin, but if you trusted Dumbledore, why not him? Why not anyone?"

"The less people knew, the better," I replied. I couldn't keep the icy tone out of my voice. "So it
was just me, Peter, and James and Lily."

"How convenient it must be," mused Rochester. "that the only people who can elaborate on this
are dead."
"Maybe you should ask Peter Pettigrew," I replied. I'm sure it wasn't smart of me, but I wasn't
going to lay down and let Rochester make me a monster.

Rochester wasn't deterred. "So after you ran into Mr. Pettigrew, and chased him into the muggle
street, you were the only one to see him blow it up?"

I stared him down. But I could feel the nagging fear rising in my chest. "Yes."

"And you were the only one to see him transform?"

"Yes."

"And the only one to know that Peter Pettigrew was the Secret-Keeper?"

Oh, how I hated him. "Yes."

"So we have two options, here. The first, we have insurmountable testimony and eye witnesses
who can attest that you claimed to be the Secret-Keeper, that you had blown up the street on
November first, or we have your claim. Your claim that you were framed, even though there isn't
a shred of proof to support your story. No one who can vouch for Mr. Pettigrew working for You-
Know-Who, no one who saw him blow up the street."

He gave me a triumphant look. "Am I right, Mr. Black?"

He had cornered me in only five minutes. And I was sitting chained to a chair with at least two
hundred eyes looking down on me, the main attraction in this horrible affair.

Satisfied, Rochester moved on to a different question. "Why not choose Remus Lupin, if your
story is true?"

"I thought he was the spy," I said clearly, feeling all eyes upon me.

"Remus Lupin was very talented in school, from what I hear," Rochester said. "Top marks in all
his classes."

"Yes."

"And Peter Pettigrew was…lagging behind a little, am I right? He struggled a lot in school. He got
by, but he was no tough opponent."

I hesitated, trying to figure out where Rochester was taking this. "Yes," I said slowly.

"So it's a fact, then, that Pettigrew would have been an easier opponent to overcome than
Remus Lupin. It would have been easier for You-Know-Who to force Mr. Pettigrew into giving up
Lily and James's whereabouts, and easier to kill Peter under the false guise of 'revenge,' thus
covering up all of your own tracks."

What in the hell…?

"Th—that's not what happened," I stammered. "I was trying to protect them—"

"Right," said Mr. Rochester coolly. "Your own brother was killed by Death Eaters for trying to
back out of You-Know-Who's orders, and you knew you would be next. By sacrificing your
friends you could save your own neck, but you didn't anticipate the Dark Lord would fall. So you
had to cover up your tracks. When Peter Pettigrew met you that fateful morning, he had to go,
too. Everyone was just in the way, weren't they?"

I'm sorry, Remus. I tried.

The next morning, we all convened in the courtroom as usual. Ms. Novak told me that this would
be short, that it was merely an opportunity for the Wizengamot to invite any further evidence from
either side. Ms. Novak was satisfied with her arguments, and Rochester had done a wonderful
job himself, so she said it was likely we would be immediately dismissed while the Wizengamot
deliberated.

Even though I knew the court wouldn't come to a decision right away, I was still sick with anxiety.
I kept questioning if I had done enough. I briefly entertained the desperate idea of pleading to the
Wizengamot to let me go.

When everyone was seated, Madam Bones called the room to order. "We've heard a great deal
of testimony to consider," she said heavily, adjusting her monocle. "Is there anything else the
defense would like the court to consider?"

"No, Madam, we're satisfied with our testimony," said Ms. Novak, standing up.

Madam Bones nodded. "Mr. Rochester? What do the People have to say?"

I watched Rochester get to his feet, straightening his tie as he did. "Yes, Madam, the People
have one more witness we would like to call."

I turned to Ms. Novak, surprised. She did not look happy. "Madam, Mr. Rochester has not made
the defense aware of his intent to seek a new witness, as is required—"

"By six am this morning," Rochester interrupted. He pulled a slip of parchment from his briefcase
and handed it to Madam Bones. "And if you were in your office this morning, you would have
found our updated witness list."

Ms. Novak looked livid. "Madam, you cannot seriously consider—"

Madam Bones held up her hand for silence as she read over Rochester's list. She sighed
heavily, fixing him with a calculating look. "You're sure about this?"

"With full confidence, Madam," Rochester replied. I looked between him and Ms. Novak, trying to
figure out what was going on.

Madam Bones sighed again. "I'll allow it. Call your witness."

Mr. Rochester looked at me as he spoke. "The People would like to call upon Peter Pettigrew."

Chapter nine:

To say the least, there was chaos in the courtroom at this revelation. People turned to their
neighbors in agitation and excitement, and it was all Madam Bones could do to keep order. It
was all I could do to stay in my seat, even if Kingsley didn't have a grip on my arm.

The main doors opened, and a few seconds later, amidst a noisy courtroom and fascinated
stares, Peter Pettigrew walked forward and sat down in the center chair. I hadn't seen him in ten
years, but I quickly noticed that while I starved for ten years, Peter fattened up. Apparently life as
a rat had been rather good to him, but he didn't look so great now. He wrung his hands, and his
eyes darted around the courtroom nervously.

"Don't do anything," Kingsley whispered to me.

Ha. I may not have been able to charge Peter down when I was locked in the hospital, but the
traitor was less than twenty feet from me. I could probably make it to his neck before the Aurors
stopped me.

I didn't know where in the mess Remus was sitting, but I could only imagine he was fighting a
similar urge to strangle Peter.

Madam Bones slammed her gavel several times until the courtroom had shushed itself into a low
hum.

"Please state your name for the record," Madam Bones ordered.

Peter looked around nervously. "P-Peter Pettigrew."

Madam Bones shot Mr. Rochester an unhappy look. Obviously she was not a fan of theatrics
when it came to her courtroom. "Mr. Rochester, you may proceed."

"Mr. Pettigrew, who was Lily and James's Secret-Keeper?"

I could feel Kingsley's grip tightening on my arm. Next to me, Ms. Novak adjusted agitatedly in
her seat.

"S-Sirius was. Dumbledore offered to be it, but James said no."

"Why is that?"

"Because…because James trusted Sirius like a brother, said he would never betray him," said
Peter, looking between Rochester and the Wizengamot. "And Sirius…he betrayed them!" He
burst into tears. He actually started crying in front of the Wizengamot.

"What happened the next day?" Rochester asked.

Peter wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Merlin, if I didn't want to kill him ten years ago, I certainly did
now. "I heard what he did, and—and I knew I would be next! So I tried to hide, but Sirius—he
was already after me. I ran. He cornered me on the street. I knew he would kill me! I tried to
reason with him, but he blew apart the street, killing everyone around."

"How did you survive?"

Peter seemed to get a grip on himself. He took a steadying breath, then said, "I don't know. But I
wasn't going to question it. I knew if Sirius thought I was dead, then I was safe. So I transformed
into a rat and disappeared. I've been hiding ever since."

Rochester looked so satisfied with himself. "No further questions, Madam."

Ms. Novak shot to her feet before Rochester had even made it to his own table.

"Were you afraid of Mr. Black?" she asked sharply.

"Y-yes," said Peter. "He had been working for You-Know-Who! He would have killed me!"

"Would you say that Mr. Black was a talented wizard? Skilled in dueling and spell-casting?"

Peter lapped it up. "Yes! He would always pick fights when we were in school; any excuse to
duel with someone he hated."

"So tell me," said Ms. Novak, angrier than I had ever seen her. "How a well-trained wizard skilled
in dueling missed when he tried to kill you?"

There was a ringing silence. Peter gawked at her.

"How did he miss, Mr. Pettigrew? What happened?" Ms. Novak pressed, her voice increasing in
volume.

"I—I don't know!" exclaimed Peter. "It happened so fast, and once it did, it was chaos! So many
people died—there was screaming everywhere."

"You say you transformed and hid as a rat to hide from Mr. Black," Ms. Novak continued. "Why
didn't you rejoin society when Mr. Black was arrested and locked in Azkaban?"

"He—he would have found a way to come after me! He would kill me!"

Ms. Novak raised a skeptical eyebrow. "How? He was locked away in one of the most heavily-
guarded cells."

"There were others," Peter gasped, looking around at the Wizengamot. "Death Eaters who had
managed to stay out of Azkaban—they would be sure to come after me for putting one of their
best Death Eaters in prison! The spy—Sirius Black!"

"You're lying!"

I was on my feet before I knew it.

"Stop lying, Peter! Admit it! You were the spy!"

Kingsley and Dawlish took an arm each and tried to force me back into my chair.

"Ms. Novak, control your client!" Madam Bones yelled over the chaos.

"You always liked friends who could protect you, didn't you?" I shouted, trying to wrestle free
from Kingsley and Dawlish. "And it was Voldemort! You sold Lily and James to Voldemort, you
lying sack of—"

"You betrayed them!" Peter shouted, getting to his feet and looking at me for the first time. "I'll
never see why we thought you were different from your family! You're a murderer!"

Two Aurors had rushed down to either side of Peter, obviously trying to keep him where he was.
Ha, let him come get me if he wanted!

"Admit it!" I roared. Kingsley and Dawlish had a good grip on me now, and in the back of my
mind I was sure they would be forced to stun me any moment now. "You betrayed them!"
Before anyone else could do anything sensible, a sudden jet of red light shot through the
courtroom, missing Peter by inches and ricocheting. The spell landed on the corner of Madam
Bones's desk, blasting the corner off. This set off a wave of more spells as the Aurors all reacted
instantly. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rochester duck underneath his desk, and most of the
Wizengamot tried to shield themselves. I swept the room for a glance of Peter, who was being
dragged away by an Auror firing off defensive spells. Before I knew it, a sudden wave of people
were trying to get out of the benches behind me, leaping over each other. I tried to get out of the
way, but I was hit hard in the back and fell.

I woke up twenty minutes later in someone's office with a familiar pink-faced witch standing over
me. Behind her, I could see Ms. Novak, Kingsley, Dawlish, and a multitude of other people I
vaguely recognized.

"What-?" was all I could say. It was hard to form a coherent thought. My head was killing me, and
directly facing these office lights was making me blind.

"You took a nasty spill," said Hestia. She was holding something against my forehead. It stung.

I frowned, but winced. Moving my face seemed to make the pain worse. "What?"

"In the chaos in the courtroom, people were trying to get out. There was a panic. In their rush to
get out, someone in the crowd shoved you out of the way. You hit your head against the table
pretty hard," said Kingsley.

"Please just tell me they still have Peter," I said, closing my eyes against the harsh light.

"Yes, Pettigrew's been remanded for his own safety," I heard Ms. Novak say with distaste. "And
the wizard responsible for firing the first spell has been arrested by the Aurors for disorderly
conduct. Apparently he smuggled his way in to the trial, and attempted to seek justice on
Pettigrew himself when he determined the court's decision would not be sufficient."

"The court's been adjourned for the day while this mess is sorted out," said Dawlish. "But
unfortunately we can't let you return to Lupin's house."

I forced my eyes open. "Why not?"

"Because of everything that went down today," said Ms. Novak bitterly. "You'll be held in Ministry
custody for the night, and everything will be re-evaluated tomorrow."

"They can't seriously believe I had anything to do with—"

"No, but the Wizengamot didn't appreciate the sparring with Pettigrew, either," she said tersely.
"They're concerned you might try to break free from Mr. Lupin's custody."

I sighed, closing my eyes again. Hestia stopped pressing whatever it was to my head and began
to bandage it up. Ms. Novak excused herself out, and shortly thereafter, Dawlish and Kingsley
escorted me out of the office and into the depths of the Department of Mysteries. I was handed
over to whatever Auror guard was there—I didn't care to try to remember names—and was
roughly led to my newest cell.

It was small, just long enough to fit a dirty cot, and the walls were solid stone. There was no
window, just a single light that blazed harshly overhead. A cracked sink and commode were
squeezed into the corner, and a single drain sat in the middle of the stone floor. I sat down on the
stiff cot, amazed that I had managed to get myself locked up again before the trial was even
over.

The next morning, my unhappy guard escorted me out of my cell, where I met with Kingsley and
Dawlish, both of whom looked mentally drained. We walked to the courtroom in silence, with me
wearing my shackles early. Ms. Novak met me in our usual spot, looking completely frazzled.

"It's going to be quick this morning," she informed me. "But afterwards, we're staying here until
six o'clock or when the Wizengamot reaches a verdict, whichever comes first."

I frowned. "What if they don't come to a decision?"

"Then we leave at six, come back in the morning and do it all over again," she said. "And you
had better behave yourself—I had to pull so many strings to get you permission to return to
Lupin's house instead of a cell."

"Thanks," I said, feeling a little guilty.

She sighed, checking her watch. "Start saying your prayers."

It was exactly how Ms. Novak had predicted. The security on my trial had been increased twofold
after yesterday's fiasco. When both sides affirmed that there was no further evidence, Madam
Bones kicked everyone out so the Wizengamot could deliberate. My usual odd group
congregated in the small hallway. Remus was allowed to meet us there this time, which was
nice. Kingsley removed my shackles and we waited.

All day.

By six, there was still no word. And the next day was exactly the same. Kingsley and Dawlish
took turns napping on the benches, and Ms. Novak removed her high heels as she stretched out,
looking bored between bouts of paperwork. Remus and I sat on the floor; occasionally I dozed
off, but I would always jerk awake again before I really fell asleep.

Finally, late on the third day, a court official entered our hallway with an envelope. He handed it
to Ms. Novak, who looked like she had been on the verge of falling asleep. She got to her feet,
still barefoot, and tore open the envelope. The last several times merely stated that the court
would need to deliberate further, but judging by the look on Ms. Novak's face, it seemed like a
decision had been made.

Remus gave me a tight hug, completely white in the face, before returning to his seat in the
courtroom. Kingsley and Dawlish both got to their feet as Ms. Novak replaced her shoes. My
shackles were returned, and I was led to the most terrifying ordeal of my life. As I waited in my
usual chair between Ms. Novak and Kingsley, I wondered what else I could have done to defend
myself. I had been dreading giving testimony, but now I suddenly wished I had another chance at
it.

But it was too late for wishful thinking. I had done everything I could, and so did those around
me. Now it was just up to the eighty witches and wizards dressed in scarlet and purple robes to
decide. Honestly, if it was Azkaban, I think I might ask Kingsley to just blow me up.

I tried not to think about it. But Merlin, was it hard.

The court was called to order. I could feel myself shaking. Even Ms. Novak looked horribly
anxious.

"We have heard a great deal of testimony, and have poured over an endless amount of
evidence," said Madam Bones seriously. The courtroom was deathly silent, except for the
scribes writing furiously away as Madam Bones spoke. "This has been, perhaps, the most
complicated case the Wizengamot has deliberated upon in a century. We have had to judge
evidence gathered during a time of war, and one of peace. Upon deliberating this case, the
Wizengamot has deemed it wise to view the evidence with a critical eye. It has been our task to
determine if the evidence presented in the last month is enough to uphold a murder conviction
handed out ten years ago."

Madam Bones fixed me with a look I couldn't read before continuing. "Will the defendant and
counsel please stand?"

Shakily, I got to my feet. Ms. Novak did the same next to me.

"You have given us a powerful case, Mr. Black," she said. "Never before has the Wizengamot
had to deliberate for so long." She pulled a slip of parchment toward her, adjusting her monocle,
and read, "On Thursday, October twenty-first, of the year nineteen ninety-one, the full
Wizengamot court has heard evidence in the case of Sirius Black, and finds the defendant not
guilty of all former charges. Further, the Wizengamot has determined the defendant is entitled to
retribution to be paid out in the sum of eighty-two thousand, six hundred Galleons, the equivalent
of ten years' income, and an additional two-hundred, forty-thousand Galleons to be paid over the
defendant's lifetime."

Madam Bones looked up at me, but I didn't understand a single thing she just said.

"Hey," said a voice next to me. I jumped and turned to see Kingsley attempting to remove the
shackles around my wrists. I frowned, sure this wasn't allowed.

"Kingsley, what are you-?"

"You're free," he said, amusement in his tired face as he unlocked the heavy shackles.

"I'm what?"

Madam Bones banged her gavel again. "Did you not understand me the first time, Mr. Black?
You're free to go. This court is adjourned."

There was chaos as everyone got to their feet and talked excitedly with their neighbors. I turned
to look at Ms. Novak, who looked absolutely elated. She shoved court papers in her briefcase
haphazardly and turned to me. "We're due to meet with the Minister after this, but before we
head up there, I'm sure your friends will want to see you."

I had heard what Madam Bones said, but it didn't really hit me until I saw Remus a minute later.
Without preamble, he threw his arms around me. I returned the tight embrace, starting to fully
grasp what had just happened. Not only the court proceeding, but everything else that had led up
to this moment. Secret-Keepers, James and Lily's murder, Peter faking his death. It was all finally
hitting me.

I had to wipe my eyes on the back of my hand hastily. Dumbledore, dressed in his purple
Wizengamot robes, met us on the bottom of the courtroom floor. He took one look at me. "My
dear boy," he said, drawing me into an embrace. I was surprised to say the least, but still
managed to whisper "Thank you."
When the initial shock had worn off, and Kingsley had removed the enchanted cuff from my wrist,
we headed up to the Minister's office.

"I'll take you the back way," Kingsley said. "I'm sure you'd like to avoid as much attention as
possible, and the media has completely swarmed the atrium."

We ascended a few floors on a rather dodgy-looking lift, until finally we stopped in a grand
hallway with polished wooden floors and several official portraits lining the halls. Kingsley led
Remus, Ms. Novak, Dumbledore and myself down the hall, stopping outside a set of double oak
doors. "Right through here. He ought to know to anticipate your coming."

"Thank you," said Ms. Novak. She and Dumbledore led the way, leaving Remus and I to
exchange glances and follow along behind.

We were in a large office, where an enormous oak desk sat in the middle of the room. On all
three walls were sets of double doors, the largest of which read "Minister of Magic." Most
interesting was the petrified receptionist who sat at the center desk, staring at the visitors in
shock.

"Good evening," said Dumbledore pleasantly. "I believe Cornelius is expecting us."

"Yes, o-one moment," she stuttered, getting to her feet. She rushed over to the set of doors
directly behind her and knocked before slipping inside.

"Lovely crown molding," Dumbledore commented off-handedly, looking around the office. "It had
more of a French theme with the previous Minister."

The anxious receptionist returned. "Yes, he's ready for you know." Her gaze fell on me for a split
second before she forced herself to look away.

I had no idea why I was meeting with the Minister of Magic, and to be honest, I wasn't entirely
sure who the Minister was, now. Obviously Millicent Bagnold had left, or she would have insisted
on sitting in on my court proceedings. Dumbledore said something about a Cornelius, but that
name escaped me.

The office was at least twice the size as the one before it, with the walls and ceiling plastered in
official Ministry portraits. A flustered-looking man was sorting through a stack of parchment on
his desk. A bowler sat next to a forgotten cup of tea nearby.

"Who in their right mind would send a man to Azkaban without so much as an interrogation?" the
short man muttered. I wasn't sure if he was talking to himself or any of us, so I just kept quiet. I
felt completely weird standing right in front of the Minister of Magic when I had been locked away
in Azkaban just three months before. "Right, right…well, have a seat."

I sat down slowly in the chair nearest me, not sure what to expect.

The man set down the huge stack of parchment, sighing, then turned to his strange company. He
glanced over everyone once before his eyes landed on me. "I guess first I'll tell you who I am,"
he said distractedly, holding out a hand. "Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic."

I took his hand, but didn't reply.

"Er, well, what's first?" Fudge said, turning to look at Dumbledore.

"Perhaps a cup of tea?" Dumbledore suggested.

"Right, right, I'll have Allison set us up with a pot. Excuse me—"

I wasn't sure what I had been expecting, but a short, frazzled man offering tea wasn't it. I looked
at Remus, who shrugged. Clearly he was just as lost as me.

Once tea had been poured and everyone properly introduced to each other, Fudge finally sat
down and ran a hand over his tired face. "There are a few matters I want to clear up," he began,
looking at me. "First, do you have a place to stay?"

"He's been staying with me," Remus said. "And he's welcome to stay as long as he likes."

I gave him an appreciative smile as Fudge nodded. "Good. Okay…er, we'll remove the freeze on
your Gringott's vault first thing in the morning, so you should have access to your money by then.
And speaking of money, your retribution payments should make their way into your accounts by
the end of the month." Fudge took a long sip of tea. "What else? Oh, right—as your wand had
been destroyed following your arrest ten years, the Ministry has sent an owl to Ollivander's Wand
Shop in Diagon Alley to make arrangements for a new one. At your leisure, you can select a new
one at no cost.

"Next," Fudge continued, obviously trying to say everything before he forgot it. "is the matter of
your estate. Your flat and all its belongings were repossessed by the landowner, but the property
at 12 Grimmauld Place has fallen to you. You should receive all the official documents in a few
days' time."

I scoffed at that. Fudge frowned, confused.

"I don't want that house." It was the first thing I had said since entering this office.

"Well, after the death of your Mother Walburga five years ago, the property has passed on to
you, so you're welcome to do with it as you please," said Fudge.

"What about Harry?" I asked. "Can I see him?"

There was a brief silence as Fudge stared at me before turning to look at Dumbledore. "I'm sure
something can be arranged," said Fudge slowly before turning back to face me. "Do you have
any other questions for me?"

"What happens to Peter?"

Fudge looked a little uncomfortable at that. "Er, well, he's currently under investigation. That's
really all I can tell you."

I was disappointed by that answer, but at least they didn't let him walk off free.

"Anything else?"

I shrugged. "No, I can't really think of anything."

"Excellent," said Fduge, sounding relieved. "Now, if you want, you're welcome to go about as you
please. I would recommend keeping a low profile for a week or two; give the public time to
absorb the news. But the Prophet and all manner of journalists are in the atrium, if you'd like to
give a word," Fudge added. His tone sounded like he hoped I wouldn't. And that wasn't a
problem, because my last intention was to talk to a reporter.
"Oh, one more thing," Fudge added as Remus and I were about to leave. Ms. Novak and
Dumbledore were planning on remaining behind to sort through all my legal paperwork. "Please
register your Animagus status in the next thirty days, all right? I don't want the Department to
start an affair over that."

"Yeah, sure," I said. Wouldn't that be great: newly exonerated mass killer arrested for illegal
transformations.

Remus and I walked down the empty corridor together, neither of us speaking. I turned to look at
Remus, and saw that he was smiling. "What?"

Remus looked up, shaking his head. "Nothing."

I shoved him lightly in the arm. "It's not nothing, you're smiling like a buffoon—"

"A baboon?" he said, eyebrows raised. "What do they smile like?"

"No, you git, a buffoon."

Remus shrugged. "I was just thinking…you'll get to have a normal life now."

"I'm not so sure normal is the right word," I said hesitantly, pushing the button to summon the lift.

Remus shrugged again. "More normal than it's been since after Harry was born. You can get a
job, get the most disgustingly huge house on the market, and go back to seducing women."

I laughed at that. "Yeah, right."

The lift arrived, and clanged noisily up the floors.

Remus turned to look at me once we reached the main floor. "Hagrid still has your old motorbike,
you know."

I followed Remus through the hallways. Sure enough, there was a huge crowd of reporters in the
main atrium, all congregated around whichever court official was speaking. Not wanting to be
noticed, I grabbed Remus's arm and made a beeline for the nearest Fireplace. Before we
reached it, however, we were spotted.

"Sirius Black!"

Like a stampede they came rushing over, cameras already flashing.

"Excuse me!" I said hurriedly, dragging Remus to the front of the line of Ministry employees
waiting to Floo out. "Pardon us!"

I almost tripped trying to get into the fireplace in my rush, and Remus laughed at me. Behind the
line of stunned Ministry workers, I could see the journalists trying to make their way through to
us. "Let's go!"

Within seconds, the Ministry swirled away and Remus and I fell out of his fireplace, covered in
soot, laughing.

It had been ten years. I was arrested for crimes I didn't commit and spent a third of my life in
Azkaban, but I managed to come out clean. I could say that my life had been destroyed by
everything that had happened, but James and Lily wouldn't have looked at it that way. And as far
as I was concerned, I still owed a debt to them.

First thing in the morning, I would talk to Dumbledore about meeting Harry.

Chapter Ten:

Freedom, it turns out, was a lot harder to get used to than I had anticipated.

The first month was a bit of a blur. I spent several days hiding in the safety of Remus's house,
not wanting to be the subject of stares or questions. At least a hundred owls flew by each day,
dropping off requests for interviews, Howlers, and letters ranging from a congratulations to a call
for "anarchy against a tyrannical Ministry that imprisoned innocent people." The owl droppings
got to be so bad on the first day that Remus had to put a barrier charm around the perimeter of
his property, although this did nothing to stop the growing piles of letters at the foot of his drive.

I'm not really sure in what exact order things happened; Remus took care of making sure all my
affairs were tended to. I think he was determined to make me feel normal as quickly as possible.
I bought a house in the north, several kilometers from the nearest fruit stand, and filled it with
furniture. That was the hard part, shopping for my new house. Remus and I traveled to Diagon
Alley, and while I was content to purchase the first things the shopkeeper showed us, Remus
was determined that I actually bought what I liked.

Thing is, I had no idea what that might be. Azkaban didn't exactly allow an opportunity for interior
decorating. After ten years of sleeping on a cot in a tiny cell, a bed was a bed and a table was an
improvement. Knowing that I wouldn't get around to putting anything together myself until I was
at least fifty, Remus helped me organize my new household. Beds were set up in the two guest
rooms, dishes stored in the new cabinets in the kitchen, and sofas carefully arranged in the other
rooms.

I should have bought a one-room shack instead of a house, I realized later. Less space meant
less furniture and fewer decisions about what to do with it.

The rest of the house I didn't pay much attention to; I trusted Remus enough to know he wouldn't
arrange a pink parlor set in my sitting room. It was the guest rooms that made me wonder what
on earth I should be doing, because they were either simply guest rooms, or they were a guest
room and Harry's future room.

I was promised I would be able to meet with Harry after Christmas; Dumbledore said Harry had
agreed to meet with me, but supposedly there was so much going on at the school before the
Christmas break. He didn't say as much, but from what I gathered about a troll break-in and the
mysterious attempted robbery at Gringott's, Dumbledore was too preoccupied with something
secret to pay me much mind.

I guess I didn't care. Besides, it would probably be better for me to get my shit together before
Harry met me and went running for the hills.

Following the house and all its various objects came the matter of my other house: the hated
property of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. I had absolutely no desire to step foot there, but I
was sure it was too heavily booby-trapped to sell. No doubt my father grew more paranoid and
my mother more insane after I ran away. Not to mention it had sat empty for years following the
death of my mother; I could only imagine what grew in the darkness there.

Remus made the daunting trek with me; he had never been to this house, but he sure heard a lot
about it when we were in school.
The door creaked open heavily, and we were hit with the obvious smell of dust and mildew. I spat
out a mouthful of dusty cobweb that had blown into my face, and led the way in. In retrospect I
probably should have waited until I had a wand to pay a visit. Remus flicked his wand, and the
old lamps slowly lit up around us.

The dust was at least half an inch thick—no one had lived here in over six years. Cobwebs hung
from every available surface, and I was pretty sure I could hear something scuttling away from
us. There was a low buzz coming from the curtains as we moved down the hallway, and I was
sure this house wasn't as empty as I had anticipated. No doubt something evil grew in all the
Dark Magic in this house. We turned a corner toward the library, and I jumped back a foot into
Remus, letting out a few choice words of surprise.

Remus and I backed up several paces, Remus pointing his wand threateningly at the massive
black shape that had suddenly descended from the ceiling in front of us.

"What the fuck is that?" I said, not sure I wanted an answer so much as a weapon. My voice
echoed through the silent house.

The shape suddenly spouted eight legs and took off running, footsteps thudding against the floor,
and disappeared into the shadows.

"Right, well, I don't know about you," I said, forcing my voice to remain casual. "But I think I've
seen enough of this house."

"Agreed."

By the time we got back to Remus' house, I still had no idea what I was going to do with
Grimmauld Place other than never go there again, but I was pretty fine with this decision.

Hagrid had returned my beloved motorbike to me shortly after the conclusion of the trial, along
with a tin of rock-hard biscuits and an enormous bottle of firewhiskey. I think this was his version
of a peace offering, and while I accepted it readily, I did have to throw out the biscuits after
chipping a tooth.

Other people offered gifts, too: casseroles, baked goods, money, certificates to free stuff from
shops I had never heard of, designer robes, and even a lifetime supply of butterbeer. I was rather
keen on that last one, but everything else was overwhelming. Remus's house quickly filled up
with all the home-cooked meals that were brought from people who had helped me during the
trial, and we quickly found that we couldn't get through one dish without four more showing up.
When Molly Weasley sent her fifth or sixth casserole, Remus politely suggested that I could use
some winter clothes as I still hadn't bothered to go shopping for a wardrobe. Within the week,
their ancient owl delivered two hand-knit jumpers and a wool cap with a note promising socks
and at least a dozen blankets before the month was out.

Once I had settled into my house I was ready to put off everything else, but Remus refused to let
me. Once again he dragged me into Diagon Alley, this time for some random errands. He made
sure I had my own fully-stocked apothecary to brew basic home remedies, a pot of Floo powder,
a heap of parchment and quills, and finally—a wand.

I wouldn't dare admit this out loud, but I'm sure Remus guessed anyway—a part of me was afraid
that my magic had been sucked out of me by the Dementors. That's why I had put off shopping
for a wand for as long as possible. But sure enough, two weeks into my newfound freedom,
Remus literally dragged me to Ollivander's wand shop on a chilly Tuesday morning.
I had grown to expect awkward pauses and surprised stares whenever I was in sight of
somebody, but Ollivander didn't seem the least bit fazed to see me. He remembered the
components of my previous wand, and rummaged around his shop looking for similar makes,
none of which seemed to do much of anything.

"No matter, no matter!" said Ollivander brightly. He seemed to like the challenge, and what a
challenge it would be to find a wand that would respond to a magic-less wizard. I had to swallow
my fear, thinking of the simplest spells I knew.

"Try conjuring up some lunch," suggested Remus, leaning comfortably against the desk and
unwrapping a muffin he had saved from breakfast. "We should grab a bite to eat after this." He
didn't seem the least bit concerned that I may have been transformed into a Squib of sorts.

"Try," said Ollivander, coming down from an enormous ladder. "This one. Oak and Manticore
hair, fourteen inches." He handed me the wand, and I took it dubiously. Unlike the previous
wands, which were barely responsive, this wand blew out the shop's back windows and knocked
over a shelf full of wands.

"Nope! Definitely not," said Ollivander, taking the wand from me. Ignoring the mess, he
disappeared to the far side of his shop to continue the search.

I turned to look at Remus, who shrugged. "When I got my first wand, it took almost an hour," he
said. "Besides, you're trying to replace your first one, and that's not exactly easy."

"Yeah, I s'pose so," I said, looking around the shop darkly. I never thought such a small object
could make me feel so stupid.

"Right," said Ollivander, returning to the front desk. He had an old, worn box in his hands.
"Desert Ironwood, all the way from North America; such a hardy wood, I don't use it often.
Thirteen inches with phoenix tail feather. Give it a go!"

I took the wand, clearing my throat. "Er…accio muffin!"

Like that, the half-eaten muffin shot out of Remus' hand and landed neatly into mine.

"Come on, I was eating that!"

I was a little surprised. Ollivander was ecstatic. Remus, who was sure I'd be able to find a wand
this whole time, took his muffin back and clapped me on the shoulder.

Olivander wrote up my receipt while I examined my new wand. It was a little sturdier than my
previous one, and the dark, marbleized wood was cool to the touch.

"How does it feel?" Ollivander asked, handing me my receipt. "Like meeting an old friend again,
right?"

"Yeah," I said, twirling it between my fingers.

Ollivander gave me a satisfied smile. "I trust it will treat you well. Until next time," he said, bidding
us farewell.

I pocketed my new wand as Remus and I exited the shop. The village was starting to wake up,
and the lanes were more crowded now.

"Lunch?" Remus suggested. "We can head over to the Leaky Cauldron."
I was torn between the prospect of their infamous scotch eggs and the knowledge that we would
be stared at the whole time. But I knew the only way to stop being a novelty was to become a
boring, accustomed sight. What good was my freedom if I hid forever?

"Yeah, sounds good," I said, leading the way.

The old barman was ecstatic to see us, and even gave us my old favorite spot in the corner.
When he returned with a butterbeer each, he asked, "You boys seen the papers yet?"

"No, I try to avoid reading them," I answered truthfully. "Rita Skeeter publishes addendums to my
biography every day."

"You'll want to see this one," he said. He retreated to the bar and returned with a tea-
stained Daily Prophet. "Front page."

I opened up the paper, and turned it sideways to Remus could see. There, emblazoned on the
front page, was a picture of the holding cells in the Ministry of Magic and the bold headline.

PETER PETTIGREW ESCAPES MINISTRY CUSTODY.

I felt an electric shock shoot through me.

Peter Pettigrew, who has been in Ministry Custody the last three weeks pending an investigation
into the murders of James and Lily Potter and a dozen innocent Muggles, was found missing
from
his holding cell shortly before midnight last night when an Auror came across the empty cell
during
a scheduled check.

According to officials, there was no evidence of outside help.

"He was just gone," said Devin Cumberland, the Auror who first discovered Pettigrew's escape.
"There was no sign of a break-out. The door was still locked when I came 'round at midnight."

Remus and I stared at each other.

"There's no leads," the barman supplied. "It's just like he vanished into thin air. The papers said
he was an Animagus, right?"

"The Ministry would have taken that into account," I said slowly, my eyes quickly skimming over
the rest of the article.

"Harry's safe," said Remus, reading my mind. "Peter can't touch him at Hogwarts."

I couldn't think of a reply. The day after my trial ended, I met with Dumbledore to discuss seeing
Harry. He promised to ask Harry if he had an interest in meeting me, and said he would keep me
up to date on Harry's well-being. It was the best he could do, he said. The idea of remaining a
complete stranger to Harry was maddening under pleasant circumstances, but this changed
everything. How was I supposed to protect Harry when his parents' killer was on the loose and
the boy didn't even know me?

Tom left to get our food, leaving Remus and I to stare darkly at the paper. I looked around the
half-full pub; everyone was discussing the news, shooting furtive glances my way. I glanced at
Remus, and saw he was watching me, too.
"How am I supposed to just sit and wait it out?" I asked, already knowing the advice Remus was
going to give me.

"By focusing on the things you can control," Remus replied without missing a beat. "Do you know
how hard it was for me not to claw my way through the Ministry for information after you were
arrested? The Aurors will deal with Peter, not you—they know what he is, now."

I scoffed. "Yeah, except they still haven't charged him with anything," I replied darkly.

"Well, escaping doesn't look good for his case," Remus said firmly. "When are you supposed to
hear back about Harry?" he asked, steering the conversation away from Peter.

I shrugged. "I don't know. Dumbledore said he'd talk to him this week." I hesitated. "What if he
hates me?"

Remus choked on his butterbeer at that. "Are you thick? What kind of question is that?"

"Come on, Remus, I bet he heard all about it. I was the one that made Lily and James switch.
Maybe he'll blame me for it."

"Now why would he do that?"

Remus and I locked eyes for a long, knowing moment.

Because I blamed myself for it.

"If Harry is anything like his dad, his curiosity about you will be killing him," said Remus finally.
"And then you can have the chance to show him this whole other life—he grew up with Muggles.
You can teach him about his family, help him with his magic—he has this whole other identity he
doesn't even know about yet, and you're his link to that."

I knew Remus was right. I drained the rest of my butterbeer and looked out the foggy window.

"Remember the people Harry came from," Remus added when our food was brought to our
table. "And give yourself a little credit. You'll be fine."

Remus would kill me if he knew I had taken up smoking again. Sure, he had bought me
cigarettes during the nightmare that was my trial, but he also said it was the one and only time
smoking was ever warranted.

I often bought Muggle Mayfairs from the nearby grocer, but on the rare instance I dragged myself
into Diagon Alley I was able to get the good Brightleaf variety. But since I tended to wander
around Muggle London most days, and the Brightleaf gave off an obvious blue tinge to the
smoke, I usually stuck to the Mayfairs.

I had taken to using a lot of Muggle things lately.

Like my house, for example. I had a functioning electrical system and even a washer and dryer in
the laundry. I had to enlist Remus' help to disable parts of the electricity so it wouldn't interfere
with magic, although I would miss the central heating system. After being shocked once or twice,
I spent the remainder of my afternoon trying to charm the old washer and dryer into working.
"Why not just get a wizarding set from Diagon Alley?" Remus asked, frowning at me from the
doorway.

A jet of water suddenly shot out of the tap, spraying well water everywhere.

"Because it came with the house," was my excuse once we got the flood under control. "And
having something to do keeps me from going insane."

I could tell he wanted to, but Remus didn't argue the point further.

"Dumbledore wrote me this morning," I continued. "Said I can come to the school on Saturday."

Remus grinned at me. "Yeah?"

"What the hell do I talk about?" I asked, rubbing a hand on the back of my neck.

Remus shrugged. "Whatever. He's eleven. Tell him about his parents."

"Yeah," I said, running a hand over my chin. "But what if he asks about…you know, the night
they died."

Remus sat up straighter. He thought for a minute, then asked, "Well, is anything off-limits? What
you're willing to tell him?"

"I guess not," I said slowly. "I just don't want him to hate me right away, you know? I don't want to
fuck this up."

Remus gave the wrench one last tug and looking over his handiwork, said, "Try turning the water
back on."

I reached for the valve next to me.

"Looks good to me," said Remus confidently. "I don't know how Harry's going to react, exactly,
but just be whatever he needs you to be. Let him decide."

I tapped the top of the dryer next to me. "Ready for this one?"

Remus stayed for dinner that night. As soon as he discovered ninety-percent of my new dishes
and cookware hadn't been unpacked, he made me tend to the food while he put everything
neatly in its place.

"I just don't understand why I need so much," I argued, watching Remus kick a pile of wrapping
paper and cardboard to the side.

"Because one day, Sirius, it's going to be just more than you in this house."

"You sound like your mum."

"If she were here, she'd smack you for eating nothing but cereal." He opened up a large cabinet,
and turned to me with raised eyebrows. "You have an entire stock of firewhiskey just sitting in
here?"

I shrugged. "Lifetime supply."

Remus pulled out a bottle and grabbed two glasses before joining me at the kitchen table.

"You heard from Ms. Novak lately?" Remus asked.

I thought about it. "Not since the day after the trial. She said she had a load of paperwork for me
to sign off on—you know, about my retribution money and so on. But knowing her, I'm sure she's
making a huge pile all at once—"

"—and she's already completed most of it herself," Remus supplied.

"Maybe I should owl her and find out what's up," I thought out loud.

"Nah, she'll contact you when she's ready," said Remus. He took a sip of the dark liquid.

We never did fix that dryer.

Chapter eleven:

Since August, my life has been a series of amazing revelations. Finding out I'm a wizard, going
to Hogwarts, making friends who didn't think I was weird. I felt like I had received a completely
new life.

Hogwarts was amazing. I never imagined a place like this could exist. I was on the Quidditch
team, great friends with Ron Weasley, and pretty good at my classes. I had even recently
become friends with Hermione Granger after saving her from the troll in the girls' bathroom. So
while I had grown used to surprises, nothing could prepare me for the meeting I had with
Dumbledore after class in early November.

I had seen the papers, of course. We all did. Sirius Black, notorious mass murderer brought out
of Azkaban to stand trial and found innocent. I knew nothing about the circumstances in the
beginning, but shortly after starting school, Dumbledore pulled me aside and told me a little bit
more about my parents' deaths. I knew they had been murdered; Hagrid told me as much when
he rescued me from the rock with the Dursleys over the summer. But he never told me that it was
because their best friend betrayed them. Dumbledore told me that. But then he also told me he
was sure the man accused of it was innocent.

I didn't know what to believe at first. Dumbledore assured me this Sirius Black was innocent and
loved my parents very much, but a lot of people around me seemed to think the opposite. It was
weird reading through the paper every morning with Ron and the others. I had told Ron
everything Dumbledore mentioned, of course. We would whisper to each other our wild ideas
about what kind of person Black was. I supposed if Dumbledore believed this Sirius Black was
innocent, then he must be right. Everyone seemed to trust Dumbledore.

If I wasn't a big enough celebrity being the Boy-Who-Lived, I certainly got a lot more attention
from this trial. I had nothing to do with it, but since Black was being accused of killing my parents,
everyone in the halls would stare at me. Even the professors would give me strange looks from
time to time.

So when I heard that Black had been declared innocent, I guess I felt happy for him. Dumbledore
was sure Black was innocent, and Ron said his Dad even gave evidence at the trial. Ron and his
brothers had turned into celebrities too, because their pet rat turned out to be a wizard. So I was
happy for Black, and didn't really think of it any further than that.

Until the second weekend in November, when Dumbledore said he would like to meet with me in
his office. This seemed to become a regular thing, and I was quickly becoming acquainted with
the peculiar Headmaster. I wasn't sure what Dumbledore wanted to tell me, but I went anyway,
hovering stupidly around the gargoyle entrance until I could remember the password had been
written in Dumbledore's note.

As it turns out, Black was more than my parents' friend; he was my godfather.

And he wanted to see me.

"I understand if you are reluctant," Dumbledore assured me. "given the circumstances. But I
assure you Sirius is a good man."

I couldn't really think of a reason why not, so I said yes. Besides, I was curious to meet him. If he
was my godfather, then that meant I had family outside of the Dursleys.

I'm not sure what I expected Black to be like; I had seen all the photos in the papers, so I knew
what he'd look like, but for some reason I expected his personality to be more aggressive.
Someone who had survived Azkaban for ten years and fought against Voldemort should be kind
of intimidating, I thought. But Black was quiet and polite. I could tell he was really nervous. I don't
know why he would be, really.

We met the weekend after that, about a month and a half after I had learned of my relationship to
Black. Dumbledore invited him to the school, and let us use one of the empty classrooms on the
third floor for privacy. Dumbledore waited around long enough to introduce us, but then excused
himself, leaving me and Black alone together. Black was tall, a lot taller than I had expected. He
was also really thin, but I guessed that was because of his time in prison. He smiled nervously at
me, suggesting we should sit. He conjured up a pot of tea, which I thought was pretty impressive.

"I don't know how much you know about me," he began hesitantly, pouring us both a cup.

I shrugged. "Er, honestly, just what's been in the papers. I didn't know you existed until then. But
then, I didn't know I was a wizard until about that time, too."

Black looked at me quizzically, surprised. He leaned back in his chair, frowning.

"My aunt and uncle don't like magic," I said by way of explanation, shrugging. "They're—"

"Muggles, I know," said Black, nodding. He must have seen the confusion in my face, because
then he said, "I met Petunia once, a long time ago. Never met her husband, though."

I snorted. "Lucky you," I said darkly, tracing the pattern on my tea cup.

I looked at him and saw that Black was frowning at me again. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Er, just that he's…kind of unpleasant," I said, trying to think of a good description. "He doesn't
like, beat me or anything," I added hurriedly, seeing where this conversation was going. "He just
doesn't really care about me. None of them do. The Dursleys, that is. They don't exactly want me
there."

"Then why did they take you in?" Black's face was guarded, cautious, but there was a strange
look in his eyes, like he could see into my soul. It was unnerving.

I shrugged again. "Beats me. As far as I knew, they were my only family left." Except for you, I
guess, but I didn't say it. "Mostly they just tolerate me, and I tolerate them. They hoped they
could repress the magic out of me or something."
Black snorted at that, which surprised me.

"With the type of wizards your parents were? Right."

I scooted a little closer to the edge of my seat, feeling excitement course through me. I had never
met anyone who knew my parents in detail. Other than Aunt Petunia, I guess, but she never liked
to admit that she even had a sister. "So I, er, hear you were good friends with my parents."

Black gave me a knowing look, obviously aware I had gotten my information from the papers.
"Yes, I was. Your dad and I were best friends; we met on the train in our first year. It was the four
of us: your dad, me, Remus...and Peter."

I held my breath when he said Peter's name, but if thinking about him bothered Black at all, he
didn't show it. "We met Lily then too, of course, but we, er, didn't get along right away."

"Really?" I said, surprised. "Why?"

"Because your mum had a knack for rules, and your dad and I didn't," said Black, the faintest
trace of a smile. "But she started to warm up to us in fifth year. Started dating your dad in
seventh."

"What were they like?" I asked, excited for any bit of information Black could give me.

Black smiled. I noticed he had started to relax. His shoulders weren't so stiff. "Your dad was the
best friend I ever had—you look exactly like him, you know," he added. This sent a thrill of
excitement through me. "Just like him. Except the eyes. They're your mother's.

"Anyway," he said quickly, like he thought he was getting sentimental. I didn't mind it; I was
elated to hear about any resemblances I had to my parents. "Your dad and I met on the train and
we were instant friends. Both sorted into Gryffindor, along with Remus and Peter. Lily, too.
James played Quidditch for his House—"

"I play Quidditch, too," I interrupted.

Black looked surprised at that. "Really? First year and you're on the team?"

"Yeah," I said. "I play Seeker."

"Your dad was a Chaser, and an excellent one at that."

"Did you play?" I asked.

Black laughed at some distant memory. "For about six months, in fourth year," he said. "They
needed another Chaser, and James forced me to try out. I was hit by a Bludger so hard I woke
up four days later in the hospital wing with a concussion and a dozen broken bones. My
Quidditch career was rather short-lived as far as I was concerned."

I was alarmed that someone could sustain that kind of injury from a game of Quidditch, and was
now glad that my role as a Seeker meant minimal involvement with the Bludgers.

"Your dad made Quidditch captain in sixth year," Black continued. "He was one of the most
popular students in the school. He was talented, smart, and kind of an idiot." Black chuckled.
"Although so was I," he allowed. "He had always been in love with your mother, but she thought
he was ridiculous. He spent his time either trying to impress her or causing trouble with me. We
used to sneak out after hours, exploring the school and the grounds. We found about seven
different hidden passageways out of the school, too, all by our second year. We spent a lot of
time in detention together as well. But he got himself together a little bit in sixth year. He was
made Head Boy in seventh."

I was stunned by this revelation. My whole life, I had always managed what my parents were like,
and here was someone who had known them for years, sitting right across from me. "What was
my mum like?" I asked.

Black gave a small smile as he thought for a moment. "Brilliant witch; I'd say the brightest in our
year. She was especially good at Charms. A lot of people were in love with her; maybe that's
why James spent so much time hexing students in the halls," he added as an afterthought,
smirking. "She was Prefect and Head Girl, of course. Everyone knew she would be; she loved
school and rules."

I couldn't help but smile at that. "That sounds like my friend Hermione," I told Black.

"Then you made a good choice in your friends," he replied. "Your mother was a favorite of a lot of
the professors, but she relaxed on the school rules a bit after a few years. She absolutely loved
you," he added. "When you were born, neither of your parents could take their eyes off you."

I didn't know how to respond to this. But it was nice to hear.

"They named you Harry after James's father, and of course your middle name is obvious." He
shot me a smirk. "I wanted to name you Winfred."

I couldn't help but laugh at that. "Well, I'm glad they didn't listen to you."

"Winfred Vivion was a huge influence in early wizarding politics. Of course," Black added. "he did
have a knack for hiding dragons and gambling." He smiled at the memory. "But your parents
were keen on having Harry James, so I made them promise me I got to name their second child."
His smile faltered at that. It was like curtain had suddenly closed behind his eyes. He cleared his
throat awkwardly, then said, "Tell me about you."

I shrugged, uncomfortable about being put on the spot. What was there to say about me? I was
extremely ordinary. "Uh, there isn't much to say," I replied truthfully. "Er, I play Quidditch. I'm in
Gryffindor." I shrugged again. "That's really all I have."

Black raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Come on, I know there's more to it than that. What's your
favorite class?"

I wracked my brain. They were all interesting in their own right. Well…not Potions or History of
Magic so much. "Uh, Defense Against the Dark Arts is pretty cool," I finally decided. "The
professor, Quirrell, is kind of weird, though."

"And your least?"

"Potions," I said without hesitation.

Black smirked. "I liked Potions in school. What's so bad about it?"

"Professor Snape," I admitted.

Black froze, a look of incredulity on his face. "Severus Snape?"

"Er, yeah," I said, confused. "D'you know him?"

Black looked like he was debating between a few different reactions. Finally he settled on
complete shock. "Why would Dumbledore hire him? I went to school with that greasy git—"

I grinned at that.

"—and he was up to his eyeballs in the Dark Arts." He shook his head and fell into silence, a look
of incomprehension on his face. Finally, he shook it off and said, "Well, I guess Potions suits him.
Hovering around in the dungeons like an overgrown bat."

I laughed at that, but quickly tried to stifle it. It somehow didn't seem polite, even if I thought it
was funny. Ron would get a kick out of it. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure Snape hates me," I said. "I don't
know why, I've never said a word to him before."

"It's because when we were all in school, Snape was jealous of your dad," Black said, waving a
hand dismissively. "Your dad was popular, Quidditch Captain—all these things that Snape
wanted to be but wasn't. I just can't believe he's taking it out on you."

A strange silence fell between us. Before either of us could speak, a knock came at the door. It
opened hesitantly, and red hair appeared in the doorway. Ron froze when he saw us. "Er, sorry,"
he said, taking a step back out. "McGonagall said you'd be in here—er, Harry, Wood's looking for
you. Something about Quidditch practice changing."

Black and I turned to look at each other.

"Well," I said awkwardly. "Er, it was nice to meet you."

Black smiled at me. His face was neutral, but there was something about the look in his eyes that
made me want to say something else. I just didn't know what.

"I guess I should go," I finally settled on awkwardly. "I've got practice."

Black nodded in understanding, standing up. "Okay. Well…I'm glad I got to meet you, Harry."

I nodded awkwardly. "Yeah. Me too."

Black gestured that I should lead the way, and we walked through the school in silence. Because
it was Saturday, the halls were mostly empty. Black walked next to me, practically two feet taller
than me, with his hands in his pockets. I was still trying to wrap my brain around the idea of
having a godfather, especially that person being Sirius Black, but I had to admit it really was nice
to meet him. He seemed nice. But also pretty lonely. I remembered the papers, how a lot of the
articles said he was a Voldemort supporter when he was arrested. It must have been awful to be
accused of something like that, and to not have anyone believe you.

We walked down the lawn together. The path to the Quidditch pitch veered off to the left, but the
trail that led to the main gates continued straight on. I hesitated, trying to think of something else
to say to Black. I didn't want him to think I didn't appreciate him telling me about my parents. And
honestly, I wouldn't mind meeting him again and learning more.

"So, er…d'you think you might come back?" I asked, squinting in the bright November sunlight.

Blac's face was hard to see against the setting sun. "If you really want to, I'd love to come back,"
he said cautiously. "I could tell you more about your parents."

"Yeah, that'd be great," I said, relieved. "And…you know, maybe some stuff about you, too."
For some reason, that really seemed to surprise Black, but his face broke into the first full smile I
had seen him wear yet. "Yeah, sure. Um, here," he added, reaching inside his pockets. He
fumbled around until he found a scrap piece of paper and a muggle pen. He had to scribble a
few times to get the ink rolling. He wrote out his address hastily and handed it to me. "Send me
an owl when there's a good time for you."

I took the paper, looking at it curiously. Black's handwriting was elegant and cursive, not at all
like my childish scrawl. The address said he lived near York.

"It really was nice meeting you, Harry," he said earnestly. He hesitated, then said, "Well, have
fun at practice. And watch out for those Bludgers."

I smiled. "Yeah, I will."

Ron and Hermione, of course, were waiting anxiously for me in the Common Room later that
afternoon. I had barely gotten one foot through the portrait when they bombarded me with
questions. Ron thought it was awesome, but Hermione was still a little worried. Once I had
explained my meeting with Black, they were both looking at me with expressions of awe.

"Are you going to meet him again?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah, I think so," I replied, withdrawing the slip of paper that had Black's address.

"Wicked," was Ron's reply.

Black and I met up again two weeks before Christmas. He came to Hogsmede, and I was
allowed off the school grounds to visit. I could tell Ron was a little jealous that I was allowed to go
to Hogsmede when he wasn't. "Make sure you go to the Three Broomsticks," he said as I was
pulling on a heavy coat. "Fred and George are always talking about it."

Black was waiting off to the side in the entrance hall, seemingly oblivious to the admiring stares
he was receiving from a few female students nearby. Unlike the teachers here, Black didn't wear
wizarding robes. Instead, with jeans and a heavy wool coat, he looked like he could blend in
pretty well in Muggle London.

"Hey."

Black smiled when he saw me. It was still weird to think that an adult would actually be happy to
see me. My only living relatives were Uncle Vernon's family, and they could hardly tolerate me.

We trudged through the snow to Hogsmede, Black leading the way. He asked me about my
classes, about Quidditch, and how Ron and Hermione were doing—I talked about them a lot in
the letters I sent him.

Sure enough, Black led me to the pub Ron had been talking about. Hogsmede looked similar to
some parts of Surrey, with several little shops crammed together on winding roads. Hermione
had mentioned that Hogsmede was the only all-wizarding village in Great Britain.

"Butterbeer?"

"Er, what?"
"I'll get you one," said Black, taking off his wool coat. "You'll like it."

I took a seat at one of the corner tables, feeling circulation return to my hands and feet in the
warmth. Several people glanced at Black as he walked past, pausing in their conversations.
Black either didn't seem to notice or else determinedly ignored them. I knew how it felt to have
complete strangers ogle you, and I'm sure Black hated it as much as I did.

He returned a few moments later, two large mugs of an amber-colored liquid in hand. Now that I
could get a better look at him, I noticed Black looked a little different than he had when we first
met. His face was fuller, and he had a bit of color to him, like he had been out of the country
recently. His hair had also been cut shorter, and I noticed that Black was actually a very
handsome man. I was a little jealous; my own hair stuck up in every direction despite everything I
tried, and I was shorter than nearly everyone else my age.

I took the mug Black passed me and took a curious sip. Instantly my veins flooded with warmth; I
could feel my toes and fingertips tingling. It had a curious maple taste to it, but also just enough
spice to feel it in the pit of my stomach.

"You like it?" Black observed, obviously amused by my reaction as I took another sip.

"This is amazing," I said, stunned. I had thought pumpkin juice was an impressive wizarding
drink, but this stuff was awesome.

"Your dad and I used to sneak bottles of this stuff to our common room all the time," Black said,
absently running a hand over his unshaven face. "During the Fifth Year Celebration, we had
crates of it everywhere."

"Fifth Year Celebration?" I asked. I had never heard of it.

"Oh, yeah, in your fifth and seventh years you have the big examinations. In fifth year, it's your
O.W.L.s, or Ordinary Wizarding Levels. How well you do determines what kind of classes you
can take after that. It's a time-honored tradition for the fifth years to throw an enormous party on
the night the exams end, so your dad and I volunteered ourselves for that one."

"Didn't you get in trouble?" I could only imagine the look on McGonagall's face if she stumbled
into a noisy party in the Gryffindor common room.

"Er, not for the party per se, no," said Black, a small guilty smile on his face. "We also had
firewhiskey, see, and only a few people were supposed to get their hands on it—you know,
people we knew well, people we thought could hide it. But by the end of the night, a couple of
fourth-year party crashers had been caught by Filch trying to make the suits of armor on the
fourth floor dance."

I laughed at that. "What?"

"Yeah, their Heads of House weren't too happy about that," said Black. "McGonagall was pretty
sure the firewhiskey came from James and me, but she never could prove it."

Black ordered another round of butterbeer when the first mugs went empty, and we talked—
completely oblivious to the curious gazes around us—for the better part of two hours. Black told
me more stories about my parents, and insisted on hearing more about me.

"We'll do a trade," said Black. "I get a question, and you get one. Fair?"
"Yeah, sure," I said, really not understanding what could be so fascinating about me. I wasn't
sure where to start. Black waited patiently, standing out against the sea of robes and cloaks in
his ordinary Muggle clothes. "Er…how come you wear Muggle clothes instead of robes like
everyone else?"

"Old habit," said Black automatically. "I used to wear Muggle clothes all the time when I was in
school because it bothered my parents."

My eyebrows shot up at that. "What do you mean?"

"My turn first," said Black. "When did you learn you were a wizard?"

"Er, when Hagrid came to see me over the summer," I replied. "My uncle refused to give me my
mail, so finally Hagrid showed up to this little shack the Dursleys were hiding in and told me what
I was. He's the one that first told me about my parents. So what's this about your parents?"

"I didn't get along with my family growing up," said Black. He rolled his eyes. "They were very
serious about blood purity, and how it made you better, and I just thought the whole thing was a
load of sh—I mean garbage. So my school years were spent rebelling, and it drove my dear
mother nuts." He paused, then said, "Any favorite Quidditch teams?"

"I don't really know any," I admitted. "Ron likes the Chuddly Cannons." I paused. Black had given
me permission to ask anything I wanted, but the thing I was most curious about was also pretty
awkward to bring up. I had been debating it with Ron and Hermione the night before, but Black
was really the only person who could give me a straight answer. "Er, so you're my godfather…" I
began cautiously. "So, what does that… mean, exactly?"

'"Well," said Black slowly. His voice was neutral and didn't betray anything he was feeling. "After
your parents died, normally it would have fallen to me to raise you. But," he continued, tapping
his fingers absently on the side of his empty mug. "that obviously didn't happen. You went to go
live with your aunt and uncle."

"So now…?"

Black frowned at that. "Can I ask you something? Do you like living with your aunt and uncle?"

I snorted at that. "Not really, no." More like absolutely not. I mean, yeah, they did put a roof over
my head, but that roof was the cupboard under the stairs.

Black was still frowning at me.

"I mean, it's a place to live," I said quickly, feeling like I had to explain myself. "But it's obvious I'm
just in the way there. I'm not wanted."

Black sighed heavily, fixing his mug with a dark stare. I almost felt like I had said the wrong thing
when Black finally said, "Harry, I'm so sorry."

I was stunned. "What?"

"It's my fault that you went to live with them, you know," he said. I had to lean forward to hear him
over the noise of the pub. He hesitated, like he was debating whether or not to continue. "I
should have been there for you these last ten years, and there's nothing I can do to make up for
it."
"Look, I'm not mad or anything," I said quickly, worried Black thought I was blaming him. "Getting
thrown into Azkaban wasn't your fault—it was that other guy's. Pettigrew, or whatever his name
is. "And between the Dursleys and Azkaban, I'm pretty sure I still got the better deal out of it all."

Black gave me a small smile I didn't quite understand.

"So, er, is that deal still good?" I asked after a minute. "About me living with you?"

Black looked completely stunned, and I immediately regretted saying anything. No doubt he was
too busy with his own life, and just didn't have room for a kid. I was so stupid for even thinking—

"You really want to?" he asked. "Seriously?"

"Well, yeah," I said slowly, not comprehending the question completely. "I mean, if that's okay…"

Black was beaming at me. "I'll have to look into it, figure out what the whole process is, but I
would love it if you came, Harry."

"Really?" I asked, heart skipping a beat.

"Of course! I debated bringing it up myself; you don't know me very well yet, and I didn't want to
freak you out."

I grinned, elated at the prospect that I could leave the Dursleys forever. It was true that I didn't
know much about Black yet, but my parents obviously trusted him enough to name him my
godfather. "Have you got a house? When can I move in?"

"I have a house," Black answered, amusement coloring his voice. "with too many bedrooms, so
you can pick your own. But Harry—don't get too excited yet, okay? I have to make sure the
Ministry is all right with it, since your aunt and uncle are your current guardians."

"What is it like?" I asked, unable to help myself. Ron had told me stories about his family, and I
could only imagine what it must be like to live in a magical house.

"Not thrilling, so don't get your hopes up," said Black. "It's an older number, about a million
kilometers from anything. Three floors, and for some reason there are more bathrooms than
bedrooms. But it's a house, and you'll always be welcome there." He checked his watch. "It's
nearly four. I should get you back to school before Dumbledore thinks I've kidnapped you."

The idea sounded a little tempting. We stood up, and I followed Black out of the cramped pub,
trying to ignore the stares we were receiving. Outside the winter sun was setting behind the
mountains. I had to hurry a little to keep up with Black's long strides.

Now that my visit with Black was quickly ending, I debated whether or not to ask him about
Nicholas Flamel. Ron had suggested the idea, but Hermione didn't want anyone to know what
we were up to. As we headed up the winding lane leading out of Hogsmede, I decided it was
worth a shot.

"Er, have you heard of someone named Nicholas Flamel?"

Black turned to look at me. "The alchemist?"

I shrugged, trying to hide my excitement that Black recognized the name.

"All I know is that he's a friend of Dumbledore's and is the creator behind the Philosopher's
Stone."

"What's that?" I asked curiously.

Black shrugged. "The exact properties are a secret, but the general idea is that it can make you
immortal. Flamel is nearly seven-hundred years old."

My jaw dropped. "Seven hundred?"

"Something like that."

My brain was swimming with the sudden information. Could this Philosopher's Stone be the thing
Dumbledore was hiding in the school? And why would Snape want it?

I looked up and realized Black was looking at me sideways.

"Is this part of your homework?" he asked. I couldn't read his expression.

"Er, yeah. History of Magic," I lied.

Black gave me a long look. "There's nothing wrong with a little curiosity," he told me. "Especially
if it's forbidden—but you have to be smart about it."

I nodded, not sure how to respond.

"So I don't want to hear about you and your friends investigating that forbidden corridor," he
added, nearly stopping me in my tracks.

"How do you-?" I began.

"Your dad and I were two of the biggest troublemakers in school," he said. "And the apple
doesn't fall far from the tree.

We looked at each other for a long moment.

"Promise?" Black prompted.

"Yeah," I said carefully. "Promise."

Chapter three:

The day after my meeting with Harry in Hogsmede, Ms. Novak arranged to meet with me at her
office in London to go over the massive amounts of paperwork I had incurred. The city was wet
and damp, but I was too lazy to summon a Warming Charm on my coat. I still hadn't gotten
myself into the habit of using magic regularly. In fact, I could go entire days without so much as
pulling my wand out of my pocket.

Her office was in the muggle business district, and I had to read and re-read her instructions to
locate the office. Once I had successfully walked by the same set of doors three times—in the
right order this time—a new door appeared crammed next to it. No one paid me any attention
when I opened it and found myself in a long marble hallway that could not have possibly fit by
Muggle standards.
Ms. Novak had given me her office number, and instructed me to bypass reception and just go
straight up. The old wooden stairs creaked under my step, and I couldn't help but look at the
hundreds of portraits lining the walls in heavy gilded frames. They watched me silently as I
passed, giving me an eerie feeling.

Ms. Novak's office was on the third floor, the only one amidst a row of what looked like storage
rooms and a loo. Her door was ajar, but I knocked hesitantly anyway.

"Come in."

Her office was a mess. There were boxes stacked everywhere, stray bits of parchment leaking
out. A few portraits sat on the floor against the walls, and I had to follow a path carved through
the mess to reach her desk. "Moving out?"

"Moving in," she said, looking up. "I was promoted, so I get a bigger office. I just haven't gotten
around to organizing yet, so you'll have to excuse my mess."

I sat down in the only empty chair across from her. My eyes fell on a huge box full of mail,
several of them singed on the edges.

"My fan letters, from after your trial," she said, following my gaze. "There were a handful of
Howlers in there I didn't see—caused quite a mess when the whole thing caught fire."

"Who sent you Howlers?" I asked, frowning.

"I always get them," she said, shrugging. "It's part of the job; you're going to have people who
disagree with what you're fighting for." Ms. Novak pulled a huge stack of parchment from off the
floor and set it on her desk. "So this is what we're going to do today," she said. "But first…" She
folded her hands over her desk, leaning ever so slightly towards me. "How are you doing?" she
asked. Her question held far more weight than a simple pleasantry.

I thought for a moment, giving half a shrug. "Getting by," I settled on truthfully.

She gave me a long look, then said, "I understand you've already bought a house and settled in.
Ollivander sent me your wand receipt. Have you been seen by a Healer yet?"

I raised an eyebrow. "My health is fine."

"You were imprisoned for ten years," she told me matter-of-factly. "And it's not just your physical
health you need to be taking care of." Ms. Novak hesitated for a split second. "I'm not going to
side-step this. The Ministry is obligated to cover all the psychological care you need." She saw
me about to interrupt, and continued firmly, "And you do need it. Azkaban aside, you need to
deal with the deaths of your friends with professional support."

I gave her a long, level look before dropping my gaze to stare at the leg of her desk. I considered
telling her she was wrong, the nightmares hardly bothered me, but it was such a stupid lie I
couldn't even bring myself to tell it. But I also couldn't stomach the idea of therapy.

"At least try it," she said. She spoke in her neutral lawyer voice, and it was so void of judgment
that I almost forgot to feel embarrassed. "I know an excellent psychiatrist—he generally takes
months to get an appointment, but he'll make an exception with my recommendation. And I want
you to make an appointment with a Healer."

"That sounds lovely."

"Now, do you want tea?" she continued, ignoring my sarcasm. "This paperwork is going to take a
bit of your time."

And there was a lot of paperwork. The deeds to my parents' old house, all their accounts, and
possessions had fallen to me. Form after form I had to sign off on, basically absolving the
Ministry of any responsibility towards me. Bank account information for my restitution payments.
Forms to register my Animagus status. It was endless.

"So I was curious," I began hesitantly once the last of the papers had been signed and I was
massaging my hand. "what the process was to get custody of Harry."

"Well, first it depends on whether you have any legal weight," she said, sorting through the pile
we had just worked through. "You're his godfather, but did the Potters leave anything in a will
stating they wanted you to care for their son?"

"Yeah, they did," I said.

"Then it's somewhat straightforward," she said. "I'll write up the forms you'll need and owl them
for you. I imagine you've met with Harry?"

"A couple times," I said. "It's funny, because he's the one who brought it up. I didn't want to ask
him right away and freak him out."

"Well, that should also expedite the process. The only thing would be whether or not his current
guardians would want to keep sole custody."

"I doubt it," I said, remembering Harry's comments about the Dursleys.

Ms. Novak stuffed about a fourth of the papers into an envelope and handed it to me. "Keep
these—they're your copies of everything." She scribbled a name and contact information down
on the back of a business card. "His name's Marius Newman. He works out of an office here in
London." She handed the card to me. "Go see him. And I'll follow up with you when I owl off your
custody forms. If you need anything else," she added. "don't hesitate to contact me."

We stood up and shook hands. It seemed like such a menial gesture of gratitude toward the
woman who had worked relentlessly for my freedom. Her demeanor was so business-like it was
easy to forget that this wasn't just par for the course; she had taken my case when no one else
would. Without her, I might still be in Azkaban.

Without thinking about it too much, I pulled her toward me in a tight hug. When I let go she gave
me a small smile. Then she pointed at the papers in my hand. "Owl Newman, will you?"

I hesitated. "Maybe," I allowed.

She rolled her eyes. "Expect an owl in about a week."

I stopped by Remus's house before heading home, and filled him in on my meeting with Harry
and Ms. Novak.

"Are you ready to have a child living with you?" Remus asked, blowing the steam from his mug.

"Probably not," I admitted, setting my tea down. "But I can't screw it up too badly, right?" I sighed,
remembering Harry's eagerness to come live with me. In the moment it had thrilled me, but now I
wondered if it had more to do with despising the Dursleys than anything else. Harry and I
exchanged letters often, and I had met with him twice, but he barely knew me. "You know Harry
said his aunt and uncle don't care for him living with them?"

"Then even more reason to take him in," said Remus. "A child can't grow up in a home where
he's not wanted."

"But he is kind of grown up," I said. "He's eleven now, and he acts like he's older than that."

Remus waited, not understanding my point.

"You know, I used to think about how Harry would grow up, back before they died. How Lily
would encourage good behavior, James would be a little over-protective, and I would slip in and
give Harry a little bit of a wild side. Remember that broom I bought him for his first birthday?"

Remus chuckled. "It barely went two feet off the ground, and Lily thought you were insane. Harry
was barely walking yet."

"I would take Harry to Quidditch games with James, and tell him about girls if he was too
embarrassed to ask his dad. And he would've inherited our talent for trouble, but he would have
been a better person than all of us because of Lily. That's how he was supposed to grow up. Not
a stranger to his own name."

There was a long silence. Remus gave me a heavy look.

"Guess I have to start somewhere, right?" I finally said, forcing a small smile on my face.

I ended up making a routine exam with a Healer the next day, mostly because my joints had
taken to aching all night long and it was maddening. I waited in the office, working on the day's
crossword and trying to ignore the receptionist across from me who hadn't stopped staring since
I checked in. Overhead I could hear a clock ticking away, and the wizard next to me kept clearing
his throat. I scribbled out letters on my crossword roughly. It wasn't making any sense.

Just as I shoved it back into my coat pocket, a dark-haired Medi-witch appeared and we made
eye contact. She set her jaw and inclined her head, and I knew it meant to follow her. She had
dark hair and pink cheeks.

Hestia Jones.

I remembered her face.

"I guess a congratulations are in order," she said when she had shut the door to the examining
room. "I can't say I really expected to see you again."

"I thought you worked downstairs," I said, taking a seat on the table Hestia gestured towards.

"I work wherever they tell me to," she said by way of explanation. She took a seat on the
countertop across from me, resting her feet on the chair. "So I'll be going over your basic stuff, do
some labs, and then Healer O'Halloran will be in. So any chief complaints before we start?"

I thought about it. What wasn't wrong with my body these days? I felt like I had aged ten times
faster than normal in prison.
"Boring stuff. I'm tired all the time. My joints hurt at night."

"How is your sleep?" she asked, taking notes.

I shrugged. "All right, I guess. I mostly use sleeping draughts or whiskey to knock me out."

"And your appetite?"

"Normal?" I said, phrasing it as a question as I thought about it. "I don't know."

"And bowel movements are normal?"

And right into the awkward medical stuff. I tried not to remember the fact that Hestia has seen me
naked before. "Yeah."

Hestia hopped off the counter and took note of my vital signs, in much the same way she had
when I first met her. Her hands moved expertly, but gently. "Your numbers have improved since
last time," she said, comparing two pieces of parchment. "But your weight barely went up. What's
your diet like?"

"Cereal," I said. "Tea. Whiskey. Uh, whatever's at the local market."

She placed her fingertips on either side of my throat, feeling for Merlin knows what. "Arms up,"
she instructed, holding out her own. She felt around near my armpits, working as she spoke.
"Well, I can tell you right now your diet sucks," she said. "You need to be eating a lot more than
cereal. And not just for your weight, but for everything. Nutritional deficiencies can cause fatigue
and contribute to your joint pain. Lay down flat." She felt various parts of my abdomen and ran
and poked her wand all over. Satisfied, she gestured for me to sit up again.

She ran a few more examinations, collected two vials of blood, and lectured me on the merits of
a well-balanced diet before the Healer came in. He was an older man, with a thick tuft of white
hair on his head. He looked over the information Hestia handed him before repeating some of
the same examinations himself. I was starting to feel like the subject of an experiment.

Finally they sent me on my way with a promise to owl me my results and a list of nutritional
potions I should supplement my cereal diet with.

Upon exiting the hospital and back into the Muggle world, I pulled out a cigarette and walked
aimlessly toward the train. Sometimes I told myself I should travel by magic, but often it was just
too fast for my taste. It was weird to meet with people to get my life back together one moment,
and then be standing alone in my empty kitchen the next. If I was always moving, not necessarily
doing anything, it was easier to pass the time.

Muggle London also didn't stare at me as I passed; I was just another face. I could blend in here
the way I couldn't in my own world.

I stubbed out my cigarette and bought a ticket at King's Cross. I joined a crowd of people
purchasing coffees nearby. The train ride north would take up most of my afternoon, but that was
fine with me.

Rain battered the train windows as the grey landscape whizzed by; first the cityscape of London,
then gradually the surrounding towns and eventually countryside. I sat with one other man in my
compartment, one wearing a dark suit and reading the paper intently. We politely ignored each
other.
I shut my eyes, resting them as I thought about what I would write to Harry tonight. I never really
told him about the more complicated things I was up to, instead focusing on sharing a story about
Lily and James in each letter.

Maybe I would tell him about the time James and I broke into the laundry in fourth year and
charmed all the Slytherins' Quidditch uniforms pink.

Darkness had fallen by the time my train reached its stop, and the wind and rain had picked up. I
pulled my coat tighter about myself as I walked through town, wondering if it was worth it to stop
into the pub or just go home.

Or maybe I'd just send Remus a message, see if he'd be interested in dinner.

I rounded a corner on the narrow street. A group of older teens were staring at me from the shop
across the way, one of which began to head toward me. But just as his foot left the sidewalk, I
had already disapparated.

I could see lights on in my house, but I was sure I had shut everything off this morning. Frowning,
I pulled out my wand and crept toward the back kitchen door. I hadn't dueled in ten years, but I
was sure I could still defend myself if it came to it. I ducked down low as I passed the house
before peering in through the kitchen window. Standing there, working on some kind of a stew,
was a familiar light-haired man.

"Fuck, Remus, I thought you were an intruder," I said, shutting the door behind me. Remus
looked up from his handiwork. "I was about to blow you up."

"What took you so long?" he asked, eyebrows raised. He set his knife down and gave me an
irritated look. "I've been here for two hours. I was about to send a search party after you."

"What do you mean?" I asked, removing my wet coat and throwing it over the back of a chair.

"Dinner? You asked me to be over at five, and it's nearly half past seven. So I just started making
something; I figured you'd have to come home eventually."

Oh shit. "Ah, crap, I forgot," I admitted. It seemed my short-term memory had been impacted by
Azkaban as well these days. "I got out of my rubbish appointment at St. Mungo's, and it
completely escaped my mind."

"So what's the verdict?" Remus asked, handing me a butterbeer.

"Well, my health is utter rubbish," I told him, taking a swig. "But that figures."

"Anything we can fix?" Remus asked. His tone was light, but I knew it worried him. It was
probably strange to not recognize his old friend. Sometimes I didn't recognize myself.

"Well, I'm supposed to eat and sleep better," I said nonchalantly. "And I have compromised
hearing on one side—I think she said it was the right? Says it's probably an injury from when
Peter blew up the street." There was a familiar, nauseating tightness in my chest at saying his
name. I tried to shake it off. "They're supposed to owl me if they find anything more significant."

"So that's not so bad," said Remus casually. I think he was trying to lighten my mood. "You could
have a permanent case of Spattergroit."

"Wouldn't that be a dream?"

"So while you were out causing trouble, I took the liberty of putting your stuff away," said Remus,
pointing to the clean counterspace that was completely overcome with junk just this morning.
"Who's Marius Newman? You had his business card or something, so I stuck it to your icebox."

"My new psychiatrist," I said, rolling my eyes.

Remus looked at me seriously. "You're seeing someone?"

"No, but Novak thinks I should," I said, shrugging. I took a seat at the kitchen table, leaning back
comfortably in the chair. My tone was light and casual, but Remus gave me a level look.

"I don't think it's a bad idea," he finally said, throwing vegetables into a pot to boil.

I didn't reply. I had purposely put the thought in the back of my mind. As long as I didn't
consciously think about anything, I could get by. "What should I get Harry for Christmas?" I
asked, changing the subject. "What do kids like these days?"

Remus shrugged. I got the impression he wanted to push his point further, but he knew when to
let things go. That was part of the beauty of a friendship with Remus—he never pushed. Just
waited. "How about something from Zonko's?"

"I could get him a box full of dungbombs," I said thoughtfully.

"I'm pretty sure those are banned at school."

"Even more reason to, then."

"I dunno. Quidditch gear, perhaps?"

"I know the school got him a good broom," I mused. "But yeah, maybe gloves or something. It's a
shame we don't have the map anymore."

Remus tried to hide a smile. "I'm sure with a few, er, suggestions about where to look, Harry will
discover the secret parts of the school soon enough."

"Are you trying to corrupt my godson?"

"You really think I'd let James' son go through Hogwarts without any idea on how to sneak into
the kitchens?"

"Or off school grounds?"

Remus hesitated. "I'll leave that one up to you," he said diplomatically, pointing a wooden spoon
at me.

Christmas was a weird affair. I hesitated asking Harry outright, but then Remus threatened to
invite him himself. So just before the end of term, close to the deadline, I finally threw caution to
the wind and asked Harry if he'd like to join me for Christmas.

Of course! He wrote back immediately. Can you pick me up from the train?

Those few days before the Hogwarts break were spent getting my shit in order—cleaning my
house, finally unpacking the bedding I had hesitantly bought for Harry's room, and stocking up
my kitchen properly for the first time. As I worked—chain-smoking, and well past two a.m.—I
wondered if I had purchased enough for Harry's room. It seemed rather plain, with little more
than basic furniture, bedding, and curtains. There was nothing to adorn the walls, no books or
personal belongings to fill the empty bookshelf. Remus kept telling me Harry would fill them up
himself soon enough.

I just wanted Harry to feel like he could envision this place as a home.

I was nervous picking him up at the train—several parents gave me level stares, watching in
bewilderment as Harry hurried toward me, dragging his trunk behind him. He glanced over his
shoulder a few times, but otherwise didn't say anything about the looks we were receiving. He
was a good sport about my unfortunate notoriety.

We traveled back to the house with magic, something I still wasn't quite accustomed to.

"So this is it," I said awkwardly, levitating Harry's trunk into the house. "It's still a work in
progress."

"It's amazing," said Harry. His candid admiration made me smile.

"Want to see your room?" I asked.

"Yeah!"

I had designated the next-largest room as Harry's, which was located on the second floor, just
down the hall from my own. "It's not much," I warned hesitantly as I led him down the hall. "I don't
know what you like, so it's still rather bare."

I stood back to let Harry enter. He stood just past the doorway, eyes wide. "This is all mine?"

"Well, it's what I could put together at the last minute," I said quickly. "You're welcome to move
things around. The color's fine, right? I figured blue would be a safe color."

Harry turned to look at me. "Sirius, this is incredible. I've never had my own room before."

"You share a room with your cousin?" I asked, surprised.

"No," said Harry absently. "Dudley has his own room."

That didn't make any sense. "So where do you sleep?"

Harry's face fell a little. He dragged his trunk to the foot of the bed. "Er, under the stairs." He shot
me a nervous look.

His reply didn't register with me right away. It was so absurd I almost thought Harry was joking.
No one would make a child sleep under the stairs.

The Dursleys don't want me, a familiar voice echoed in my head. I'm just in the way.

I felt lightheaded. Anger and guilt began to swim at the forefront of my mind. And Harry continued
to watch me carefully, like he thought he might be in trouble any minute. I forced everything to
the back of my mind. I made sure to craft a small smile on my face. "This house is your home,
too, Harry," I said carefully. "And you will not be sleeping in any bloody cupboards."

Harry looked relieved at that. "Can I see the rest of it?" he asked.

"Sure," I said, trying not to sound distracted. "I'll give you the grand tour."

Harry seemed genuinely impressed with the house. He especially loved the charmed washing
machine and enchanted electrical system. I made a mental note to thank Remus for dragging me
to Diagon Alley all those times to put this place in order.

"I don't know what you like to eat," I said when we had reached the kitchen. "So I can always pick
up something from the market if I don't have it."

"Do you have that butterbeer stuff?" he asked. "that we drank in Hogsmede?"

I laughed. "A lifetime supply of it. Seriously, every time my cabinet gets halfway empty, it refills
itself. Here, I'll get you one."

Harry and I sat down at my kitchen table opposite each other. I flicked my wand to start a pot of
tea while Harry drank his butterbeer. He watched as I did so, fascinated by the easy spellwork.
Most kids would think nothing of it, but magic was still so new to Harry.

"So what are the rules?" Harry asked.

I blinked. "Rules?"

"Yeah," said Harry slowly, looking at me quizzically. "You know…like chores and stuff."

I thought about it. I knew there should be rules; all good parents had them. But what? "I don't
know," I said slowly, trying to think of what James' parents used to make us do as teens. "Er,
don't leave the house without saying something first. And no underage drinking."

Harry looked like he was trying to stifle a laugh. "That's it?"

"What else should there be?" I asked. "I haven't done this before. What kind of rules are you
used to?"

"Well, I had to go to my cupboard after the dinner chores," said Harry cautiously.

I tried not to envision my godson sleeping in a cupboard his entire life. "What time was that?" I
asked in a voice of forced calm.

Harry shrugged. "Like seven?"

I snorted. "No. You can stay up 'til ten, I don't care."

Harry grinned broadly at that.

"What else?" I continued, standing up to get the whistling kettle.

"I had to take out the trash every night," Harry continued. "And vacuum—"

"Vacuum?" I repeated, not understanding.

"Yeah, like, cleaning the floors," said Harry. "It's this muggle machine that does it. And if I wanted
to eat between meals, I had to ask first."

"Well, the trash part is fine," I said, feeling completely out of my element. "And I don't have this
vacuum thing, so that's out. And you can eat whenever you want," I added, eyeing Harry's skinny
frame. "I'll do most of the chores; I can use magic, so it's faster anyway. Just deal with your
room."

Harry gave me an expectant look.

"You don't have to keep it spotless," I added. "Just…I don't know, don't let anything grow in
there."

Harry grinned again.

"I'll do the cooking," I said before hesitating. "Unless you want to? Are you old enough to know
how to cook?" It was definitely different having Harry in my house than just talking through letters
and visits. There was still so much about him that was a complete mystery to me.

"Aunt Petunia used to make me mind the stove if she was busy," Harry said, shrugging.

"Right, I'm the cook, then," I said, returning to the table with a mug of tea. "Er, what foods are
absolutely out of the question?"

"Aunt Petunia used to make me eat whatever she cooked," said Harry slowly. "But if I had a
choice, I don't really like cauliflower or that bread with all the seeds in it."

"Oh, well, that's a shame because I love cauliflower and put it in practically everything."

Harry's face fell a little. "Oh," he said awkwardly. "Okay."

"Harry, I'm kidding," I said quickly.

Harry didn't know how to respond to that and settled on smiling nervously.

We had a lot an awful lot to learn about each other.

Dinner was a casual, if a little awkward, affair. While I cooked, Harry asked where the silverware
was so he could set the table. I had considered telling him that he was a guest and no such
action would be necessary. But Harry couldn't be a guest here; this would be his other home,
and I would have to let him do things like that.

I got a fire going for the first time in my previously-unused sitting room, and Harry and I played
several rounds of wizard's chess while I told him stories of his parents.

"So to get back at him, your dad slipped him a Love Potion—"

"A what?" Harry asked, laughing.

"Love Potion. It's exactly what it sounds like. So then the poor kid's standing outside the
Transfiguration classroom with a huge banner that reads, 'Emily Branstone, will you marry me?'
We ended up having to call Professor Slughorn—the potions master at the time—down so he
could give Weatherby the antidote. Of course, Weatherby wasn't going to do any such thing until
Branstone said yes. He didn't live that down for the rest of the year."
Harry laughed. "Your stories remind me of my friend Ron's brothers."

"Oh yeah? Are they a load of troublemakers, too?"

"Yeah," Harry said, moving a piece on the chessboard. "One time they set off dungbombs in the
Slytherin quidditch team's changing rooms."

I gave a half-chuckle, half-yawn as I checked my watch. "All right, it's definitely bedtime."

Harry followed me upstairs where I bid him goodnight before peeling off my clothes and sliding
into bed. I turned the lamps off with a hasty wave of my wand before setting it on the over-
crowded nightstand.

All in all, I supposed it was a fairly successful first day with having Harry over. The kid seemed to
enjoy himself, and there were absolutely no signs of Harry making a run for it. As I stared at the
dark ceiling, my thoughts turned to Lily and James. What would they think if they saw me now?
Would they be happy I was finally in Harry's life, or angry that I had wasted ten years?

I pulled the covers up well past my shoulders and rolled over, falling into an uneasy sleep.

My eyes shot open and I practically jumped a foot out of bed. Through the darkness, I could see
a white face in front of me.

James's face.

"You okay?" he whispered.

I instantly reached out for the lamp, knocking half the junk off the nightstand in the process.

Illuminated, the face looked back at me with worry. It wasn't James.

It was Harry.

"What's going on?" I mumbled, looking around my room for the source of the trouble.

"You, er, were having a nightmare," said Harry nervously. "It sounded pretty bad, so I thought I
should wake you up."

My eyes fell on Harry's anxious face. He was standing next to my bed, his pj's wrinkled and his
hair sticking up everywhere just as James's had done.

"S-sorry," he stammered. "I just—"

"No, don't apologize," I mumbled, sitting up straight. I pressed the heels of my hands against my
brow. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up." I sighed, swinging my legs out of bed. "I'm going to
make a cup of tea; you ought to get back to bed. Get some sleep."

"Okay," said Harry, giving me one last look in the dim light before exiting my room. I waited for
the sound of his bedroom door closing before getting up.
It was hard not to feel embarrassed. In the back of my mind I knew I still had nightmares, but I
often didn't remember them by morning. I had no idea they were obvious; Remus rarely said
anything when I was staying at his house.

If Harry was going to live here, then I definitely needed to get around to putting silencing charms
on my bedroom.

Chapter four:

When Harry returned to school, the days seemed to drag but the months slipped by quickly. It
was a weird concept of time.

Ms. Novak sent me a thick envelope of papers through owl post shortly after the new year, full of
the forms I would need to secure my custody of Harry. Included in the pile of parchment was a
letter from Ms. Novak, instructing me to be prepared for the possibility that this might hit the
papers, and to be careful of the letters I opened from strangers. I glanced at the rubbish bin next
to me, which was regularly stuffed with a mix of unopened fan and hate mail that I used as
kindling in my fireplace.

As winter turned to spring, I finally grew tired of my tedious routine and decided I needed a
project to distract me. I was sitting on my back porch, overlooking the wildly overgrown property I
was now owner to, and made up my mind.

I would dig a garden.

Remus was all for the idea, offering to help me most days. I made sure Remus knew his help
was conditional, and he would have to accept half of the garden's yield every season. Remus
fought the idea, but when I made it clear I could never eat my weight in tomatoes by myself every
summer, he relented.

I forced Remus to accept half of the constant "lifetime supplies" of things I had been receiving
these few months, but endless butterbeer and a set of new robes did little to improve Remus's
lot. He refused to accept money from me, and he equally banned me from buying him anything. I
would often write made-up letters from anonymous persons, thanking Remus for "seeing the
truth and fighting for Sirius Black's freedom" and stuffed deposit receipts for the money I secretly
dropped in his account into the letters. I managed to convince the tenants of his parents' old
house that I was the new property manager, and to come to me exclusively with any repair needs
after Remus had dropped over a hundred Galleons—nearly all of his life savings—on fixing the
leaky roof. A couple times I would hide a Sickle or two in the couch cushions at his house or in
the pockets of old clothes. I would leave Galleons, but I thought that was too obvious.

I bought all the tools needed to dig up the land, having already marked the perimeter with Remus
the day before.

"Should I burn it all first?" I asked one cool, sunny morning in March. We were standing on my
porch, finishing up a morning tea before conquering the first stages of transforming my property.
After the ground had warmed up, wild plants of all kind had sprung into life, tangling up in each
other. "I read in Magickal Gardening that it helps fertilize the soil."

"I don't think it's going to burn that easily," said Remus, eyeing all the damp green.

"Sure it will," I said. I pointed my wand at it. "Incendio!"

The flame burst into life in the center of the planned garden, a space of several meters in all
directions. We watched it for several minutes; while the fire burned bright, it didn't advance very
far. I pointed my wand at it again, guiding the flames toward the thickest part of the wild vines.

We ended up having to let it slowly burn for two days, time which Remus and I passed by
drinking on my back porch and coming up with ideas of what to plant. By the second week, the
ground had been thoroughly tilled, and we were halfway through forming our raised beds when
an owl swooped down and dropped a letter on my head.

"It's from Dumbledore," I said, pulling off my gloves to pick it up. I broke the seal, and began
reading. "He wants me to come to Hogwarts," I said after a moment. I turned it over, expecting to
see more there, but it was blank.

"Why's that?"

"I dunno," I said, pocketing the letter. "He didn't say."

"Think it's about Harry?" Remus asked.

I shrugged. "He wants me to come by the castle tomorrow."

Remus shrugged in response. "Dunno. It's Dumbledore. It could be anything. Hey, did you ever
finish up that cauldron of fertilizer?"

"If by cauldron you mean the pot on my stove, yeah," I replied, replacing my dragonhide gloves.
"It's simmering right now, so it should be ready to add as soon as we finish up here."

Remus wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. He looked around. "Think we
should build a fence around all this?"

"Oh, I just figured I'd plant a row of Biting Buttercups around the perimeter."

Remus raised a disapproving eyebrow at me. "Really?"

I shrugged in response. "Well, sure. It'd keep everything away from the vegetables."

"Including you, I'll wager."

I laughed at that. "I can handle some flowers nipping my arse. It'll be the first bit of action I've
seen in ages."

"And now I feel bad for the flowers, if it's your arse they're nipping."

I clod of dirt at him, hitting Remus squarely in the shoulder, before turning back to the work at
hand.

I walked through the mostly empty corridors to the school the next morning. I figured it had to be
a Hogsmede weekend, because I only ever saw the younger students lazing around the halls.
They watched me as I passed, but I was too distracted to care.
Upon reaching the familiar gargoyle statue, I gave the password Dumbledore had written me and
ascended the spiral stairs slowly. Dumbledore's office door was open, and I hesitantly knocked to
get the Headmaster's attention.

Dumbledore looked up from his desk and smiled at me. I hadn't been in this office since I was a
student, and felt alarmingly like one coming in here.

"Have a seat," Dumbledore offered, nodding to the chair on the other side of his ancient
mahogany desk. "I am pleased you found the time to see me on such short notice."

I shrugged. "I don't really do anything these days."

"I was under the impression that you and Remus were building a garden? A lovely idea—I am
quite partial to butternut squash, myself. Alas, you are not here to discuss botany," he said,
stopping himself. He gave me a level look; while his face was kind, there was worry etched
around his eyes. "The matter I wish to discuss with you concerns Harry."

"Is he all right?" I interrupted.

"As well as ever," said Dumbledore. He folded his hands together on the top of the desk. "It
recently became known to me that you are seeking full guardianship of Harry."

I waited for him to continue, but Dumbledore just gave me an unreadable look. The portraits in
the office watched on in complete silence.

"That's the plan," I said slowly, wondering what Dumbledore would have to say about that.

"Before you continue on, there is something of grave importance I must make known to you. But
before I begin, you must understand that Harry cannot know—he is still so young, and I do not
wish to inflict such heavy knowledge on him."

I frowned. "Okay," I said slowly.

"I shall get straight to my point," said Dumbledore, and his expression grew slightly darker. I
began to feel uneasy, and my frown deepened. "I do not believe that Lord Voldemort has
disappeared from this world for good. I have significant evidence that suggests so, and it would
be unwise to ignore the signs. It is my belief that Voldemort's spirit lingers on, and should he ever
regain his strength, I believe he will continue where he left off and go searching for Harry.

"With that in mind, Harry enjoys certain protections as a result of his mother's sacrifice. An old
magic, in the form of blood, that carries on through Lily's elder sister, Petunia. So long as Harry
can call his aunt and uncle's house home before the age of seventeen, Voldemort cannot touch
him."

That news hit me like a train. "I thought Harry went to live with them because you thought I was
the traitor," I finally managed, voice weak.

"That was a factor," Dumbledore allowed seriously. "But had I known of your innocence then, I
still would have instructed Hagrid to take young Harry to his aunt's house.

"Sirius," Dumbledore continued soberly. "While you have every legal right to exercise your
guardianship over Harry, I ask that you consider the risks very seriously. The day Harry leaves
that house forever is the day that his protection disappears."

"You don't think I can protect him?" I asked, feeling heat rising in my voice.
"That is beyond the point," he answered. "Is Harry's safety worth the risk?"

I didn't have a reply to that. I didn't know what to do with this information—I was so sure I would
get Harry back. It was the only way I knew how to make amends to James and Lily. It was the
only thing I had thought about for ten years. And now Dumbledore was asking me to give him
up? Leave Harry with the aunt and uncle that kept him in a cupboard under the stairs?

"I don't expect you to make a decision right away," Dumbledore continued. His blue eyes
searched my face, but I have no idea what he saw there. "But I wanted you to know, with
complete honesty, the weight your decision entails."

I closed my eyes. I didn't want to believe this was happening. "I don't know what to do," I finally
whispered, looking around the office as though one of the old portraits would give me the
answer.

"Bear in mind that while you may not provide Harry a permanent home, you can still be a
significant part of his life," Dumbledore said, straightening up in his chair. "He can visit you on
school breaks, provided he returns to the Dursleys at least once a year."

"D'you know I told him he could live with me if he wanted to?" I said, not really expecting an
answer. "He was so excited. How can I just take that back?"

Dumbledore looked at me somberly for a long minute. I suddenly felt sick. The room was starting
to spin.

"Harry cannot know this yet, Sirius," he finally said. "One day he will have to know the full weight
of his reality, but I do not wish to impress that upon him yet. I was rather hoping to give him a few
more years of innocence."

I got a mental image of Harry sleeping in the cupboard in his fat cousin's old clothes while his
relatives enjoyed real beds. He had never known innocence.

"I won't say anything," I finally replied dully, giving Dumbledore the affirmation he was waiting for.
"But how do I explain it to him? 'Sorry, Harry, changed my mind.'"

"I will not pretend that there is an easy way about this," said Dumbledore. "But I trust you will find
an appropriate way to explain to Harry."

I doubted that very much. When I returned home, I immediately set about getting drunk and
smoking all my remaining cigarettes.

It wasn't like I couldn't adopt Harry; no one had any legal right to stop me. But if Dumbledore was
right and Voldemort was still out there, was it worth the risk? And what if Voldemort never
materialized again, and I just left Harry to continue sleeping in a cupboard for the rest of his
childhood?

I didn't know what to do.

Several hours later, I was lying on the rug in my sitting room, staring at the ceiling with a half-
empty tumbler in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Remus had sent two owls by—one this
morning, and the other not long ago—asking about my meeting with Dumbledore, but I hadn't
been able to reply yet.

I was banking on getting blind drunk first.

By no means did I expect it to solve my problems, but it was something to do that held the dark
satisfaction of a little self-destruction. And as the night wore on, that sounded more and more
appealing.

Of course, when I woke up the next morning in the exact same spot, blinded by the bright sun
interacting with my hangover, I knew I would have to make a choice. Harry's life would continue
to go on even if mine felt like it had reached a complete standstill. In that ugly morning, I knew
my promise to Lily and James would always outweigh my selfish desires. Protecting Harry's life,
no matter the cost.

Even if I wasn't in it.

It took time, but eventually I grew to grudgingly accept my new reality. Harry completed his first
year at Hogwarts while simultaneously giving me a heart attack after the news that he had faced
Voldemort's broken spirit inside the school. Between me raging and freaking out, Dumbledore
managed to tell me the story of what had happened, confirming his suspicions about Voldemort
attempting to return to power. I met with Harry with the intention of giving him a scolding like he
had never seen before, but all I could do was hug the life out of him once I saw him.

As agreed upon by everyone involved, Harry spent his first two weeks of summer break with the
Dursleys, but not before I had a word with them. Ensuring Harry had a real bedroom and proper
meals, to be guaranteed by the threat that I might show up, I was able to relax a little easier
those fourteen days.

But just a little.

Harry spent the remainder of the summer between myself and the Weasley family, with whom I
had steadily grown closer to as a result of Harry's friendship with Ron. The boys typically spent
their days playing Quidditch in the yard or lazing around either house.

Second year came and went for Harry, once again ending in an anxiety attack and a verbal tirade
the likes of which Dumbledore had never seen. I had begun to second-guess my decision to let
Harry stay with the Dursleys, but I knew it wouldn't make a difference once Harry returned to
school. He would always manage to find trouble. So just before the start of his third year, holding
his Hogsmede permission slip hostage, I explained to Harry the importance of not running after
trouble.

"But I don't," he had said, frowning. "Trouble just usually finds me."

"I know," I allowed tiredly. "And it doesn't help that you're the Boy-Who-Lived—" Harry rolled his
eyes at that. "Stupid or not, it's true. And I'm always going to worry about you. So if you
could please have just one school year that didn't involve Voldemort or Death Eaters, you'd
make your nerve-stricken godfather very happy."

Remus ended up taking the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor after the
previous one was Confunded, which helped alleviate my fears of Harry's safety. If I couldn't be at
the school every day, then at least someone I trusted would.

Miraculously, Harry managed to do just what I'd ask. I had received very few warning letters from
McGonagall, and absolutely none from Dumbledore. Remus' letters were void of any bizarre
goings-on at the school. Once several months passed and I was sure Harry would come out of
Hogwarts unscathed, I was able to focus on other things in my life.
Like keeping track of Peter.

One night in Diagon Alley I ran into Mundungus Fletcher, an old acquaintance from before the
war. After several rounds, Mundungus confessed he had heard of Peter wandering around
Albania, the last place Voldemort had been rumored to be hiding. In exchange for a spot of gold,
Mundungus promised to keep me updated with any bits of information he heard regarding Peter.

The Ministry, of course, had no real leads. They finally settled on charging him for murder and
compliance with the Death Eaters, but that hardly did anyone any good when Peter had all but
disappeared. Occasionally articles would appear in publications like the Daily Prophet or Witch
Weekly, claiming to have new insight on Peter's whereabouts, but like always, they were full of
nonsense speculation.

Harry's third year ended without fanfare, and after a routine two weeks with the Dursleys, I was
able to pick him up and bring him home with me.

"Aren't we past this, Petunia?" I asked from the doorstep. I always wore muggle clothes, but I
had entertained the idea of breaking out my wizarding robe just for this occasion, if just to mess
with Petunia.

"You're merely here to pick up the boy, nothing else," she replied curtly, blocking the entrance to
the house while we waited for Harry to collect his things. "And you could have at least gotten a
telephone by now. Do you know what it looks like to have owls swooping around here all day?"
she hissed in an undertone, looking around to make sure there were no neighbors in the bushes,
listening.

"All right, let's go," said Harry, appearing behind Petunia with his trunk and owl cage in hand.

"Say good-bye," I said, giving Petunia a wicked smile.

"Bye, Aunt Petunia," said Harry dully, not even pausing as he moved past me toward the
driveway.

"Mind yourself," was Petunia's farewell. She shot me a nasty look before shutting the door and
locking it.

"You shot up like a weed," I noted once Harry had reached the driveway.

"Huh? No, I didn't," said Harry self-consciously. Even his voice was different now. "I'm still shorter
than Ron."

"You're like a foot taller," I told him. "I'm going to stop letting you go off to school if you keep
growing so much."

Harry smacked my arm.

"So there's a Quidditch game this summer," I told Harry as I loaded his trunk into the usual rental
car I got for this exact purpose, as strongly requested by Petunia Dursley.

"You need to travel the normal way," she had said haughtily.

"Since when did you get an Audi?" Harry asked, eyebrows raised, as he placed Hedwig's cage
into the back seat.
"I was going to get the Ferrari," I said. "Do you know how fast those things go? But your stuff
wouldn't have fit in there without magic, and I don't need to freak out your Aunt before we even
get out of her driveway. Anyway, Arthur says he might be able to get tickets. Ireland against
Bulgaria. I figured you might be interested."

"Might?" Harry repeated excitedly. "Are you kidding? That's awesome—we have to go!"

"Well, we need tickets first," I said, smirking at the look of sheer excitement on Harry's face as I
turned over the engine to the car. "You know, I'm still not used to driving this bloody thing—it's a
bit different from the bike."

"Sirius, do you have a license yet?" Harry asked as we backed out of the driveway a little too
quickly to pass for Petunia's "normal."

"What do I need a license for?" I asked, shifting gears and laying on the gas pedal. We sped
down Privet Drive and I turned sharply onto Magnolia Crescent. "I know how to drive."

"Because there are traffic laws," Harry said, hanging on to his passenger door.

I waved my hand dismissively as I sped into town and toward the highway. "You know, muggle
transportation might be slow and tedious sometimes, but they got one thing right with this whole
car deal," I said, pressing the gas pedal further and slipping narrowly between two cars. "It's
almost as exciting as flying." I looked over at Harry's white face and sighed, relaxing on the gas
pedal. "All right, fine."

Harry let out his breath. "Thanks. Didn't want to die today."

I snorted at that. "You wouldn't have died. You know James and I took my motorbike out one
night—got it up to a hundred and eighty kilometers before the muggle police saw us. Got out of it
just fine."

"Yeah? How?" Harry asked in disbelief.

"Well, to be fair we were interrupted by Death Eaters," I said, recalling the incident in the narrow
alleyway. "And the officers were too shocked to follow us once we had levitated their car." I shot
a sideways glance at Harry. His dubious expression made me laugh. "Relax, Harry, I'm not going
to drive the car that fast.

"So, how was school?" I asked, changing the subject. "What was it like having Remus as your
professor?"

"Really good, actually," Harry replied, looking out the window as we drove out of Surrey.
"Professor Lupin's an excellent teacher—best Defense teacher we've had."

"Well, he'll be happy to hear that," I said. "You know, I always thought he'd make an excellent
teacher, but it was just never something he thought about pursuing."

"So what did you do all year?" Harry asked me.

I shrugged. "I planted some Bouncing Bulbs not too long ago—they've finally started sprouting."

"Oh, great. You know we studied those in Herbology this year? Those things gave me a black
eye."
I couldn't help but grin at that. "Then you might want to stay clear of the garden this summer," I
warned him.

Harry gave me a suspicious look. "Why?"

"Hagrid gave me some Chinese Chomping Cabbage to try out."

"Remember when your garden used to be normal?" Harry asked me conversationally. "Now it's
like a death-trap, going back there for some tomatoes. You do still grow tomatoes, yeah?"

I smacked his arm, keeping my eyes on the road. "Of course I do. How else would you grow up
big and strong?"

"Oh my god, Sirius—"

"Now tell me, did the Dursleys behave?" I asked a little more seriously, looking over my shoulder
to switch lanes.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Harry give a non-committal shrug.

"Now what does that mean?"

"Oh, just that they're the same as always. They're still terrified you'll show up to the neighborhood
and start passing out pamphlets about magic. They put Dudley on this diet—see, he's finally
gotten bigger around than he is tall, and he doesn't fit into those stupid uniforms his school has.
Dudley got so mad he chucked his PlayStation out the window."

"His what?"

"It's like a muggle computer thing you can play games on," Harry replied. "Bit stupid, really. Now
he hasn't even got Mega Mutilation Part 3 to take his mind off things."

I managed to cut the usual three-hour drive down to two, and so it was shortly after lunchtime
when we made it to my house. Per Harry's usual routine, his trunk engaged in a sort of slow
explosion as all of its contents gradually found themselves scattered about the room throughout
the week.

I returned the rental car the next morning, and after a quick pruning in the garden, came inside
the house to find Harrry sitting at the table, still in his pj's and eating a bowl of cereal in spite of
the fact that it was almost eleven.

"I have to run to London in a minute," I said, putting the garden shears in the kitchen sink. "I'll be
back shortly after lunch."

"Where you off to?" Harry asked without looking up from his bowl.

I hesitated. "Errands. Boring stuff. Don't set the house on fire," I added, washing my hands
quickly.

"No promises," Harry replied before I grabbed my wand off the kitchen counter and disapparated.

I left the narrow alley I had materialized into and headed north on the empty street, making my
way towards the now-familiar building on the north side of London. Locating the familiar
unmarked door just around the corner, I tapped it twice where the doorknob should be. The door
popped open, and I walked up the narrow stairs that led to the familiar waiting room.

The receptionist greeted me neutrally as I signed in, and I took my usual seat in the corner. I
pulled out my morning's crossword and began scribbling in words as I waited for eleven-thirty to
hit. Finally, after twenty minutes of checking and re-checking my watch, the office door opened
and Newman stood there waiting for me.

"Sirius," he greeted pleasantly. "It's been a while."

"Four months," I replied, taking my preferred seat on the armchair by the window. Newman sat
down casually on the long leather sofa nearby. I crossed my ankle over my knee, and began
absently twirling my pen in my fingers. I still had my crossword out on my lap.

"Tell me what you've been doing," he invited.

I had finally caved and made an appointment with Newman just after Harry left to start his third
year at Hogwarts. Only Remus and Novak knew I was seeing him, but the shameful secret as to
why remained strictly with me. No one else needed to know that my nightmares had begun to
border on paranoia.

I shrugged. "Not much, like always. I planted some Chinese Chomping Cabbage in the garden.
Harry's with me for the summer; I picked him up yesterday."

Newman, a man about twenty years my senior with reddish hair and a weather-worn face, waited
for me to continue. We both knew I hadn't technically answered his question. The real question.

Why did I come back?

I watched the boats pass lazily across the Thames for a long minute. Finally, I settled on a
familiar topic to break the silence. "The nightmares have gotten worse."

"In what way?" he asked.

I gave a half-shrug. "They're more vivid, I guess," I replied, still looking out the window. "I had to
stop taking that Dreamless Sleep Potion because it was knocking me out for days. But that other
sleeping draught was making me sleepwalk. I wake up in my garden with my wand in one hand
and a knife in the other without any idea how I got there."

"And the content is the same." He phrased it as a statement rather than a question.

I gave a long inward sigh. "Yeah."

"What has your life been like these last few months?"

"I have too much time on my hands," I replied honestly after a moment's silence. "Too much time
to think. I have enough gold to live off of fifty times over, but I almost consider finding a job for
something to do—if I could find someone to hire me, of course. The garden worked for a while,
but I need a new distraction."

"Distraction?"

"Something to take my mind off of things."

Newman gave a heavy sigh. "Remember what we said about distractions?"

"Yeah, they're a vehicle that impedes the acceptance of trauma, which is the only way to heal," I
replied, a hint of derision in my voice. We had had this argument many times. "Look, I can't walk
into a building without planning half a dozen escape routes in my head. I have a hundred pre-
planned scenarios laid out if someone were to break into my house. I can't just shut that off."

"But these what-if scenarios aren't the source of your nightmares," said Newman knowingly. "It's
something that's already happened that you can't let go of."

I had a flash of James and Lily lying dead shoot across my mind's eye. "It's been nearly thirteen
years, but it feels like nothing's changed," I finally said. I gave Newman an expectant look. "Why
is that?"

"You tell me," he said. "What do you feel when you think of Lily and James?"

I half-groaned, half-sighed. I hated talking about them. "I want to disappear," I said after a
minute.

"Why?"

I gave a non-committal noise that wasn't really an answer. I shrugged, throwing my hand up
aimlessly, then started again. "I hate myself so much sometimes that I feel like I can't take it... It's
my fault they're gone."

"So you blame yourself for their deaths," he said calmly. "You've forgiven everyone else who
played a role—obviously excepting Pettigrew—but not yourself. Survivor's guilt," he added gently
to my waiting look. "Until you forgive yourself, you're always going to have these nightmares."

"So the obvious solution is to forgive myself," I said flatly, my voice tinted with sarcasm. "And
how do I do that?"

"Sirius, I'm not an instruction booklet. Some things you have to discover for yourself. My job is to
guide you to look at things from a different perspective, but ultimately the healing must come
from you."

"I need to be able to sleep at night without having weapons hidden under my bed," I said firmly.
"That's why I came back. Just…through the summer, at least."

"Because Harry's visiting? You don't want him to know?"

My expression was answer enough.

"Sirius, for as long as you treat this as a source of shame, it's never going to go away. You're
feeding your own demons."

"Can you help me, or not?" I asked, refusing to acknowledge Newman's advice. It was the
obvious answer, but it was also an impossible one.

He sighed. "Instead of sleeping solutions, you can try something for anxiety. Something strong
enough just to take the edge off." He scribbled something down on a piece of parchment. "Stop
by the Apothecary in Diagon Alley and give these a try. I hope you'll come back and let me know
how it goes."
I took the parchment and folded it carefully, stowing it away in my pocket. I rubbed a hand across
my jaw, looking out the window again. The mid-afternoon sun was high in the sky, casting what
looked like diamonds over the surface of the river below. "Yeah. Sure."

Chapter five:

The remainder of the month passed in a slow anticipation of the Quidditch World Cup. Sirius and
Lupin arranged to have my birthday celebrated with the Weasleys this year, and so there were
nearly a dozen of us crammed inside Mrs. Weasley's tiny kitchen while I opened presents.

Sirius made me save his for last, a long, heavy object buried under the usual socks and jumper
from Mrs. Weasley, a pair of new quidditch gloves from Hermione, and handmade joke items
from the twins.

"Extendable Ears," Fred whispered in my ear, swiping a small, badly-wrapped package off the
table when Mrs. Weasley wasn't looking and stuffing it into my hand. "Mum tried to confiscate
them, so don't let on that you've got a pair."

"What do they do?" I asked quietly, frowning at the small box in my hand.

"Later," Fred muttered quickly when Mrs. Weasley had returned to the table with a large cake.

The mystery present, it turns out, was the latest edition Firebolt. I practically pounced on the
broom once I had removed the wrapping, and the others all leaned in to see.

"No way!" I roared.

"Woah, don't break it, she's brand new," Sirius chided me as the twins ripped the wrapping off
the table for a better view.

"Slytherin is going to shit their pants when they see this—"

"George!" scolded Mrs. Weasley.

"That's the best broom on the market!" said Ron, wide-eyed.

"Wicked," Fred and George agreed in unison, looks of strong approval on their faces.

"Can I take it out?" I asked earnestly, looking around the adults faces smirking at my obvious
excitement.

"I dunno," said Lupin slowly, giving Sirius an apprehensive look. "What do you think?"

"I really did just buy it for show," Sirius replied, folding his arms. "It'll lose value once it's flown—"

"Merlin, Sirius, come on—"

Sirius gave me a huge smirk. "Don't break it."

Like that, I followed Ron, Ginny, and the twins out to the back garden. We nearly tripped over
each other in our haste to get outside.

I had seen the broom in Quality Quidditch Supplies the previous year, but never in my life did I
imagine I would actually own one. The Firebolt handled like an extension of myself, obeying the
slightest movements with precision. My old Nimbus still flew well, but there was a drag starting to
form any time I took off from a stationary position.

I let the others take turns, and the Weasley children were reduced to little more than orange blurs
as they zoomed across the expansive yard.

"This is the same broom Viktor Krum flies," said Ron excitedly while he gently handed the broom
back to me. There was a slight hesitation in his movements.

"Who?"

"The Seeker for Bulgaria," said Ron. "He's only like seventeen, but he's already on the national
team, he's that good."

"We're going to see him at the World Cup next week," George said. "He's probably the best
Seeker in the world."

"But Ireland's got the better team," Fred chimed in.

"Damn right they are. It'll be an excellent game."

I carefully wrapped the broom back up when we returned to Sirius's house, storing it gingerly in
my now mostly-empty trunk. My old Nimbus was still there, and I felt oddly guilty replacing it. I
figured I would give my old broom to one of the twins, or maybe Ron. I was more than happy with
my gift, but I felt a little odd having a broom worth more than my old Nimbus and all of the
Weasley's brooms combined.

Sirius reminded me half a dozen times to get a start on my summer homework that week, but all I
could think about was the upcoming Quidditch World Cup.

"Are you sure you aren't coming?" I asked the night before I would head to the Weasleys for the
game.

Sirius shrugged. "Nah, I'll let you go off with the Weasleys. It's the full moon anyway, so I figured
I would keep Remus company."

Sirius did let on about Lupin's lycanthropy last Christmas, but it was still weird to picture the
gentle, friendly Defense professor turning into a fully-grown werewolf every month.

"What time are you supposed to go over there?" he asked.

"Around dinner," I replied. "We're leaving super early in the morning, and Ron's dad said it would
be easier to travel together that way."

Sirius nodded, taking a sip of tea. "Got a bag packed?"

"No," I replied honestly. I didn't need much, and figured I could back it just before I left.

"You're as bad as me. Well, make sure you've got one ready to go in a bit. I'm heading over to
Remus's house around four tomorrow. I've got a huge load of wolfsbane that's ready to be
harvested to bring over."

"I thought Snape was making the potion for him."

"He is," said Sirius with great dislike evident in his voice. "but only during the school year.
Unfortunately it's a complicated potion to make, so Remus and I have been practicing it. Plus I
don't trust that greasy git to resist tampering with Remus' potion at school one of these days."

I absently moved the last few bites of my dinner around on my plate.

"You'll have to tell me the look on Malfoy's face when he sees your new broom," Sirius added
mischievously.

I grinned at that.

"I shouldn't encourage gloating," Sirius added hastily. "But Malfoy's a git, so maybe just a little's
all right."

Sirius and I spent the evening lazing around in his sitting room. He read through one of the books
in his endless collection while I tried to force my brain to absorb my Transfiguration homework. I
was too preoccupied with the upcoming World Cup to focus, and going to sleep later didn't help
either. I lay awake in my bed for nearly an hour, staring at the Chuddley Canons poster Ron had
given me until my eyelids finally grew too heavy to keep open.

"Face me like a man, why don't you?" the old man demanded, palling up his arthritic fists.

The snake coiled around the high-backed chair menacingly, scales glinting in the light of the
fireplace.

"Oh, I am much more than a man," came the high, cruel voice. The balding man turned the chair
around, placing its occupant in the old man's direct line of sight. He let out a loud scream of
terror, stumbling back several steps. With a funny phrase and a bright flash of green light, the old
man man fell backwards, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

I woke with a start, sure my head had split open. Blinded by the pain, I rolled out of bed, clutching
my head. In the back of my mind, I could still hear the cold, cruel voice.

Avada Kedavra!

I managed to grab my glasses off the nightstand and shove them on my face. Knees weak, I
stumbled out of bed and made my way down the dark hallway toward Sirius' bedroom.

The door was unlocked, and I could faintly see the dark shape of Sirius tangled up in blankets in
the middle of his bed. I knew sleep didn't come easy to him and I hated waking him up, but I
didn't know what else to do. The blinding pain had abated, but there was a horrible ache right
where my scar was.

I reached out a shaky hand toward Sirius's shoulder, and he jumped as if electrocuted. In one
fluid movement he ripped the covers off himself and whipped around. Through the darkness I
could see the fleeting look of panic on his face before it settled into a mix of relief and surprise.

"Sorry to wake you," I said, unsticking my throat.

"What's wrong?" he asked, voice hoarse from sleep. With a wave of his wand, the lamps lit up
the room in a soft glow. He took a closer look at me, and instantly, worry flooded his face.
"My scar," I said hastily, bringing a hand to touch it gingerly. "I just woke up to this unbelievable
pain—"

Sirius hastily got out of bed and gestured for me to sit down.

"I had this dream," I continued, frowning. "Voldemort was in it. And—and Pettigrew, too. There
was an old man, they were all in this house. Voldemort killed him. I woke up, and my scar—it felt
like it was on fire."

Sirius's eyes were wide with worry, all trace of sleep gone from his face.

"Do curse scars hurt sometimes?" I asked.

"I don't know," Sirius admitted. "Has this happened before? The nightmares or the pain?"

"No," I said, frowning. "I haven't dreamt of Voldemort since before Hogwarts."

"I'll send an owl to Dumbledore and get his advice," Sirius said, running a hand through his hair.
"Harry—if you're not feeling up to it, maybe you should skip the World Cup—"

"No!" I said quickly. "It's really not that big of a deal—I'm sorry I woke you up, I was kind of half
awake when I came in here, and I wasn't thinking too clearly." My scare was still throbbing, but I
wouldn't miss the Cup for anything. "It's really not a big deal—it just caught me off guard, I
guess."

Sirius raised an eyebrow like he didn't believe me, but said, "Okay…then maybe you should
head back to bed. You want something? Cup of tea?"

"Er, yeah," I agreed, sure I wouldn't be able to fall asleep any time soon. I followed Sirius
downstairs to the kitchen. I sat at the table while he put the kettle on. He stood at the counter,
hastily scribbling a quick letter I was sure was addressed to Dumbledore.

We both drank our mugs of tea in silence. Sirius had an unreadable expression on his face, and I
was wondering if it was a mistake to rouse him over a nightmare. Surely it was something I could
have brought up in the morning, when I was properly awake and a lot calmer.

Sirius sent the letter off to Dumbledore and I followed him back upstairs several minutes later.

"Get some sleep," said Sirius when we neared my bedroom.

"Right," I said. "You too."

Sirius gave me a wry smile before heading to his own bedroom. I waited until I heard him gently
shut his bedroom door. I had the nagging suspicion Sirius wouldn't sleep the rest of the night; I
learned about his vivid nightmares when I first came to stay with him, and doubted whether they
had abated since then. The noise concealment charm around his door and the occasional
Dreamless Sleep Potion floating around the house confirmed my suspicions.

I laid back in bed, staring at the dark ceiling. My thoughts drifted back toward the dream. I tried to
recall the man's face, but it was all a blur. Just a snake, a flash of green light, and the high, cruel
voice.

Avada Kedavra!
Promising Sirius I felt much better that morning, I packed an overnight bag and waited until it was
time to head over to the Weasley's. Hermione was already there, and I filled her and Ron in on
my dream the previous night.

"Did you tell Sirius?" was Hermione's immediate reply.

"Yeah, 'course. I woke him up right after it happened, but he didn't know what could have caused
it. He wrote Dumbledore to ask."

"Do you think maybe it really happened?" Ron asked apprehensively. "I've heard of Seers that
dream about the future."

"I doubt it," I said dubiously. "I wouldn't be so awful in Divination if I could dream stuff like that."

"I'm sure Dumbledore will know what to do about it," said Hermione confidently. "So we just have
to wait until we hear back."

I wasn't sure how long that would be, but I quickly forgot the nightmare during all the hype
preparing for the game. Fred and George pooled their life savings together, determined to bet on
the game's outcome.

"Ireland will win, of course," said Fred.

"But Bulgaria gets the snitch," added George.

Ron raised his eyebrows. "What kind of odds are those? You gits'll lose all your money."

"Want to put a sickle on that?" Fred asked, scooping their money into a sack.

I slept just as poorly that night, too excited about the game to rest. When Mrs. Weasley got us all
up early that morning, Ron and I hurried through breakfast and barely got our clothes on straight
before we met the rest of the family downstairs. Mr. Weasley led us up a steep hill behind their
house, where we were to meet with a few other wizards in the area. Mr. Weasley introduced us
to Amos Diggory and his son Cedric, who I vaguely recognized as the Hufflepuff Seeker.

I wasn't sure what to expect upon arriving the arena, but thousands of enchanted campsites just
out in the open certainly wasn't top of my list. A few witches and wizards made attempts at
wearing muggle clothes in a ploy to be inconspicuous, but most were in such odd combinations
that robes would have looked more natural.

Once our own site was set up, Mr. Weasley led us to the Quidditch pit and all the way up to the
Top Box.

"Told you Dad got us excellent seats," said Ron happily, examining his freshly-purchased.
Omnioculars. "Woah! I can make that guy pick his nose! Ha, and again!"

The game was spectacular. Each team had an opening ceremony, though Ireland was clearly the
favorite as leprechauns rained gold on the audience. Ron stuffed his pockets full to burst, but not
before shoving a fistful in my hand.

"For the omnioculars!" he shouted. "Now you have to get me a Christmas present!"
Ireland flew spectacularly, but they were nothing compared to Viktor Krum. He was tall and wide,
and awkward on his feet—not at all the build I had come to associate with an excellent Seeker.
But Krum flew like it was second nature, whizzing between the other players and the balls so fast
he was little more than a red blur. When he caught the snitch, ending the tournament, I cheered
wildly alongside everyone else.

"That was excellent, wasn't it?" said Ron as we headed back to camp several hours later. Night
had fallen, and the distinct sound of celebrations could be heard all around us. "Dunno why Krum
got the snitch when he did, Ireland was too far ahead—"

"I think he wanted to end it on his own terms," I mused. "Bulgaria was never going to catch up
and he knew it."

The Weasleys, Hermione and I celebrated, though not nearly as boisterously as the others in our
section. Once or twice Fred and George snuck off—I was pretty sure for a secret drink from the
neighboring tent—and it was well past midnight when Mr. Weasley finally instructed us to go to
bed.

Sleep, however, did not last long. While the general chaos had died down, there were the
occasional bangs coming from the section next to us. I awoke with a start, looking around
sleepily for the source of the noise. Before I could figure it out, Mr. Weasley suddenly burst in,
looking furious.

"Up, all of you!" he said loudly. Fred and George rolled over on their cots, and Ron sighed loudly.

"'S goin' on?" Fred muttered sleepily.

"Someone thought it would be a brilliant idea to start some sort of fight," said Charlie, who was
still fully dressed. I pulled on my sneakers, frowning.

"And now it's turned into a full-on riot of sorts," Bill chimed in. "You lot are to head to the edge of
the forest and wait—"

"We're going to help—" Fred interrupted.

"No, you're not," said Mr. Weasley sternly. "I want you and George to take them to the other
side, near the water pipe. We'll meet you lot there when we have this sorted—"

There was another loud bang, this time from only meters away. Several screams broke out, and I
could hear footsteps running past our tent.

"Go, now!" said Mr. Weasley firmly.

I followed the others outside, and we were met with a scene of chaos. Several tents had been set
on fire, and people were running around everywhere, trying to get away.

"This way!" George yelled over the noise while his father and three eldest brothers went the
opposite way, deeper into the campsite.

We pushed and squeezed against terrified people, half of which were still in their nightclothes
and barefoot. Somehow in the chaos, Ron, Hermione and I became separated from the others. I
tried to keep an eye on their bright red hair, but a crowd was pushing against us, moving us back
toward the riot.

"Where did they go?" Hermione yelled over the noise.

"I dunno!" I shouted back. I looked around hastily for the treeline. "That way!"

We squeezed between tents, walking over abandoned possessions and hundreds of team flags
strewn about the ground. Finally reaching the tree line, we ducked into a narrow clearing
occupied by several frantic-looking families.

"What do you think that is?" I asked, turning to Ron and Hermione.

"They're after muggles," came a familiar voice in the dim.

I spun around. Draco Malfoy was standing there, alone. He had a strange look of fear and
excitement on his face.

"See?" he said, pointing.

We peered between the trees, and could see the distinct shape of three people hovering twenty
feet of the ground. The man was spinning wildly, and the woman had been turned upside down,
her nightgown falling past her arms. Beneath them stood half a dozen masked figures, laughing
wildly.

"That's sick," said Ron quietly, grimacing at the sight. "That's really sick."

"You ought to hide her," Malfoy continued, pointing at Hermione. "Unless you want to show off
your knickers, too, Granger? That'd give us all a laugh."

"Hermione's a witch," I spat.

Draco raised a pale eyebrow at me. "If you think they can't recognize a mudblood when they see
one, feel free to stick around," he said, looking back at the muggles floating not fifteen yards
away.

"Let's get out of here," I said, leading Ron and Hermione deeper into the woods. I vaguely heard
Malfoy let out a laugh behind us, and felt a mix of hate and fury rise in my stomach at the thought
of him. "We need to try to find that water pipe."

The deeper we got, the fewer the faces became. Hermione was, of course, a witch, but I couldn't
help but feel a strong urge to protect her. If those people were going after muggles, then it didn't
hurt to get Hermione far away from them.

We passed a group of beautiful, silver-haired women and their numerous admirers. Among them,
I recognized the conductor of the Knight Bus, Stan Shunpike, who was insisting he had invented
a broom that could reach Jupiter. Ron made a beeline toward them, but Hermione and I yanked
him back, determined to find the others.

We located a quiet clearing near the edge of the woods. Judging by the colors on the tents here,
we had completely passed our site and were near Ireland territory. Not far off, we could see the
bright orange glow of the blazing tents on the other side of the campsite. Every few seconds
came a loud bang, occasionally accompanied by faint screaming.

I leaned heavily against a tree while Ron and Hermione sat down on the forest floor.

"Think the others are all right?" I asked.

"Yeah, Ginny's with Fred and George," said Ron. "And I think Dad went to join up with Diggory
and the other Ministry people."
Then, completely unexpected, a bright jet of green light shot out of the trees behind us and high
into the sky.

I whipped around, stunned. "What-?"

"What is that?" Hermione said, jumping to her feet. I followed her gaze; between the canopy, a
bright green shape erupted over the night sky.

"It looks like a skull," said Ron, frowning.

"Where did it—?"

Before I could form my question completely, several new voices suddenly appeared all around
us. Ron jumped to his feet, dragging me sideways just as jets of red light began shooting from
every direction.

"Run!" Ron yelled.

It didn't take more encouragement than that. We took off, ducking low to dodge the spells coming
at us from between the trees. I could see dark shapes moving fast around me, no doubt other
wizards who had been hiding from the chaos at the campsite fleeing, too. Before we had made it
twenty feet, my foot caught in an exposed root and I fell to the ground hard. I scrambled for my
glasses, the forest floor illuminated by the shape in the sky. Scrambling to my feet, I saw a dark
shape move in front of me. I whipped out my wand defensively, breathing hard.

The man had turned on his heel and taken off, but not before I caught a glimpse of his face.

It was Sirius.

Relieved, I ran after him. The jets of red light behind us had grown further and further away.
"Sirius!" I shouted, trying to catch up. We had reached the edge of a small clearing in the trees,
and the green shape overhead shone brightly from here. Suddenly a spell shot right past my ear,
missing me by inches and exploding against a tree trunk just in front of Sirius. He hesitated,
pulling out his wand and looking over his shoulder for the source of the spell.

I had caught up to him, and grabbed his arm. "Sirius, you have no idea how—"

But my voice died in my throat when the man turned to look at me.

His eyes were no longer grey, but instead a clear blue, and his nose was longer, his jaw
narrower. This was definitely not Sirius.

But he looked exactly like him.

I frowned, too stunned to mutter a hastily apology. The man looked at me with equal surprise,
eyes wide.

"Potter?"

"S-sorry," I stammered. "I thought you were someone I knew—"

"Over here!" came a loud voice not far behind me.

The man yanked his arm out of my grip, and in one quick movement, had disapparated.
Suddenly Ron's face appeared in the distance, shortly followed by Hermione. They must have
realized I wasn't with them and turned around.

"Harry, come on!" Ron yelled as the voices grew closer. Several jets of light came at us from
behind the trees. I followed them deeper into the woods, running in a zig-zag pattern to avoid the
curses coming our way.

But they had closed in around us. There was no way out.

Knowing what was coming next, I yelled, "Duck!" just as a cascade of red light came at us from
all directions.

"Stop!" came a new voice, panicking. "Stop! That's my son!"

The spells stopped suddenly. The red glow disappeared, leaving only the pale light of the moon
and strange mark high overhead.

Mr. Weasley rushed forward, helping Hermione to her feet.

"What is the meaning of this?" Demanded a voice I recognized as Amos Diggory's.

"You tell us!" said Ron shakily. "You lot nearly killed us!"

"Which one of you did it? Who fired the Dark Mark?"

"The Dark what?" I said, dumbfounded.

"Amos, be serious!" snapped Mr. Weasley. His face was ghost white. "They're kids!"

Diggory turned on him. "The Dark Mark was fired from this very spot!"

"Yeah, we know!" said Ron hotly. "But it wasn't any of us!"

"Then who?"

"We don't know," I said, looking around. The witches and wizards surrounding us were in a mix
of muggle clothes, wizarding robes, and pajamas. They all had their wands out, pointing at us.

"We were just sitting in the clearing, waiting until it was safe to go back and find the others," said
Hermione breathlessly. "And then suddenly a jet of green light shot out of the trees behind us—"

"A likely story!" said Diggory wildly.

"Amos, get a grip on yourself," said one of the witches, pocketing her wand. "They're teenagers
—they don't know the spell."

"Put down your wands," barked Mr. Weasley, looking around him. "Put them down for Merlin's
sake!"

Everyone shot each other a look, but seemed to come to a silent agreement as they all lowered
their arms.

"Where did it come from? Who fired it?" the witch asked again. She had dark hair and wore a
monocle over one eye.
"Dunno," I said. "It was a man's voice. Before we could see anything, you lot showed up—"

"And started aiming for us, so we took off," Ron added.

"I'm going to take them back to the camp," said Mr. Weasley sternly. "If they didn't see anything,
there's no point in interrogating them further."

"What was that about?" Ron asked once we had made a good distance back toward camp.
"What is that skull thing?"

"The Dark Mark," said Mr. Weasley wearily. "It's the sign of You-Know-Who. His followers cast it
into the sky when they've killed."

I felt my stomach drop at that. "You don't think—?"

"There have been no reports," Mr. Weasley replied, answering my unfinished question. We broke
through the treeline and re-entered the camp site. The fires had been extinguished, and several
people were repairing the damage done to their tents. The muggles from earlier were nowhere to
be seen. "It's likely the activity tonight was caused as a bit of fun—a crowded place, high energy.
I imagine the Death Eaters couldn't resist."

"So what is the Dark Mark doing in the sky, then?" Hermione asked. I looked over my shoulder,
and saw several official-looking Ministry wizards attempting to dissipate it.

"Hard to say," said Mr. Weasley. "Maybe someone wasn't so fond of the Death Eaters' game
tonight. A lot of them were never found out—others avoided Azkaban by implicating each other
or claiming they acted under the Imperius curse—"

"The what?"

"Imperius curse," repeated Mr. Weasley. "It's one of three spells known as the Unforgiveable
Curses. It forces a witch or wizard to act without free will—if properly done, the caster can force
the victim to murder his own brother."

"There you lot are," said Ginny breathlessly when we had approached the tent. "We thought we'd
lost you for good!"

"We got separated, and couldn't find you," I said.

"Merlin, Bill, what happened to your arm?" Ron demanded, catching sigh of his brother.

"Nothing serious—I'll patch it up later," said Bill absently. "You lot ought to get inside—there's no
good to be had wandering around out here right now."

While Charlie helped his brother dress his bleeding arm, we all took seats around the table. It
was nearly two in the morning now, but none of us felt like sleeping. It had grown eerily quiet
outside.

My mind kept flashing to the man in the woods. Now that we were in the safety of the tent and I
could think clearly, I couldn't help but wonder if he was the man to set off the Dark Mark. But he
had looked so much like Sirius that I didn't want to say anything in front of Diggory or the other
Ministry employees—just the mention of Sirius' name combined with anything Death Eater
related would start a trainwreck of events.

He had obviously recognized me, but then so did nearly everyone else in the wizarding world.
When we had finished our cups of tea, and Mr. Weasley sent us off to bed for the second time, I
kept playing the encounter with the strange man over and over in my head. When we got back to
Ron's house, I would pull him and Hermione aside and ask if they saw him too.

With the image of the eerie Dark Mark playing across my mind's eye, I fell into a restless sleep.

Chapter six:

Not long after the sun had risen, the Weasleys' owl Errol was already tapping against the back
door out of the kitchen.

Yawning, I let him inside and untied the scroll from his leg. Errol pecked at my toast before taking
off, nearly clipping the doorframe as he went. Remus was passed out on his threadbare sofa,
having just changed back into his human form an hour before. I took a sip of my tea and looked
over Arthur's hastily scribbled letter.

Sirius,

There was Death Eater activity at the World Cup last night.

Harry and the others are completely safe and unharmed.

It's still under investigation, but it appears some old Death Eaters were torturing muggles for
sport after the game ended. Someone sent up the Dark Mark and they scattered.

I'll explain more when you get here.

Arthur

Without hesitation, I ran into the living room, yanked on my shoes, and collected my wand from
the coffee table. I considered waking Remus, but the transformation always exhausted him, even
with the Wolfsbane Potion, and I knew there would be no rousing him any time soon.

I set off for the Burrow straight away, marching up the dew-covered lawn for the main door. Molly
opened it before I had quite reached the front step.

"Everyone's fine," she said quickly before I could speak. "We just sent everyone back upstairs to
sleep some more."

"What happened?" I asked a little too roughly once I had stepped inside. Arthur and his two
oldest were sitting at the kitchen table, toast and tea in front of them. Mrs. Weasley gestured that
I should have a seat.

"Not long after the celebrations had started to die down, some Death Eaters decided it would be
fun to torture the muggle who owns the campsite. They had him and his family dangling in the air
while they watched on, laughing," said the oldest—Bill, I think his name was—tiredly. "It turned
violent shortly after that—they were setting tents on fire, and it became complete chaos."

"I sent the younger kids off to go hide in the woods while we helped stop the violence," said
Arthur. There were deep shadows under his eyes as though he had not slept in days. "But I
guess Harry, Ron, and Hermione got separated from the others. They hid in the woods, and
somehow ended up near a Death Eater who fired the Dark Mark into the sky. That wizard wasn't
apprehended or identified."
I looked from one face to the other in front of me. I hadn't slept in over two days, but I suddenly
felt wide awake. "Then what happened?" I asked in tones of forced calm. Molly set a cup of tea
down in front of me.

"Well, the Death Eaters who started the whole thing disapparated before we could get close,"
said Arthur darkly. "The Ministry wiped the memories of the muggles in question, and set about
doing damage control, but not before the press got wind of what was going on." Arthur rolled his
eyes.

"What do you mean?" I asked, frowning.

Bill picked up a nearby newspaper and handed it to me. There, on the front page, was an
enormous photograph of the Dark Mark with the heading, Death, Destruction at World Cup. I
skimmed through the first several paragraphs.

"They make it sound like people died," I said. "'Several bodies were removed from the forest'?
Who wrote this rubbish?"

"Rita Skeeter," Charlie replied.

"Great," I said with disgust, tossing the paper aside. I had become unpleasantly familiar with Rita
Skeeter's journalism after featuring in many of her outrageous stories throughout the last three or
four years.

We heard the sound of movement upstairs. Someone turned a bathroom tap on and I could hear
what sounded like Ginny's voice talking to someone.

"I guess they're up," said Arthur, yawning. "You're welcome to stay for breakfast, if you like."

"Thanks, but I should probably take Harry home. I need to check in with Remus as well—he
hasn't been feeling well," I said. I'm sure Harry had informed his friends Ron and Hermione about
Remus's condition, but I doubted whether Arthur and Molly knew. I imagined Arthur may not
mind, but Molly struck me as the type to find the whole thing too alarming to handle.

Harry trudged down the stairs, followed by Ron. He was still in his pajamas, but he had his bag of
belongings in his hand.

"Ready to go?" I said tiredly, relieved to see Harry was perfectly intact.

"Yeah," said Harry, his voice still thick from sleep. His hair was sticking out in every direction, just
as James's had done. "See you lot later. Thanks again for the ticket, Mr. Weasley."

Molly gave Harry an enormous hug as I got to my feet. "Be good to your godfather!" she said in a
very motherly tone. "And if we don't see you before then, have a wonderful rest of your summer!"

The morning sun was bright across the horizon. Harry followed me to the edge of the property
and gave a groan when I held out my arm for him to hang on to. A second later, we had
apparated into the kitchen of my house.

Harry dropped his bag to the floor and sank into one of the chairs.

I still had a sick feeling of anxiety in my chest. I rummaged through the cabinets, looking for
something to cook for breakfast. I settled for something easy, and pulled out several eggs and
tomatoes from the ice box. While I waited for everything to cook, I took a seat opposite Harry. He
must have seen the worry all over my face, because then he said, "I'm fine, Sirius, really. Nothing
happened."

I ran my hands tiredly over my face. "But that doesn't erase the fact that something could have
happened."

"Sirius—"

"I know, I know," I interrupted. It drove Harry nuts when I worried about the what-ifs. A few times
he compared me to Molly. "But it's my job to worry about you."

Harry shrugged, relenting.

"Want to tell me what happened? Arthur said you lot got separated."

Harry yawned, then said, "Yeah, it was hard staying together—everyone was running around
panicking, and a crowd pushed me, Ron, and Hermione away from everyone else. So we went
into the forest to wait—that's when someone shot up the Dark Mark."

"And you didn't see who, right?"

Harry shook his head. "Nah, it was too dark. But they were real close—just behind us. Sirius,
don't look at me like that!"

I tried to compose my features. "A Death Eater was right behind you?" I said, voice strangled.

Harry threw his hands up. "I guess, but we didn't know it at the time—it was too dark to really see
anyone until after the Mark was up. That's when the Ministry people showed up, and started
firing spells all over the place. So we took off running, and so did everyone else who had been
hiding there. And then I tripped over a stupid root, and fell behind. I thought I saw you there—I
ran after him, but it was just some bloke that looked like you—"

My heart stopped at that. "You ran after a stranger? Right after the Dark Mark goes up?"

Harry gave me an annoyed look. "I thought it was you, and I didn't know what the bloody Dark
Mark was, okay?"

"What if he was the one who cast it?" I challenged. "Did you tell Arthur about him?"

Harry hesitated. "Well, no—"

I gave an exasperated sigh.

"Look, when I say he looked like you, I mean he really looked like you. When the Ministry
showed up and asked if we had seen any faces, I didn't exactly want to toss your name in there
—'Yes, I thought I saw my godfather running away from you lot right after the Mark went up!' You
see how bad that would look?"

I ran a hand through my hair. I had to admit that Harry was right. Though my name had been
cleared nearly four years before, the exact nature of my innocence was still a hot topic. "Okay.
You're right. I'm over-reacting."

Harry's face softened. "It's okay," he said like it was no big deal. "It was just kind of weird, you
know?"
"What was?"

"That bloke—have you got a twin I don't know about?"

I gave a sort of half-shrug. "I had a younger brother. He died a long time ago."

Harry's face fell. "Oh. Sorry."

I shrugged again, leaning back in my chair. "He was younger than me," I said. "And a much
better son, as I was constantly reminded."

Harry gave me a confused, waiting look. I had almost never spoken about my family to him.

"You remember when we first met? And I told you what kind of wizards my family were?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, well, Regulus was idiot enough to believe them," I said harshly. "Stupid git. He joined the
Death Eaters."

Harry's eyes widened at that. "You're kidding!"

I shook my head. "I bet our parents thought he was a right little hero for joining up at first. But
from what I hear, he got cold feet when he found out what he was being asked to do, and tried to
back out. Well, you don't exactly hand in your resignation to Voldemort. It's a lifetime of service or
death." I paused, frowning. I hadn't thought of Regulus in years. He was just a ghost now. "He
was killed when I was about twenty, the same year your parents got married. So that would have
made him eighteen or nineteen."

There was a brief silence. "Were-were your parents Death Eaters as well?" Harry asked
carefully.

"No, but they thought Voldemort had the right idea. They were all for the purification of the
wizarding race. Hard to believe I came from them, really."

"I'm related to the Dursleys," Harry said.

I smiled wryly at that. "Yeah, I guess we can't all come from a normal family." I stood up and
turned off the stove. "Your school list came yesterday," I added, spotting the envelope on the
kitchen counter while I handed Harry his plate. "So we'll head to Diagon Alley next weekend and
get your things."

"M'kay," said Harry through a mouthful of breakfast.

"I'm going to go check on Remus while you eat," I said.

Harry looked up at me. "You're not hungry?"

I shrugged. My appetite had become permanently suppressed after leaving Azkaban. "See you
in a bit."

"How are the nightmares?"

My brows knitted together. "They're less vivid," I finally settled on.

Newman rested his chin in his hand and watched me for a long moment. "Anything else?"

I continued to fiddle with the odd assortment of objects Newman had lying around specifically for
this purpose—apparently I wasn't his only patient with restless hands.

"I'm going to change directions here," he said, straightening up. "And I want you to try something
new."

I looked up at him over my hands.

"I want you to make a new friend. Someone you didn't know from before the war."

"I do have new friends," I said slowly.

"The Weasley family?" he asked. "Yes, but they are inexplicably tied to your past through their
involvement with your trial. You need to develop new relationships—"

"What's wrong with my old ones?" I interrupted.

"Nothing," he said. "But no one keeps just the one handful of friends—we make potential new
acquaintances, new relationships every day. You're still stuck in your past. I think making a new
friend—one who knows you only as you are, and not as you were—could help. You would not
feel the need to put on a performance to try to act like your old self."

"I think I might scare them away."

"Then find someone who doesn't scare easily," challenged Newman. "Go to the pub together, get
some lunch. Just create one new relationship, see what it does for you."

I set the object I had been playing with—some muggle device with a hundred different-colored
surfaces—down on the table between us. "Do I have a time limit?"

"No," said Newman slowly. "But that's not to say I want you to put it off for the long term. Go to
the pub, strike up a conversation with someone."

"And if no one wants to talk to a lunatic ex-convict?"

"Sirius."

"Okay, fine," I said, getting to my feet.

"Can I expect to see you next week?" Newman asked. He had long since gotten used to my
sporadic and unpredictable visits.

I shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe. I'll tell you all about my new friend."

Newman ignored my sarcasm. "I'll look forward to hearing it."

The following week, Harry and I made our way through Diagon Alley amid the heavy crowds to
purchase his new school things.
"So what are you low on?"

"Robes," replied Harry. "Mine are so short—it's like I'm wearing Hermione's. And I need the usual
boring stuff—quills and parchment, ink. Then books for Transfiguration and Charms."

Harry and I had stopped by Florean Fortescue's for ice cream after leaving the bank. We were
sitting in chairs just outside the shop, watching families bustle by, attempting to finish their
children's school shopping in a single trip. As they passed, several of them shot curious looks our
way—I had to suppose this was an improvement from the hostility and shock I would have
received just years before.

"That's not so bad," I told him, taking a bite of ice cream. "We'll get out of here pretty quickly."

"Can we stop in the Quidditch shop?" Harry asked. "I want to see if they've got any oil for the
Firebolt."

"What's wrong with the stuff you used on your Nimbus?" I asked.

Harry shrugged. "Nothing, I guess—it's just that there's a new line designed specifically for the
Firebolt."

I didn't understand it. But then, Quidditch was always just a sport to me, and any hardcore
dedication went over my head. Harry definitely inherited this from James.

The wild hair and long nose. Harry was skinnier than James had been at that age, but otherwise
looked just like him. But when he spoke, it was Lily who came out. Harry, who had never known
his parents, was so much like them.

"What? Something on my face?"

I snapped out of my reverie as Harry raised an eyebrow at me. "No, it's nothing," I said quickly.
"Well, should we head over to Madam Malkin's, then?"

"S'pose so," said Harry, standing up. I followed suit and we walked down the crowded street
together.

"Remember the first time you brought me here?" Harry asked. "And everyone looked like they'd
seen a ghost."

I grinned at the memory. "I suppose we were an odd pair, weren't we? Boy-Who-Lived and his
mass murdering godfather."

Harry snorted at that.

"What?"

"That's not the only reason people stared."

"What do you mean?" I asked, confused.

Harry shrugged, hesitating. "Well, how often do you read those articles about yourself?"

"Never."
Harry laughed at something I didn't understand. "Well, then you probably haven't heard about
your fan club."

"My what?" I asked, stunned. Fan club? Fans of what?

"Well, at school, there's this…group. Of girls. They're all madly in love with you," said Harry,
trying to suppress a grin at the dumbfounded look on my face. "And it's not just at school. You're
in Witch Weekly practically every other week, with some stupid new bogus feature."

"But…that doesn't make sense," I said, frowning.

Harry laughed at that.

"Why?" I asked aloud, not comprehending. Why would I of all people have a fan club? For ten
years people were convinced I was a Death Eater and a murderer, and they were happy to see
me rot in Azkaban.

"Well, you know—it's because of Azkaban, and Pettigrew, and all that," said Harry by way of
explanation. "I guess you're some sort of hero in the papers. They all want to know what you're
doing. There're photos of you buying groceries, of all things, and people just eat it up."

I was stunned. I had no idea I was being followed so closely, let alone photographed doing
something so absolutely boring as buying bread.

Harry chuckled at the look on my face. "Weird stuff, isn't it?"

"That's so stupid. What can they possibly print? 'Psycho killer eats ice cream in Diagon Alley'?"

Harry shrugged. "Dunno. It's just in there all the time. Hermione says it's all the girls at Hogwarts
ever talk about."

"Great. An underage fan club. Right, let's get your new robes so we can get out of here."

We purchased the remainder of Harry's school things, narrowly avoiding an unpleasant

interaction with my awful cousins, the Malfoys, in the bookstore. After one final stop at the
Quidditch stop, we returned home, exhausted.

I laid face-down on the couch, slowly working my shoes off with my toes. I heard Harry drop all
his school things on his bedroom floor upstairs before heading to the kitchen. I don't think the
Dursleys fed Harry much, so I was happy to let him eat an enormous sandwich or several bowls
of cereal just before dinner.

I sat up straight, giving a long look to the large stack of boxes that had been sitting in the corner
of the sitting room for the better part of the year. After being released from Azkaban, people who
had ended up with my possessions one way or the other were gradually returning them. Most
were random objects I had lent out before being arrested, and they still sat in their boxes in the
corner, strange reminders of my old life.

The most recent package was a box full of old photographs Andromeda had sent me. I hadn't
had the guts to go through them all when it first arrived, but Harry wanted to see what was in the
boxes.

I stood up and picked up the unwrapped box, settling myself back down lazily before opening it.
Harry walked into the room, a half-eaten sandwich in hand.
"What's that?" he asked.

"Old photos. Want to see?"

Harry sat on the couch next to me, propping his feet up on the edge of the coffee table just as I
had done. "Woah, that's you?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said, examining the first photo of the bunch. I was probably twelve or thirteen here, and
Regulus and I had taken turns shoving each other into the lake at one of the summer homes.
"This one's from some stupid benefit ball—I can't remember which—but I'm the one here," I said,
pointing. "My parents used to make us attend all these boring society events when we were kids.
This one's from when we were at Hogwarts," I continued, shuffling to the next picture. "That's
your dad, me, and that there's Remus and Peter. I think this was from fourth year by the looks of
it."

"Blimey! You all look so young! Especially Remus."

I smirked at that. "Oh, and here's a picture of my cousin Andromeda's wedding—she's the one
who sent me all these. She married a muggle, so she was disowned by the family as well. She
has a daughter, Nymphadora." I squinted at the picture. "Yeah, hardly anyone from the Black
family is here—it must all be Ted's family."

Harry picked up a stack of photos from the box and skimmed through them. "This is wild. It's
weird seeing you in dress robes."

"I never was a respectable heir," I said, shrugging as Harry continued to flip through
photographs.

"That's him!" said Harry suddenly, pointing at a slight figure in one of the photographs. "That's the
man I saw at the World Cup!"

I took the photo from Harry.

"Right there," he said, pointing at a familiar face. "Blimey, he looks just like you."

"That's my brother," I said after a minute.

"Huh? No, that can't be," said Harry, looking more closely at the photograph. "I'm sure it was
him," he said slowly, frowning. "I recognize that face."

I flipped the photograph over to read the date scrawled on the back. "This is probably the last
picture of him. He died a few months after this was taken," I said, flipping it back over.

Harry was frowning, eyebrows knit together. "That doesn't make any sense. I'm sure it was him. I
mean, how many people are there that look like your brother and happen to know the spell for
the Dark Mark?"

"I thought you said it wasn't him who sent up the Mark."

Harry shrugged. "I dunno who did it, but it kind of fits, doesn't it?"

I stuffed all the photographs away, an unpleasant possibility creeping into the back of my mind.
Harry hesitated before speaking, looking at me nervously. "I mean, are you sure he's dead? You
said a lot of people just went missing during the war."

"It's the only thing I've heard," I allowed slowly, placing the lid back on the box.

I had the feeling Harry wanted to press for more, but he kept his mouth shut. "Right. Well, I'm
going to finish my homework. Come get me when dinner's ready?"

My head felt fuzzy.

"Yeah. Sure."

Once I Harry had been seen off to school, I set for my parents' old house straight away. I hadn't
stepped foot here other than the one unfortunate trip Remus and I took shortly after regaining my
freedom, and I had been hoping to never do so again. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I
had a nagging sense that I ought to start here.

I hesitated on the doorstep, preparing myself for whatever lay inside. My grip tightened around
my wand, and I readied half a dozen spells in the forefront of my mind for whatever lay on the
other side of the door.

It opened silently, barely scraping the dust on the filthy floor as it moved. Cobwebs hung from the
chandelier overhead, and the oil lamps were completely obscured by filth. I shut the door quickly
behind myself, wand held high. There were human footprints in the dust, and they looked recent.

"Lumos Totalus," I whispered to the darkness. The lamps instantly burst into life, illuminating the
dusty corridors of the main floor. I saw what looked like several saucer-sized spiders retreat into
curtains and underneath covered furniture. I flexed my fingers around the handle of my wand
before stepping further into the house.

The tea parlor, drawing room, and day room were all empty save for the loud hum of doxy nests.
I headed back for the front entryway, ready to check the other side of the house. The library had
no signs of life, and neither did the breakfast room or the formal dining room.

The first floor was clear; that only left the basement kitchen and the two upper floors.

I took a steadying breath as I ascended the main staircase, careful to step around the creaky
spots I remembered from my childhood. Reaching the dim second floor landing, I hid myself in a
corner between the washroom and a linen closet. As children, Regulus and I used to chase each
other around the house and I knew this to be a strategic blind spot from the main stairwell and
the entire second floor. I aimed my wand for the main chandelier.

"Protego!" I whispered.

The glass shattered and rained to the floor with a loud crash. I flinched at the sudden noise, but
waited carefully for any sounds of movement in the house. I was sure there were footsteps
upstairs, right where my old bedroom was. But it also sounded like there was movement down
the hall, toward my right. I silently cursed my damaged hearing on that side, and slid silently
down that hallway.

The lamps were broken down here, and heavy shadows obscured most of the way. But I saw a
black shape move in the darkness, and reacted instantly.
"Expelliarmus!" I shouted. The jet of red light briefly illuminated the corridor, and I saw the
distinct shape of a human arm.

Someone was there.

"Confrigo!" I shouted, aiming for the darkest shadows. I heard a heavy object hit the floor.
"Lumos maximus!"

My wand tip ignited a bright white glow, filling the corridor with light. At the end of the hallway,
just where my beam of light faded, I could see a man hastily scrambling to his feet.

"Accio wand!"

The intruder's wand flew toward me, and I pocketed his wand quickly. Holding my own in front of
me defensively, I demanded, "Who are you?"

The man, dark-haired and close to my own age, looked up at me from the floor.

"Only a Black can enter this house," he replied calmly.

My grip tightened. "This is my house and you've broken in. Tell me who you are before I curse
you."

He chuckled at that. "Don't you recognize me? Or perhaps you should have kept this old beauty
in better condition so the lights worked."

Incensed, I shot an incendiary spell just over his head. Where the broken lamps used to be were
now balls of bright blue fire. The hallway was completely illuminated, revealing the identity of the
man at my feet.

"What are you doing here?" I said coldly, maintaining my nerve.

"Waiting for you, of course," he replied, slowly getting to his feet. His eyes were on me the whole
time. "I believe we have a lot of catching-up to do."

My eyes narrowed and my fingers tightened their grip around my wand. I could feel my heart
beating furiously against my chest. "My brother's dead. Tell me how you got in here."

The man raised his eyebrows at me. "Dead? You don't recognize me?"

"I don't believe you," I snapped back.

Regulus gave me a wry smile, holding his hands up. "How about an Unbreakable Vow, big
brother? Will you believe it's me then?"

Chapter seven:

I was sure it had to be a trick. Regulus had been dead for fifteen years.

But only a Black could have entered the house, and I was the last of my family line.

Just then I heard footsteps behind me. Careful to keep my wand trained on the imposter, I moved
so my back was against the wall and turned to see an unpleasantly familiar face.
"Kreacher?" I said, stunned. "What the hell are you doing? You're just letting people break into
this house?"

Kreacher gave me a sour look. I couldn't believe he was still alive. "Nasty ungrateful brat's come
back, he has. Hasn't changed a bit, attacking Master Regulus like before. Oh, my poor Mistress
—"

I turned back to look at the intruder. He had crossed his arms and gave me a patient but
expectant look.

"You're insane, the lot of you," I said. "Kreacher, you useless idiot, call the Ministry. Now. That's
an order!"

Kreacher gave me a baleful look.

"Kreacher, don't mind Sirius," said the intruder calmly.

Kreacher's eyes went to Regulus before narrowing onto me. "Nasty ungrateful swine, Kreacher
would like to stop him from hurting Master Regulus—"

"For fuck's sake, Kreacher, just get out of here!" I snapped, furious. No doubt ten years of
complete isolation has driven the house elf mad.

"Kreacher, leave us," said the man sternly.

"As master wishes," said Kreacher, giving Regulus an obedient bow before shooting me another
poisonous look and disappearing down the stairs.

"If I may suggest we move somewhere more comfortable before you set the house on fire," said
the man pretending to be my dead brother. "Maybe we can discuss this issue more calmly.
Perhaps over tea?"

I stared at him. The features were familiar—the blue eyes and long nose—but Dark Magic could
do that.

"I can prove it's me, Sirius," he said calmly. "Your choice. Would Veritaserum suffice, or would
you prefer to rely on my word as sealed by a Vow?"

"You died fifteen years ago," I said accusingly, wand still held high.

"So I hear," he replied coolly. "And you were the Dark Lord's highest supporter."

My eyes narrowed at that. This was madness. Someone had disguised themselves as Regulus
and broken in somehow, but there was an awful nagging feeling in my chest.

A nagging feeling that told me that this was indeed Regulus.

"We're not discussing this here," I said finally. "Not in this shit hole house."

Regulus raised his eyebrows. "And where do you propose we go?"

"Give me your arm—"

"Certainly, dear brother," he said icily, taking a hesitant step back. "As soon as you tell me
where. I would rather like to maintain my status as a dead man."

I moved forward to take hold of him. "My house."

The disapparition was surprisingly easy—perhaps Regulus was too stunned to try to resist, or
maybe he didn't want to risk getting splinched.

I shoved him back onto my couch roughly, wand still trained high.

"I see your manners haven't improved much," Regulus said scornfully, straightening up but
otherwise not moving. I watched him quickly take in his surroundings. I swallowed a lump in my
throat.

"How are you still alive?" I demanded.

"Seriously, can we discuss this more civilly?" he asked, irritated. "There's no need for you to
have your wand in my face."

"You're supposed to be dead, and the last thing I heard was that you had joined Voldemort's
inner circle," I said coldly. "So forgive me if I'm not ready to drop my wand and prepare tea for a
Death Eater."

"Ex Death Eater," he clarified. "You tend to lose the title when you betray the Dark Lord."

I felt my eyes narrow.

Regulus gave an exasperated sigh. "Obviously I had to fake my death—he would have gone
after me and the whole family—what was left of it. And I'm not stupid enough to rejoin the world
after the Dark Lord's fall."

"What do you mean when you say you betrayed Voldemort?" I demanded.

"This is a long story—are you sure you don't want to sit?"

"Regulus—"

"All right, fine." He shot me a dark look, then said, "You might not think much of it, but I was
never as soft-minded as you thought." He paused, sighing, then added, "I did join the Death
Eaters. I thought they had a generally good idea, even if I didn't agree with how they went about
business. And Mother and Father were really pushing for it-not that you'd care, but there was
quite a bit of pressure to openly support the Dark Lord among the pureblood families. It was a
mark of disrespect to hide it. And then there was the fact that I was the only heir to our family's
name. Well…" he said, trailing off in thought for a moment.

"So I joined before leaving Hogwarts," he continued bitterly. "I'll bet you never knew that part—
that while we were still in school, when you were still ignoring me in the corridors, I was working
for the Dark Lord. But despite any similar sympathies, I was never a killer. At the time, I wanted
to separate the muggles and mudbloods from the wizarding race, not exterminate them.

"Well, you don't exactly hand in your resignation to the Dark Lord. You might despise me for
entering his 'inner circle,' as you kindly put it, but that level of information had its advantages." He
hesitated here, frowning. "It was then that I learned the Dark Lord's darkest secret: his attempt at
immortality.
"Believing I faced certain death, I went after the horcrux with the intention of destroying it. I was
determined that when the Dark Lord met his equal, he would be mortal once more."

I stared at Regulus for a long moment. I could feel my wand arm slipping a few inches. "But
Voldemort didn't die," I said slowly.

"No, he did not," said Regulus with disgust. "Never did it cross my mind to imagine that the Dark
Lord would make more than one horcrux."

"What is that, exactly?" I asked in spite of myself.

"Dark magic," said Regulus simply. "It involves the concealment of part of one's soul in an object.
If the body is destroyed, the soul—the essence of one's self—lives on. In order to create one, the
witch or wizard must take a life. It is the only way to split the soul."

There was a long silence. A million thoughts were racing through my head. I couldn't get over the
fact that Regulus was not only still alive, but sitting right in front of me. "Why did you show
yourself?" I finally asked. "Harry said he saw you at the World Cup, and here you are in our
family's old house. If you managed to fake your death, why not just stay dead?" I said that last
part bitterly.

"I've been looking for the other horcrux," said Regulus. "I've heard all the rumors—that Voldemort
is going to attempt to regain strength and go after Potter. None of us stand a chance if the Dark
Lord cannot die."

I let my arm drop to my side. "You have a lot of explaining to do."

"Lovely. Shall I start the tea, then?"

It was lucky I had an unlimited supply of butterbeer, because we burned through several cases
while Regulus explained how he had discovered Voldemort's secret, where he had gone to steal
it, and how he had to go into hiding thereafter.

"I truly believed I would die any day," Regulus said. We were both sitting on opposite couches in
my living room. I had a half-filled ashtray in front of me, and Regulus was nursing a glass of
firewhiskey.

"Why didn't you come to me?" I implored, frowning. "We could have protected you—"

"The Order hardly needed a Death Eater that couldn't be trusted by the Dark Lord to carry out his
orders—I would have merely been in the way. I decided that if I was going to die, then I would be
quite sure it was useful. I made Kreacher take me to the cave, and instructed him to force me to
drink the poisoned water, and gave him the locket—the horcrux—with instructions to get out of
there and destroy it."

"So how did you get out?"

Regulus frowned, a far-off look on his face. "I'm not really sure. The lake was filled with Dark
Magic—the dead were cursed and climbing out of the lake, trying to pull me down. I really
believed that that's how it would end. I just remember a lot of fire—I guess in some manner I was
controlling it, though I cannot tell you how. I wasn't myself when I managed to get out of there—
several months passed before I was really aware of anything. I had hidden myself away in
Norway." He took a deep breath and sighed. "News took months to reach me where I was hiding
at the time. When I found out the Potters had been killed and you were in Azkaban, it was nearly
a year later."
There was a pregnant pause while Regulus gave me an expectant look. "So what happened?
I've seen your name all over the papers, but I'd like your version."

I shrugged uncomfortably. I could feel my face closing off. "Peter was the spy—did you know?" I
asked bitterly, wondering if my brother had known all along.

The one thing right in front of me that I couldn't see.

Regulus shook his head slowly, giving me a sympathetic look. "No. The Dark Lord was careful
with his spies from the other side—half the Death Eaters never knew who the others were. And
there were many more nameless faces who did his bidding, but never took the Mark."

"Well, Peter sold them to Voldemort. When I went after him, he blew apart the street and killed
everyone within twenty feet of himself. I got blamed for it, and spent ten years in Azkaban."

Regulus let out his breath slowly. "Did you have a trial?"

"No. Well, ten years later, yeah. And only because Peter turned up again."

"Well," said Regulus, looking around the house. His eyes fell on the various pictures of Harry on
the mantle. "You seem to be doing all right for yourself, in spite of it all."

I didn't know how to reply to that. I supposed to an outsider's eye I had made sufficient progress
from crazed mass murderer to tax-paying citizen, but it hardly felt like an achievement to me.
Even now, I felt like the world had gone on without me and I was stuck the way I was before.

Before. After.

A huge chunk of my life was missing and I was still trying to stay on my feet.

"Do you have any information on Voldemort?" I asked sharply, changing the subject.

Regulus's gaze turned back to me. If he was annoyed by my abrupt tone, he didn't show it. "Very
little, and they're only rumors. There's an old estate that belonged to the Riddle family here in
England. The word is that the groundskeeper was found dead, but the muggles can't deduce
why. People in the area reported seeing a man carrying what looks like a baby."

I raised my eyebrows at that. "How does that tie back into Voldemort?"

"Well, you know the old Riddle family were all murdered," said Regulus. "The Dark Lord's
unfortunate muggle father and his family. The groundskeeper maintains the property, but
someone broke into the main estate and killed the man without so much as a trace. Now, I don't
know for sure, but my bet is that the Dark Lord's been hiding out there."

"He's back in England?"

"Looks like it," said Regulus, taking a long sip of his drink. "And I'll have you know that's the only
reason I came back—I was perfectly content to stay dead, but I'm the only one who knows about
the other horcrux. By the sound of it, the Dark Lord is getting stronger."

I frowned at that. This was an incredible amount of information to be taking in, and I had no way
of knowing for sure if Regulus was telling me the truth. As kids, Regulus had always been adept
at deceiving our extended relatives and even our parents. He could smooth-talk his way out of
nearly every situation in school. He had always been the golden child in our youth, and had
advanced to Voldemort's inner circle before he supposedly died at nineteen.
And yet he was my brother. The same idiot who used to follow me around the house when I was
avoiding the boring luncheons and dinner parties, the same little boy who once confessed he
looked up to me.

Regulus and I may have taken completely different directions, but perhaps we weren't so
different. Maybe there was something stronger than the last name that held us together.

That, or I just wanted to believe it hadn't been too late to save Regulus from the Death Eaters.

"Why were you in our old house?" I asked. "Is that seriously where you've been hiding?"

Regulus snorted. "Of course not. I needed to check to be sure whether or not Kreacher had
destroyed the locket. That was my first thought, before I realized there was more than one
horcrux."

"Did he?" I asked, unsure of the demented elf's ability.

Regulus reached inside his vest pocket and withdrew a gaudy, jewel-covered locket. My eyes fell
on the huge, blackened crack that ran down the middle.

"I replaced it with a fake one, should the Dark Lord ever decide to take a look in his cave."

"And you're sure there's another one?"

Regulus pocketed the locket. "The Dark Lord should have died the night he went after the
Potters, but was merely reduced to a spirit form. There's no other explanation."

I lit a new cigarette and took a few long drags off it. "Was that you at the World Cup? Harry was
sure he saw someone who looked remarkably like myself."

Regulus shrugged. "I wanted to see what the old Death Eaters were up to. It was I who cast the
Dark Mark, of course—"

I felt my eyebrows shoot up. "What?"

"Those idiots are terrified the Dark Lord might return—nothing else would distract them from their
little game with the muggles. Disgusting," he added bitterly.

"It wasn't so long ago that you would have been among them," I said harshly.

Regulus gave me a long look. "Do you really think so little of me, brother?"

"Don't tell me you've forgotten all those times you and Rookwood used to torment the muggle
children at the summer home."

"I was a child then, I had no reason to know any better—"

"I wasn't much older, and I had managed to figure that one out for myself."

Regulus turned away from me, shaking his head. "Yes, well, you were always two steps ahead of
me." His voice was defiant, but there was a somber look on his face.

I thought about our time as kids, when I had started Hogwarts and the divide between myself and
Regulus had become apparent. It only got worse from there, but I wondered what was the
difference between him and myself in those days? Had I not done enough to shield Regulus from
our parents? No doubt they were stricter with him when I began to rebel. I had been too
preoccupied defying them and making my own way to think about Regulus.

Perhaps it was my fault he had grown up the way he did. There was no one to protect him.

"If you're satisfied, I'd like my wand back and to be on my way," said Regulus, standing up.

"No way," I said sharply.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm supposed to just let you walk out of here and never see you again? After you just told me
about a second horcrux and Voldemort coming back to England?"

Regulus raised a dark eyebrow. It was unnerving how much he looked like me. "Well, you can
satisfy yourself with the knowledge that I'm going to find the other horcrux and destroy it."

"Not by yourself, you aren't—"

"And what, do you propose to come with me?"

I hesitated for a split second. "No, but Dumbledore—"

"Is going to stay out of this," said Regulus sharply. "No one is to know that I'm still alive, you
understand me? No one. It's difficult enough going through the Dark Lord's most private secrets
as it is, and I certainly don't need an old man or your precious Order following after me and
catching attention."

"And how are you going to find this other horcrux all by yourself?"

"I found the first one, didn't I?"

"But you were close to Voldemort at the time—you don't have that advantage now."

"So are you proposing to hold me prisoner?" said Regulus haughtily. He folded his arms and
gave me a withering look.

"Yeah, if that's what it takes—"

"Then you'd better be prepared to curse me," he said coldly. "I played nice with you because
you're my brother, but I'm not about to be held up by anyone."

We stared at each other with strong dislike for a long moment. I wasn't sure how good of a dueler
Regulus was these days, and I wasn't prepared to risk blowing him up to find out.

"You have to keep contact with me," I said, finally. "I want to know what's going on at all times."

Regulus rolled his eyes.

"And you want to know how I know you're going to do it?" I continued. "Because if you don't, then
you can bet I'll go straight to Dumbledore with the news that you're still alive."

Regulus's eyes narrowed. "You'd risk ruining everything just to keep tabs on me?"
I wasn't sure if I was bluffing or not. "You can't do this alone," I said sternly, getting to my own
feet. I withdrew Regulus's wand and handed it back to him.

Regulus gave me a long, calculating look. "Sometimes I wonder if maybe you didn't have a little
Slytherin in you," he finally said. "I'll be at the family home for the next few days."

"That shit hole?" I asked, eyebrows raised. "Why not just stay here?"

Regulus gave me a look. "And intrude on your new life? I think not."

"There's nothing to intrude on," I said honestly. "Besides, you need someone who can move
around outside—if you're supposed to be dead, you can't very well ask questions."

Regulus gave a long sigh. "Only while absolutely necessary. Once there's news about the other
horcrux's location, I will leave immediately."

"Fine."

"Fine."

I prepared the spare bedroom for Regulus, fishing spare towels and bedding out of the hall linen
closet. Regulus was downstairs examining the objects in my house, particularly the muggle
items.

"What is this?" he asked when I came looking for him. He was standing in the laundry, examining
the dryer.

"It dries laundry."

Regulus opened and then shut the door. "How so?"

"Well, you toss a load inside, push a button, and wait an hour."

Regulus turned to me with a raised eyebrow. "An hour? A spell would be faster—"

"Reg, stop insulting my house," I snapped. "What do you want for dinner?"

"I don't understand why you like these muggle things," he said as we headed back to the kitchen.
"They're so…"

"Inferior?"

"I was going to go with cumbersome," Regulus said coolly.

I bit back my tongue. It was instinct to snap at Regulus, and I would have to keep myself in check
if I didn't want him to disappear again.

I couldn't bring myself to apologize, so instead I began opening cabinets in my kitchen. "What do
you feel like eating?"

"I believe the real question is what do you feel like preparing?" he countered, running a hand
along the surface of my kitchen table before taking a seat.

I opened my ice box, frowning. "Er, all the meat is still frozen."
"I take it you do not employ a house-elf?" Regulus asked cautiously.

"No."

"Hmm."

"What, should I bring Kreacher over? He'd poison the food."

"Not my share."

I rolled my eyes. I pulled out a block of chicken from the butcher's and set it in the sink under
running water. I took a seat at the table across from Regulus while I waited for it to thaw.

"Tell me more about this Secret Keeper business," Regulus said after a minute.

"What do you mean?" I asked flatly. I had no interest in discussing the worst decision of my life.

"So Potter chose you as the Secret Keeper, right? I'm not going to bother to inquire after why he
didn't select Dumbledore, I don't care about that. But why did you switch with Pettigrew?"

I gave him a long look. My thoughts turned to my trial, and how this question in particular had
been used by Ms. Novak over and over to prepare me for my inquisition.

"I was the obvious choice. Everyone knew it would be me. Voldemort would find me eventually,
and I had no idea if I would be able to hold up under the Imperius Curse forever. So I told James
he had to switch to Peter at the last minute, but we would tell everyone it was me."

Regulus stared at me incredulously. "You were going to die," he said slowly.

I raised an eyebrow challengingly, but didn't reply.

"You knew the Dark Lord would come after you," he continued, eyes narrowed. "And all you
could think about was protecting your friends. Merlin, not even that—you set it up so that the
Dark Lord would come after you directly. When you switched Secret-Keepers, you put a giant
target on your back."

"I suppose you think that's pretty stupid," I finally allowed, crossing my arms.

Regulus shook his head. Finally he turned to me and gave an exasperated sigh. "Sometimes it's
hard to draw the line between stupidity and bravery. If we're talking about self-preservation, then
yes, that was monumentally stupid."

I rolled my eyes.

"But some things are more important than that."

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable under Regulus's stare. "Yes, well, too bad it didn't work."

Regulus's face softened at that. "So now you're raising the Potter boy," he stated, changing the
subject a little.

I nodded silently. I really didn't want to go into all the details, but Regulus was watching me
expectantly.
"Well? Aren't you going to tell me near a hundred stories about him before we eat? Is that not
what parents do these days?"

My eyebrows knit together. "I'm not really a parent," I said slowly.

"Parental figure. Same thing."

"Is it?"

"It's as good as."

I sighed. "Harry's a good kid. He's kind, and loyal to his friends. He reminds me so much of
James, sometimes. But I suppose he inherited more of Lily's sensibility."

"And he's the Chosen One."

I got up from the table.

"Don't be angry, Sirius," said Regulus from behind me.

"He's more than just some pawn in a twisted prophecy," I snapped back. "He's a human being.
He has wants and needs, just like everybody else. He's not some lump of meat to be molded into
Voldemort's downfall."

"Look," said Regulus sharply. "No one is denying Potter is only a child. But the moment the Dark
Lord went after him is the moment Potter became his only real equal. The Dark Lord is never
going to stop hunting him. Potter's entire family was doomed, and there was absolutely nothing
you could have done to protect them! So stop feeling so guilty about it."

I pulled the chicken out of the sink and stabbed it with a filleting knife. "How do you know how I
feel?" I muttered childishly.

"It doesn't take a genius to figure it out—you were set on sacrificing yourself to the death and the
whole thing backfires. The Potters die and you survive. It wasn't ten years in Azkaban that made
you believe it was your fault."

"You don't know anything." My heart was beating furiously against my chest. My hands shook as
I carved the chicken roughly—it was a miracle I didn't saw one of my fingers off.

I felt dizzy. Spots were dancing in front of my eyes, and I couldn't get the mental image of James
and Lily lying dead in their destroyed house out of my head.

"Where are you going?"

Before I was really aware of it, I had pushed through the back kitchen door and onto the porch. I
stumbled down the few steps onto the lawn, the heels of my hands pressed firmly against my
temples. I couldn't see. Somewhere in the distance I thought I heard Regulus's voice, but he was
dead.

They were all dead.

It was all my fault. I couldn't protect my brother, and I couldn't protect James's family. They had
all died because of me. Soon, Harry might be dead, too.
Red hair fanned out across the floor like a pool of blood. Black-rimmed glasses crunched under
my feet. Dust was still falling like snow from the broken ceiling.

Rough hands seized me, and suddenly a new face was in front of me. My own face.

"Snap out of it!"

Suddenly my arm began to burn. The house disappeared, leaving dark trees and an open field
behind. I rubbed my arm gingerly, looking for the source of the pain.

There was no burn. Just Regulus standing in front of me with a white face and his wand out.

"What the bloody hell was that?" he demanded, looking stricken. Instead of waiting for an answer
he dragged me inside.

My house.

Not Godric's Hollow. That house was long gone.

"Drink."

I looked at the glass in front of me. It looked like whiskey. Somehow I had gotten inside my
kitchen, and we were sitting at my table. I downed the glass in one fell swoop, the burning in my
throat bringing me back to reality.

I set the glass back down slowly, numbly processing what had just happened. No one had seen
me lose my grip in three years, and now Regulus was hovering over me, white as a ghost.

"You good?" he asked after a long minute of silence.

I laughed humorlessly at that. It was a knee-jerk reaction. Nothing was funny about what just
happened.

Regulus poured me another glass, and then a larger one for himself, before sitting down across
from me. "Sorry," he finally said. "I didn't intend to—well, that is to say I didn't know how bad it
was. For you."

I gave him a long look. There was no way to explain away what he had just seen. It was too late
to feel embarrassed. "I see a shrink once in a while," I said without any idea why.

"A what?"

"Mind Healer," I clarified.

Regulus sat back in his chair, frowning.

"Sometimes I think I've lost my mind," I said, swirling the contents of my glass.

"You haven't."

"Still think I'm doing all right for myself?" I asked bitterly, not expecting an answer. I stood up to
finish preparing dinner.
I could hear Regulus following me. "I think you're a complete bloody idiot, but I don't think you're
crazy," he said bluntly.

I laughed at that, genuinely this time. It slipped out before I was really aware of it. Regulus raised
an eyebrow at me, but his face broke into a small smile. "You're the first person that's ever said
that," I told him, shaking my head. "Everyone else thinks I'm too delicate or some rubbish, so
they don't say anything."

"Bollocks," said Regulus. "You're too big an arsehole to be delicate."

I smiled to myself in spite of that. "Make yourself useful and find some vegetables to chop."

Chapter eight:

"No."

"Oh, come on," I said stubbornly. "Who's he going to tell?"

"We agreed that this stays between you and me," Regulus replied sternly.

It was the following morning, and we had hardly gotten through breakfast before we began
arguing again.

"Look, Remus practically lives at my house—there's no way we can't tell him! Besides, he'd be
useful, he'd be another pair of eyes and ears out there."

"How?" Regulus demanded, obviously not believing me.

"Back during the Order, Remus spent most of his time around the other werewolves and all
manner of Dark creatures—he can do that again, see if Voldemort has attempted to make
contact with them."

"It's not my concern to fight the Dark Lord," said Regulus waspishly. "I only care about destroying
his other horcrux."

"Well, fighting Voldemort is my concern," I snapped back, waving my spoon angrily. "And while
you can run along when the horcrux is destroyed, I have to stay here."

Regulus didn't take the bait. "Lupin is too close to Dumbledore, and that old man is far too nosy,"
he continued. "How is Lupin supposed to explain his disappearances from Hogwarts?"

"He can say he's taking care of his crazy, ex-murderer friend—"

"Come on Sirius, you're cleverer than that," said Regulus patronizingly. "You know Dumbledore
would see right through that—"

"Look," I said heatedly, pinching the bridge of my nose. I was tired of arguing so early in the
morning. "Remus hears things the rest of us don't. It's the only perk when he's considered less
than human. Since you're supposed to be dead, you don't have any connections—Remus does."

"Like who?"

"Fenrir Greyback, for one," I said.

Regulus raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Remus thinks he's a complete monster, but he knows where to find him. Not to mention there's
Mundungus Fletcher."

Regulus snorted at that. "That old crook? What use could he possibly have?"

"You'd be surprised," I said defensively. "Most of our information during the Order came from
Dung."

"If we're going to contact anyone, it ought to be cousin Narcissa."

I stared at him for a long moment. "Are you completely stupid?" I finally demanded. "Malfoy's a
Death Eater!"

"And Narcissa will have a lot more valuable information than any of your sources," said Regulus
heatedly. "If Mundungus Fletcher was your source of information, I'm no longer surprised the
Order used to be in such poor shape."

"So, what? I'm supposed to knock on her door? The Malfoys don't trust me, and you're supposed
to be dead—how are either of us supposed to get anything useful out of her?"

"Perhaps Andromeda—"

"They haven't spoken since Andromeda got married."

We were at an impasse.

"Look," I said in tones of forced calm, the heels of my hands pressed against my temples.
"Voldemort kept this horcrux business a secret from his followers, so it stands to reason none of
them know about it. Voldemort would have made these in secret—our best source of information
would be from those who work secretly."

"So you want to recruit your werewolf friend and a thief?"

"Voldemort has no respect for anything less than a pureblood wizard. Didn't you say Voldemort
wanted to use Kreacher to test the hiding place for the locket?" I asked hotly. "I bet you there are
loads of people out there who know a lot more about Voldemort's secrets than any Death Eater."

"Fine," said Regulus, giving in. He looked angry, but resigned. "You may tell Lupin, but if you
insist on bringing Mundungus into this, then you leave my name out of it. I don't trust that crook
to keep his mouth shut if there's so much as a sickle offered."

"Fantastic," I said, standing up and searching the kitchen for parchment and a quill. "I'll have him
come over right now."

Regulus rolled his eyes. "Is he at your beck and call? I thought he had teaching obligations."

"It's a Sunday, classes don't start until tomorrow," I snapped back.

It only took maybe thirty minutes. Regulus and I finished our breakfast in annoyed silence, and I
washed the breakfast dishes while he skimmed through the newspaper. I had just sat down at
the table when I heard footsteps. A moment later, the kitchen door swung open.
"Sirius, is everything all—"

Remus stopped mid-sentence, staring at us in disbelief. His eyes traveled from me to Regulus,
and back again.

"Morning, Remus," I said pleasantly from where I sat, arms folded. "Have you had breakfast yet?
We've got a rather long story to share with you."

I could feel Regulus glaring at me, but I ignored him.

It was Remus I was focusing on. Remus, who looked like he didn't know if he should hex us both
or run for it. "Sirius," he said slowly, staring at my brother. "What's going on?"

"Exactly what it looks like," I replied brightly. "Regulus isn't dead. Here, have a seat—I'll put on a
pot of tea."

"It's been too long," said Regulus stiffly, turning his attention to Remus as I stood up. "I hope it
hasn't been too difficult taking care of my brother—"

"What are you doing here?" said Remus carefully. He stepped closer to the kitchen table, but
hadn't sat down yet. I put the kettle on the stove and pulled out another chair, gesturing for
Remus to sit.

"He's here at my invitation," I said, shooting Regulus a warning look. "It's a long story, Remus, so
I'm just going to get to the point—Voldemort is not only still alive, but there are rumors he's back
in England and gaining strength. Regulus is here because he found out how Voldemort survived
when his curse backfired."

"It's called a horcrux," said Regulus finally after a long look from me. "An object in which part of
one's soul is concealed. With it, you cannot die." He shot me a dark look, then continued. "I
discovered the Dark Lord's secret when he was still powerful, and attempted to destroy it,
knowing it would cost me my life. Somehow I managed to survive, and the plan was successful. I
hid myself for fifteen years, allowing everyone to believe I was dead. But when rumors reached
me that Voldemort was still around—possessing a Hogwarts teacher—I knew that there was
another horcrux. How else could the Dark Lord survive?"

Remus stared at Regulus for a long moment, then back to me. "You're sure?"

I ran a hand through my hair distractedly. "Yeah, Remus, I'm sure."

Remus didn't look completely convinced. "So you think there are more out there."

"I know there are," Regulus corrected. "And Sirius here thinks you may have connections to find
out where it is."

"Just one?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, if Voldemort made more than one, how do you know it's just two? How do you know how
many were made?" Remus asked.

We both looked at Regulus, who was frowning. "Splitting the soul is only possible when killing
another."
"This is Voldemort we're talking about," I said bluntly. "For all we know, he's made hundreds."

"Not hundreds," Regulus said dismissively. "Splitting your soul that many times would reduce you
to…nothing. There wouldn't be anything left of you."

"So how many times do we think Voldemort did this, if more than once?" Remus asked gravely.
He seemed to be getting over the shock of seeing my dead brother alive and in my kitchen.

Regulus was frowning. "The Dark Lord was superstitious—did either of you take Numerology or
Arithmancy?"

Remus and I both shook our heads.

"I can try asking Professor Vector about any significance to numbers. What should I be looking
for?"

"Anything that involves immortality, unbreakable bonds, eternity, or power. The Dark Lord will
have taken every precaution to ensure his horcruxes are safe," said Regulus in disgust. "And
you're sure you can carefully investigate this without drawing attention?"

Remus raised an eyebrow at Regulus. "I am capable at being overlooked," he said slowly. I could
hear the annoyance in his voice, but I doubted Regulus did. "I doubt anyone would pay me much
mind." Remus turned to me. "Does Dumbledore know?"

"No," said Regulus sharply at the same time I shook my head.

Remus looked between us again, frowning. I could see irritation forming in his eyes. "I get the
impression neither of you intend to tell him."

"Regulus doesn't want Dumbledore to know he's still alive," I replied before Regulus could speak.

"I would have preferred no one knew, but my hands were tied," said Regulus coolly. "Sirius here
thinks you might prove useful, but I have my reservations. And the old Headmaster is simply out
of the question. This will not be the start of a new Order; we are simply investigating the number
of horcruxes so that I can ensure their destruction."

Remus raised his eyebrows, clearly affronted. It had been a very long time since either of them
had interacted with each other. "You are mistaken, then. Dumbledore would be more useful than
myself."

"Instead of the Arithmancy professor, perhaps you could speak with Slughorn," said Regulus
matter-of-factly.

Remus shook his head. "Slughorn doesn't teach anymore. Snape's the new Potions Master."

Regulus wasn't deterred. "Could you find Slughorn?"

Remus and I looked at each other. "Reg, what good is he going to be?" I asked, not
understanding. Slughorn had been an excellent professor, but occupied all his spare thoughts
with his prodigies and their connections.

"Slughorn was the only professor the Dark Lord respected while in school," said Regulus. "Is it
not possible that the Dark Lord, as a boy, looked to him for advice?"
I snorted at that. Advice about what, world domination? I doubted even Slughorn knew a
connection for that.

"You two are infuriatingly thick," said Regulus, sitting back in his chair and shooting us dark
looks. "The Order was always reactionary—try thinking like a Death Eater instead. If you needed
to learn someone's darkest secrets, where would you look? The Dark Lord learned about
horcruxes from somebody."

"You think Slughorn told him how to make one?"

"No, but I think Slughorn certainly had some influence—perhaps he knows who did. Look, if you
insist on helping, then make yourself useful."

"I'll see if I can find a current address for him," said Remus after a long minute, standing up. "I'll…
be in touch as soon as I find something." He gave me a knowing look.

I followed Remus to the back porch, shutting the door behind us.

"What is really going on?" he whispered angrily, pointing toward the kitchen.

I sighed, trying to wrap my brain around it. In truth, I didn't even quite know. Overnight Regulus
had returned from the dead with the news that Voldemort was gaining strength, and now he and I
were supposedly on the hunt to destroy his key to immortality.

"Sirius, do you really trust him?" Remus continued even quieter, giving me a level look. "How do
you know which side he's on?"

I hesitated, looking over my shoulder toward the kitchen door. "I don't know Remus, but I just
can't imagine he's making all this up."

"What proof do you have?" Remus whispered. Then he added quickly, "Look, I'll trust him if you
do, but please—really think about this. The fact that he doesn't want Dumbledore involved at all
really worries me."

If I was completely honest, I could understand why Regulus wouldn't want Dumbledore involved.
Hell, half the reason I spent ten years in Azkaban was because Dumbledore turned his back on
me. The Headmaster might be a powerful ally, but he wasn't infallible. There was no guarantee
Dumbledore would let Regulus hunt for the horcruxes quietly—no doubt he would insist on
becoming involved, drawing attention from anyone watching the old Headmaster.

No, Regulus was right. No one could know.

But the look Remus was giving me made me hesitate. I really had no proof that Regulus was
being truthful. I couldn't afford to trust the wrong person.

I wouldn't make that same mistake again.

"Just find Slughorn," I whispered. "I'll fill you in later."

"Okay. Sure." Remus didn't look happy, but he bid me a hasty farewell before disapparating.

I headed back up the porch steps and into the kitchen, where Regulus was waiting.

"Can't you behave yourself?" I asked exasperatedly.

Regulus raised his eyebrows, clearly annoyed. "Behave myself?"

"You were being rude," I said sharply, folding my arms.

"Rude? I was simply stating the facts at hand."

"Yeah, I know," I said, rolling my eyes. "But you didn't exactly hold back on being blunt."

"I don't like him," he said simply.

"You didn't like any of my friends," I pointed out, annoyed. "But if you're going to be in my house,
at least be civil."

"You're the one that brought me here, remember?" Regulus shot back heatedly. "I was doing
perfectly fine before this."

"Yeah? Then why did you bother to come back to England," I snapped. "if you were having such
a grand time, hidden away comfortably in the middle of nowhere?"

Regulus sighed exasperatedly, throwing his hands up. "What would you like me to say, Sirius?
That just because we're on the same side, I have to be friendly with your mates? No. Especially
because he let you sit in Azkaban for ten years."

I felt my eyebrows rise as I gave him a level look. "Yeah, well, so did you," I said before I could
stop myself.

Regulus gave me an affronted look. I grabbed the gardening shears and headed outside so I
didn't have to look at him. It was a low blow, I knew it, but I couldn't stop myself from saying the
words. Did I blame anyone for leaving me in Azkaban?

Did it even matter now?

Regulus stepped out the back door a few minutes later. I heard him walk down the porch steps,
but I didn't look up from the rose bush I was pruning. I didn't know if I felt mad or guilty.

"What was I supposed to do?" he asked calmly once he was standing next to me. "I had no
credibility—and I was supposed to be dead."

"Reg, just stop," I said tiredly. "It doesn't matter. I don't blame you or anyone about what
happened."

I could feel Regulus watching me. I could see him picking at his lip out of the corner of my eye. It
was an old habit he used to do whenever he was nervous. "Why not?"

"I don't know," I said truthfully. "Maybe it's too much work to be mad—just passing off as sane is
enough for me to be getting on with."

Regulus was still watching me. "I just don't understand it," he said.

I looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

Regulus looked as though he was going to say more, but shut his mouth then, changing his
mind. He sighed. "Right, well, I'm going to head to our parents' house for a bit—I expect I'll be
back before lunch."
I nodded silently. "Yeah. Sure." I watched him disapparate, glowering at the patch of grass where
he had been standing just moments before.

I threw the shears down and pulled out the cigarettes from my pocket. The pack was squished,
but the cigarettes hadn't snapped in half. I lit one, suddenly aware of just how useless I was.

If we made any headway on the horcruxes without attracting attention, it would be a miracle.

I skipped the appointment I had made with Newman, instead heading for the opposite side of
London. I had made sure Regulus was busy occupying himself with old newspapers and gossip
magazines, reading between the lines for any news that hinted at Voldemort, before heading for
our parents' old house.

It was as dark and dank as it was a few days before. The main entryway was still covered in
shattered crystal from the chandelier I had destroyed. No doubt Kreacher just stepped over it,
paying the mess no mind.

"Kreacher!" I shouted once the heavy front door slid shut. "Kreacher, where are you?"

The house-elf materialized right in front of me, holding an old pocket watch. He glowered up at
me, muttering, "Nasty brat's come back, he has. Kreacher wonders what happened to Master
Regulus—"

"Kreacher, did Voldemort take you to a cave to hide a horcrux?" I demanded.

Kreacher smashed his ears against his head. "The blood-traitor mustn't say his name—"

I rolled my eyes impatiently. This was already taking too long. "Kreacher, did You-Know-
Who take you to a cave and force you to hide his horcrux? An old locket?"

Kreacher looked up at me with narrow, unblinking eyes.

"That's a direct order. Answer me," I snapped.

"Kreacher did as he was told," Kreacher muttered, shaking his head furiously. He still held the old
watch firmly in his fist. I recognized it as my father's, and wondered what on earth he was doing
with it. "The Dark Lord needed an elf, and Kreacher did as he was told—Kreacher's a good elf,
and Master Regulus—"

"Okay, so there was a horcrux," I interrupted. "Did you destroy it?"

Kreacher shot me a hateful look.

"Regulus and I need your help," I forced myself to say, figuring Kreacher would be more
cooperative if he thought Regulus knew I was here. "We need to know if the locket was
destroyed."

"Kreacher did as Master Regulus commanded, Kreacher left Master Regulus in the cave—oh,
Kreacher's a bad elf!" Kreacher began hitting himself on the top of the head furiously. I wrestled
his tiny arms to his sides with difficulty. The old elf was a lot stronger than he looked.
"Kreacher, answer me! Regulus didn't die, so stop worrying about it!" I snapped impatiently. "This
is very important to Regulus—did you destroy the horcrux?"

Kreacher stopped struggling. "Kreacher did as Master Regulus ordered—Kreacher only wishes it
did not take so long—"

I let him go, straightening up. So that part of the story was true.

"All right," I said tiredly. I watched the elf disappear down the dark and dusty hallway, muttering
about Regulus. I suddenly felt exhausted. I still had to kill at least an hour before I could return
home, so I settled for wandering my favorite city park, Hampstead Heath. Nearly half a mile into
the park, where the grass grew wildly and there were no other faces around, I settled on an
empty park bench and tried to sort out the jumbled thoughts in my head.

Regulus was alive.

Voldemort was back.

Harry might be in danger.

It was almost too much to wrap my brain around. It was a dizzying mess, snagging on thoughts
and old memories. I thought about the first war, how young and stupid we all were, fighting
something entirely too big for us. How I believed that I could save anyone who mattered to me.
And now here I was, nearly thirteen years later, hiding from my brother in an empty muggle park.
All that was left was an old man who didn't know how to live in this world.

I wondered how long I would have gone not seeing it, if it weren't for Regulus. How many stories
would show up in the papers before people realized they were all linked to Voldemort?

I'm not sure how long I sat there, frozen with fear to the park bench. It wasn't until I heard an
approaching couple that I snapped out of it and unsteadily got to my feet. I eventually found
myself heading in the direction of Diagon Alley, and decided to step inside for a pint.

"Tom, you got any parchment?" I asked, searching my pockets for a quill or pen. The pub was
mostly empty, and the seats were deserted on one end of the bar.

Tom fished around and extracted a few leaves and set them on the bar alongside my pint. "Bit
stained, but it'll do."

I dated the letter and began with a formal Dear Professor H. Slughorn before stopping,
wondering how best to phrase it. I knew better than to put any real information in writing; in fact, I
was hoping I'd be able to swing a meeting with Slughorn, but I wasn't sure how to begin without
sounding like a complete idiot.

Dear Slughorn—let's arrange a tea!

Merlin.

I ran my hands over my face, glowering at the unwritten letter in front of me. I picked up my pen
again, hesitating for a moment before settling on a complete and utter lie.

Dear Professor H. Slughorn,

I hope this letter finds you well. If it isn't too great an inconvenience, I'd like to arrange an
afternoon to meet up and discuss some old friends of yours. I find myself rather bored these
days, and I'm hoping to hear that you're still in touch with some of your old connections!

I gagged at this, but kept on.

Please reply at your convenience, and no earlier.

Sincerely yours,
Sirius Black

I folded up the letter and stuffed it in my pocket; Remus had owled me Slughorn's address the
night before, and Regulus had been hounding me about contacting him.

It was definitely rude to lead Slughorn on like this, but I was simultaneously paranoid of the letter
being intercepted, and of Slughorn outright refusing a meeting with me under different
circumstances. I had no idea how he felt about my recent imprisonment, but I doubted he could
resist the urge to dabble in some high-profile names.

I took a sip from my pint, which had sat untouched while I wrote the letter. Looking around the
pub, my eyes settled on a dark-haired head and it took me several moments to realize where I
knew her. As if sensing my gaze, Hestia looked up from her table.

She smiled at my glass. "Isn't it a little early to start drinking?"

I checked my watch. "Is eleven thirty too early?"

"Depends on whether your end goal is alcoholism."

I shrugged. "A pint sounded like a good enough excuse to shirk my responsibilities."

She gave a short, approving nod. "Then by all means, carry on."

I half-turned my body so I could see her better. She looked just how I remembered her, but
instead of her hospital uniform she wore a plain cotton dress and jumper.

"So how is your health these days?" she inquired, resting her chin in the palm of her hand.

"Mind if I join you?" I asked, gesturing to the empty seat across from her.

She pushed the chair toward me with her foot. I grabbed my pint and took it hesitantly, still
unsure why I was asking to sit with my old nurse.

"Well, you do look better," she said, scrutinizing my face. "It's nice to know my nutrient potions
paid off in the long run."

I snorted at that. "Yeah, right."

"How's Harry?"

"He's good," I said after a split second's pause. "Plays Seeker on his House team, and he's
bringing home good grades."

"Now, he lives with you, doesn't he?" she asked.

I frowned. "Er, sort of. He lives with his aunt and uncle for a few weeks each summer, then
comes to my house for the rest."

"Well, that's nice. Perhaps you can all have Christmas together."

I smiled at the thought of sitting in the Dursley's living room with magical Christmas crackers and
Vernon wearing a king's crown.

"My niece just started Hogwarts this year," Hestia continued, taking a sip of her tea. "Hufflepuff."

"Good for her."

Hestia shrugged, running a hand over her arm. For some reason she didn't look happy. "Exactly.
But some people are stuck thinking one House is better than the others. My stupid brother is mad
she wasn't sorted into Ravenclaw—thinks Hufflepuff's a mark of her 'lack of effort.'"

"How does he work that one out?"

"Well, for a long time we thought maybe she was a Squib," she said. "She didn't start to show
any magical abilities until about a year ago. I kept telling Cyrus some are just late bloomers—but
what the hell do I know, I'm just a medi-witch, right?"

"Could be worse, it's not like she ended up in Slytherin," I said without thinking.

Hestia gave me a straight look. "I was in Slytherin."

I hesitated, stunned. Ah, shit. "Er—oh."

"I'm kidding, I wasn't," she said quickly, shooting me a mischievous look. Then she said, "I just
think my brother and his wife should be happy with any House the girl was put in."

Relieved I hadn't just offended her, I said, "My whole family were in Slytherin. I was the odd one
out, and it only did more to offend their delicate sensibilities. Hufflepuff's got a silly reputation, but
they're a good House. Your niece'll be just fine."

"I hope so," Hestia continued, biting her lower lip.

"I'll ask Harry to hex anyone who picks on her," I promised.

Hestia smirked at that. "Oh, is he the trouble-making type as well?"

I shrugged. "I might have to offer a little encouragement. Thank Merlin Harry's more sensible
than James or I was at that age," I added, running a hand through my hair.

"So are the stories true?" she asked. She had a playful grin, and I couldn't tell if she was being
facetious.

"Definitely not," I replied, taking a sip. I set my pint down and added, "What stories?"

"Well, here we have Witch Weekly nominating you for…hang on, let me get the words right," she
said, pulling a magazine out from under her pile on the table. "Right, here we are. Nominated for
'Sexiest hair,'" she continued, looking thoughtful. She turned to me again.

"That's disgusting," I replied, rolling my eyes. "They're just making rubbish up for sales."
"There're pictures of you," she added, tossing the magazine aside. "I'll admit, most of them are
pretty creepy. Someone was definitely hiding behind a few rubbish bins to get those photos. But
hey, at least they weren't photographing your arse, because that's another category in there."

"They can photograph my arse all they like—I'll even drop my pants to give them a good look," I
said. I suddenly remembered that the woman I was sitting with had seen my arse at one point,
and tried to ignore the sudden drop in my stomach.

"It's good that you can ignore it," she said, seriously this time. "It's all rubbish anyway. You're the
most elusive celebrity the media's had in fifty years, so they're just going to make nonsense up
all the time."

"Celebrity?"

She gave me a look. "You're surprised? You really must not get outside much. People at work
who learn that I know you ask me questions about you all the time."

I frowned. "Like what?"

For some reason, the pink in her cheeks deepened. "Er, nothing I can talk about and keep my
professional dignity."

"Great."

Hestia bit her lip, still looking embarrassed. Though whether it was for her or my sake, I couldn't
tell.

"Anyway," she said pointedly. "I've just received a promotion. Now I get to boss around all the
other mediwitches to my liking."

"Well, congratulations," I offered.

"Yes, it's lovely. I can send the new ones to fetch me a coffee whenever I like," she added.

I grinned at that. "It's fitting. If I remember correctly, you were quite bossy."

She shrugged, unperturbed. "I was pretending to be brave. It's still silly they only sent one staff
member into your room, but Merlin knows the Ministry members had to go in these great big
groups for their own protection."

"I think the fact that I could have been overpowered by an owl had something to do with it," I
suggested. "That, and being chained to the bed at all times."

"Come on, now," she said. "It was definitely because my sheer size is alarmingly intimidating."

I laughed at that. Hestia was maybe a few inches over the five foot mark, and slender. Her
bluntness made up for her small size, however. "Yes, let's agree on that."

"What are you up to these days? I assume you've managed to fix your shitty health, because I
haven't seen you in the hospital in a few years."

"No, my health is still a bit crap, but I get by. Mostly I just bounce from one project to another."

"What are you doing now?"

"I have a garden," I replied, realizing how lame it sounded when spoken out loud. I wasn't taming
dragons or curse-breaking in foreign countries. No, I had a garden. "I'm actually quite proud of it.
My tomatoes could probably win some sort of prize-whatever prize there is for tomatoes. And I've
got another extension added-I've started to work with different kinds of flowers. It's rather
fascinating to learn about all the conditions certain plants need in order to bloom. I planted roses
first, and the buds are absolutely huge."

"That sounds lovely," said Hestia. She sounded like she meant it. "My knack for keeping things
alive only extends to people, unfortunately."

"I would hope that base was covered if you're working in a hospital."

She grinned at that.

I drank the rest of my pint and checked my watch. "Ah, crap. I've got to get going."

Hestia straightened up in her chair, folding her arms on the table in front of her. "Well, don't let
me keep you."

I gave her another look. Her features were pleasantly neutral, and I couldn't tell if I was annoying
or entertaining her. But there was just something so…refreshing about her awkward demeanor.

"Stop me if I'm about to look like a complete twit, but I've enjoyed talking to you, and I'd like to do
it again sometime," I said, trying to keep my face relaxed and my tone smooth. When did I
become so awkward around women? Now I definitely felt like an old man. "Can I buy you a pint
sometime? Or tea, if you're conscious of your liver. Nothing weird, just as acquaintances—or
friends, if you will."

She smiled at that. Genuinely, I think.

I hope.

"That would be lovely," she said, tearing a page out of her copy of Witch Weekly and scribbling a
hasty address on the corner. "Send me an owl any time you like."

I carefully placed the piece of paper in my wallet. It was stuffed to burst with galleons and sickles
because I was too stubborn to carry around a proper coin purse. Looking back to Hestia, I
offered my most awkward smile.

"Right, then. See you later."

She returned my smile. For a moment, I almost forgot why I was leaving at all.

Shit.

Regulus.

I offered a hasty wave and ducked out of the pub. I realized I had chosen to exit to the muggle
side out of habit, and had to find an empty alleyway to disapparate back home.

Regulus was sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in my nicest muggle clothes—the ones that
weren't faded or threadbare—surrounded by old newspapers I'm sure he had rescued from the
kindling pile.
"Tea?" I offered, scratching the back of my neck.

"That would be lovely."

I put a kettle on the stove and leaned against the counter, facing my brother.

"How was…what do you call it?"

"Seeing my shrink?"

Regulus gave me a look, one eyebrow raised. "Why are you embarrassed of it?"

"I'm not."

"You always deflect anything that makes you uncomfortable with humor."

I shrugged. "It was fine, I guess. Hey, where's Remus's letter with Slughorn's address?" I asked,
changing the subject. I had just remembered I still had my letter to send off.

"I put it on your icebox."

I pulled out my beer-stained letter, wondering if it sent the wrong message and whether I should
rewrite it on clean parchment. Deciding against it, I copied Slughorn's address down and went
out back to the shed I had converted into an owlery.

"Don't read the letter, it's embarrassing," I told my owl, a litte tawny bird named Lana, as I tied
the scroll to her leg. She yawned in response, ruffling her feathers before taking off. I watched
her fly off, disappearing as a tiny dot over the treeline. It was the start to what would no doubt be
the biggest pain in the arse.

Destroy all the horcruxes before Voldemort gained strength.

Chapter nine:

"You can't go dressed like that."

I looked down at my clothes. "Why not?"

"Because you told Slughorn you basically wanted to interview for one of his established
connections, that's why," said Regulus sternly. He folded his arms. "You look like a muggle—and
a rough one at that."

I rolled my eyes. Leave it to Regulus to nag about useless details. I pulled my t-shirt off and
dropped it on the floor in the hallway before digging through my wardrobe.

"Don't you own any wizard's robes?" he continued, following me.

"Nope. Don't need 'em."

I could feel Regulus rolling his eyes. "Of course not. What would be the purpose of a wizard
being in possession of a wizard's wardrobe?"
"Next you're going to tell me my pants make my arse look fat."

"On the contrary, a normal meal would benefit you tremendously," said Regulus, sounding bored.

"How's this?" I asked, extracting a sort of blue-grey button down shirt. It was one of the few shirts
that weren't completely wrinkled.

Regulus scrutinized it for a moment, then shrugged. "It'll do. Have you thought about what you're
going to say to Slughorn?"

"About a thousand times."

"And have you decided on your words?"

"No."

Regulus sighed in exasperation.

"Look, I'm only going to freak out if I continue to overthink this," I said, hastily buttoning up my
shirt. It was true; the more I tried to rehearse some sort of segue from "good afternoon" to "so tell
me about Voldemort's horcruxes," the more suspicious everything sounded. I thought better on
my feet anyway.

"Tell me again why I can't go in as you with a Polyjuice Potion?"

"Because you're a git."

Regulus rolled his eyes, but didn't respond. He turned from my bedroom doorway, and I followed
him into the front entryway.

"Because I need to butter up Slughorn first—and he's probably going to ask questions about a lot
of stuff you don't know about," I answered, looking under the table for my shoes. "It's less
suspicious if it really is me."

"Don't you dare mess this up," said Regulus sharply. "He's our only lead at the moment. I don't
care how vile it makes you feel, play to his weakness."

"Merlin, Reg, I haven't got brain damage," I snapped. "I had him as a professor, too. I know how
to act around him."

"Right, well, good luck," said Regulus, crossing his arms as I slipped on a light jacket.

I apparated onto the sidewalk just around the corner from Slughorn's address. His house was on
a row of neatly-kept brick houses on a serene, tree-lined road. The simplicity did not match
Slughorn's influence at all.

I walked up the narrow path to his doorstep. Straightening my jacket, I knocked twice. The door
swung open of its own accord, and I found myself in a neatly-kept foyer. Slughorn was in the
adjacent room, preparing tea.

"My dear Sirius!" he said with genuine warmth when he spotted me. "Have a seat! I've just got
the tea ready. I hope you're partial to lemon squares—Dumbledore's just sent me this recipe."
"You're very kind," I replied, summoning up my long-lost manners. "I hope I'm not imposing on
you—"

"No, not at all! In fact, I was rather wondering what you have been up to these years," he said.
He sat across from me, dressed in smart clothes and a pair of house slippers—the very same
outfit he would wear during his private daytime parties in school. He gave me a sideways look.
"Just absolutely dreadful what happened to you."

"Yes, well, I've… managed to make do with the circumstances," I replied, taking the tea Slughorn
handed me. I cleared my throat hastily. Already I felt like a complete twat, but I had to get
through this believably.

"It is my understanding that you are the guardian to Harry Potter as well," said Slughorn, his eyes
wide as he prepared his own tea with a little too much sugar.

"Yes, he comes to stay with me over school breaks," I replied. My face was already starting to
hurt with the fake smile plastered on it.

"He must be very much like his parents, I presume?"

"Exactly like them," I replied, ignoring the drop in my stomach at the mention of James and Lily. I
had to clear my throat again. I needed to taunt Slughorn with just what he wanted. "Talented on
the quidditch pitch, like his father—Harry made the House team in first year."

"That's wonderful!" Slughorn exclaimed. "I was never a quidditch player myself, you know, but I
always appreciated the sport."

"My feelings exactly," I replied. I sounded eerily like Regulus. "Remember when James had me
play on the House team and I blacked out for four days?"

Slughorn chuckled at the memory. "Yes, and you cannot imagine the fright you gave everyone,
falling from that height. We were all very relieved when Poppy assured us you would make a full
recovery." Slughorn gave a small, contented sigh, watching me. "Well, enough reminiscing! Let's
get to the point of your visit!"

Ha. If only you knew.

"I've become rather interested in…curse-breaking," I lied. "My friends, the Weasley family—their
eldest son works in this field. Normally I'd have asked him, but Egypt is so far off…I was
wondering if you knew anyone local that I might get in touch with."

"In fact, I know just the person—" Slughorn got up and brought over a framed photograph. The
wizard in it couldn't have been more than a year out of school. "The son of an old pupil—Robert
Orwell. He just secured a position with Gringott's—the youngest wizard to achieve such a
coveted position—and I'm sure he'd be more than happy to help you break into the field, so to
speak."

"It's not so much a job I'm looking for," I said slowly. "Rather, I'm looking to create a security
system."

"Oh, to keep the media owls at bay?" Slughorn asked seriously.

I couldn't help but smirk at that. Then I said more seriously, "Well, I'm sure you've heard the
rumors—Voldemort's thought to have returned to England."
Slughorn jumped at the name, and the pleasant air about the room shifted.

"Don't say the name, my boy," said Slughorn with difficulty. He cleared his throat, taking the
photo back from me. I waited for Slughorn to settle down in his chair.

"It may be worth it to contact Orwell all the same," he finally said.

"I don't mean to alarm you," I said carefully. "It's just that Harry's my whole life—I promised
James and Lily I'd protect him."

Slughorn shot me a sympathetic look. "Yes, yes, of course I understand. You'd want to take
every precaution."

There was a pregnant silence. Slughorn had a slightly pained look on his face that caught my
attention. It didn't look like sadness—it was guilt. A feeling I knew all too well.

"There's something I came to ask you," I continued slowly. I hesitated, thinking of the best way to
form my lie, but Slughorn seemed to take it as me collecting myself. "After I was released from
Azkaban, I inherited my brother's Gringott's vault, as well as my parents'. I didn't look at it until
very recently, and inside was a letter for me, that he had written before he died. Regulus had
joined the Death Eaters, you know…"

"Yes," said Slughorn stiffly. There was a sad look to his eyes. "Yes, I was very saddened to hear
that news. Such a promising boy."

"In the letter, he mentioned something called a…a horcrux," I continued, carefully framing my
words. "He said he had destroyed one, but that there were more. I have no idea what he was
talking about—I can't find mention of the word anywhere."

"That question may be better asked of your friend, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,"
said Slughorn quickly. His tone was uncomfortable.

"I did, and he's never heard of it."

"Then I'm afraid you may have reached a dead end, Sirius. I cannot help you with this—"

"Did he ever mention it to you?" I pressed. "Regulus always said you were his favorite teacher."

Flattery. I was really getting desperate.

"I'm not sorry to say I haven't heard the word in about fifty years," said Slughorn stiffly. "It's the
darkest form of magic, and better left forgotten—now, let me give you Mr. Orwell's address—"

"What about…You-Know-Who?" I asked, playing my last card. "Sorry, it's just—you taught him
as well, and—"

"Oh, dear me!" Slughorn interrupted. "Look at the time! I shan't keep you any longer, Sirius, I'm
sure we both have other things to be getting on with. I'll owl you Robert Orwell's address as soon
as I find it," he said, standing up and pulling the tea cup from my hand. With one motion, the set
had disappeared, including the tray of as-yet untouched lemon squares. "I must check on a new
potion I'm brewing out back, so I trust you can see yourself out."

Before I really knew it, Slughorn had disappeared from the room.
"Fuck," I whispered to myself, casting a dark look around the room. There would be no cracking
the information out of Slughorn, and he definitely knew something. I got to my feet slowly, looking
around at all the portraits and photos sitting on shelves and tables lining the room, on the mantle
—every available surface had a picture of some prodigy Slughorn must know. Quidditch players,
successful business owners, politicians—it went on. Several of them were autographed, and
Slughorn appeared in at least half. Others had newspaper clippings mounted alongside the
photo. I moved to a bookshelf in the corner, and there in the middle was a photograph of
Regulus and I, taken from our school days.

Other than my bizarre celebrity status, neither of us had really amounted to anything. I was a
popular name amongst gossip magazines, and Regulus was all but forgotten entirely. A dead
name.

I knew Regulus would be furious with the news when I got home, and I mentally prepared myself
to hold back a majority of the insults I'd be tempted to throw.

"Nothing?" he said, stunned. "Not even a number?"

"He hardly acknowledged that he knew what I was talking about at all," I said exasperatedly. "I
tried everything I had—Harry, you…nothing got to him. Whatever he knows, he's determined to
keep it a secret. And then he all but kicked me out on the spot."

"Great—so now we're back to right where we started."

I sank into the couch across from Regulus. "I guess so."

We were silent for a long while, mulling our options over—what options we had. I fiddled with a
cigarette for so long I had crushed the filter before realizing I hadn't lit it yet. Tossing it aside, I
picked out a fresh one.

"Andromeda."

"What?"

"Meet with Andromeda," said Regulus. "You won't meet with Narcissa, so Andromeda will have
to do—Bellatrix was close to the Dark Lord, so perhaps they may know something, some link to
the Dark Lord—"

"You think Cousin Bella just up and told Andromeda where Voldemort may have hidden another
horcrux?"

"Are you determined to be useless?" Regulus countered. "It's better than nothing at this point."

I rolled my eyes. "All right, fine. We'll have us a family reunion—"

"You will," Regulus said sharply. "I'm staying dead, remember?"

"Yeah, whatever," I muttered to myself, pulling a sheet of parchment toward me and scribbling
out a hasty letter. "Dear Andy—haven't seen ya since I was chucked in prison. Mind if I stop by?"

Regulus shot me a dark look, clearly unamused.

"Fine. Dearest Cousin Andromeda—far too many years have passed since we last supp'd, and I
intend to close the gap—"
"You're such a pain in the arse," said Regulus, getting to his feet and heading for the kitchen.

I ignored him, finishing the letter quickly. I bypassed the kitchen and instead headed to my owlery
through the laundry room. If I remembered right, Andromeda didn't live too far from here, so it
was likely I'd get a response before the day was out.

Regulus and I passed the rest of the afternoon mostly ignoring each other, too irritated with how
my meeting with Slughorn went to make any real conversation. While Regulus holed up in the
small library, I made myself useful in the garden, picking bugs off the strawberries with one hand
while I drank a beer with the other.

Late in the afternoon my tiny owl reappeared, dropping Andromeda's letter on my head and
taking off before I could send her on another trip. I broke open the parchment, and in
Andromeda's elegant scrawl, read,

Dear Sirius,

What a pleasant surprise to hear from you! If you are without plans this evening, you're welcome
to stop by for dinner—our house has grown quiet with Nymphadora away, and it has grown
rather dull around here. Enclosed is our address—don't worry about advance notice, just come
by whenever you can.

Love,
Andromeda

I felt weird reading Andromeda's letter—I hadn't seen her since she got married, and certainly
hadn't spoken to her since before I was arrested. Yet she spoke like nothing had happened—she
certainly didn't sound disgusted to hear from me, so I suppose that was a plus.

I got to my feet slowly; my back ached from being hunched over for so long. Once a few joints
had cracked, I picked up my basket and made my way inside the house. I left the strawberries on
the countertop while I made my way into the sitting room.

"Andromeda invited me over for dinner," I announced.

"Good. You can head over there right now," said Regulus, checking his watch. He was dressed
in my old muggle clothes and looked eerily like me.

I opened my mouth to say something, but couldn't think of any response. Regulus didn't notice. I
gave a half-shrug and walked down the hall to the bathroom so I could shower off first.

Meeting with Andromeda unnerved me far more than having tea with Slughorn did. Maybe I felt
like a jerk because I only contacted her under false pretenses—maybe I should have written her
earlier, genuinely.

Whatever, it was already done. I turned the tap on and stepped under the hot water, scrubbing
the dirt off my arms.

I dressed while Regulus lectured me on points to cover while I was over.

"Okay, Mother, I get it," I finally snapped, digging through my dresser for some socks.

"Well, we don't exactly want it to go like Slughorn's meeting," said Regulus tersely.

I sighed audibly at that. "Oh, for Merlin's sake—you know that wasn't my fault—"
"That is beside the point," he replied. "Just try not to screw it up. You weren't exactly the best
guest at the family dinners."

I opened my mouth to reply, but then a memory of slipping itching powder into Narcissa's and her
new boyfriend Lucius's robes crept into my mind. "Remember when Mother got so mad at me
she actually chucked her plate at my head?"

The corners of Regulus's mouth twitched and his eyes softened. "I've never seen you duck so
fast."

"You have to admit, I alleviated the boredom."

"If you want to put it that way," said Regulus diplomatically. "Although it was rather entertaining to
watch Lucius squirm while Uncle Cygnus interrogated him over the first course."

I smiled to myself. "Poor bastard had to excuse himself from the table—took him 'til desert to
figure out what was going on."

"I think Narcissa claimed it was an outbreak of dragon pox," Regulus mused.

I laughed at that. "I almost wish I stuck around through coffee to see it."

"Right—Father's questions about the Malfoy Manor would have been enough to kill you."

"Might have been worth it to see Malfoy scratching in his pants all night," I said, smirking at the
thought.

"Yeah, well, go on," said Regulus, shooing me away. "And try to return with an actual lead."

I had only managed to knock twice before the front door flung open, revealing a familiar, dark-
haired face.

"It's wonderful to see you again!" Andromeda exclaimed, throwing her arms around me. I
returned the embrace awkwardly. "Come in, come in—he's here, Ted!"

Andromeda's house was cozy but neat—I vaguely remembered Andromeda telling me what a
slob Ted was when they were still dating.

"Dinner's still cooking, but I've got a pot of tea ready," she said, leading me through the house
and into the kitchen. She all but pushed me into one of the chairs, summoning a set of tea cups
from the cupboard.

"I don't think we've ever properly met," said Ted, reaching across the table to shake my hand. He
was fair-haired and portly, with a kind face.

"I don't doubt you've heard all about me," I said, my feeble attempt at a joke.

"Just what 'Dromeda's told me about you blowing up the toilets in the Prefect's bathroom," he
said, winking.

I relaxed a little at the obvious warmth. "Sorry to—show up out of the blue," I began hesitantly.
Andromeda waved a hand dismissively as she filled up all the tea cups. "Nonsense. We're just
happy that you've contacted us—Nymphadora's away at some three week Auror training camp
—"

"She's what?"

"I know, can you believe she's that old already?" said Ted. "Graduated Hogwarts four years ago,
and trained for the Aurors right after. She got accepted last year, but she still has to go through
periodic training to move up the ranks."

"What year is Harry?" Andromeda asked, taking a seat next to her husband.

"Just started his fourth year."

"Already?" she said, surprised. "My, they certainly grow up fast, don't they?"

There was a second's awkward pause. I reached for my tea cup and took a sip.

"So what have you been up to?" Andromeda asked.

I hesitated for a second. "Not much," I said, which was half-true. Not much until a week ago. "I
spend most of my time in this garden I made." As soon as I said it, I realized how pathetic it
sounded. Three years of freedom, and a vegetable patch is all I had to show for it. "Remus
helped me start it—I've got a pretty decent growth going," I added lamely.

"I just don't have the patience for it," said Andromeda, sighing. "I'd love to grow our own
vegetables—stuff for homebrews—but I kill everything I plant."

"How did you pass Herbology?" Ted asked her. Andromeda smacked his arm.

"Well, I'm glad you found something to occupy your time with—it's too easy to turn to alcohol
or…illicit potions to solve your troubles."

I smirked humorlessly a little at that. "I dunno, saying it out loud makes it all sound pretty lame."

Andromeda waved a hand dismissively.

"I don't mean to sound like we're prying, but we were very happy to hear that you've managed to
build a nice, quiet life for yourself," said Ted affectionately. His genuine tone ate at me a little.

"I don't know about that," I said slowly, frowning.

"What do you mean?" Andromeda asked.

I figured this was as good an in as any. "Have you heard the rumors of Voldemort coming back
to England?"

Ted and Andromeda exchanged glances.

"It's…floated around at work a little," said Ted cautiously. "Along with numerous other rumors."

I cleared my throat. "Er, well, I guess I'm a bit paranoid about protecting Harry. You know
Voldemort never did die, right?"
"That was…my understanding," said Ted slowly, cautiously.

"So there's always been a chance for him to regain strength," I continued dully. I spun my mug of
tea between my hands. "But what's bothering me is how he managed to survive." I hesitated
here before looking Andromeda in the eye, asking, "Did Bellatrix ever say anything to you? Or to
Narcissa, that she told you about?"

Andromeda frowned. "I haven't seen Bella since I left Hogwarts. And Narcissa hardly speaks to
me anymore—if Bella told her anything, Narcissa kept her mouth shut, what with Lucius…being
what he is."

"A Death Eater?"

Andromeda frowned. "I wish I could help you, Sirius, I really do," she said sincerely. "But I was
disowned, just like you."

A sudden idea struck me. "Formally?"

"Er, I guess I'm not sure," she said slowly. "I never bothered to find out."

"Do you know who inherited Bella's vault?" I asked.

Andromeda thought for a long moment. "I guess if anyone, it'd be you. You had no problems
getting your parents' or Regulus's, right? So that means Walburga never carried through with her
threat. You're the head of the family."

"Do you think I'd have any trouble convincing the goblins to let me into her Gringott's vault?" I
asked, a thousand thoughts running through my head. There was a good chance the account
was useless, but maybe—just maybe—

"You'd have to ask, but I'm sure with enough paperwork, there's no reason why not," said Ted
after a moment.

"Now, Sirius," said Andromeda seriously. "Say you do find…something. Really think about what
you're going to do with that information."

"I have to protect Harry."

"By throwing yourself in harm's way?" said Andromeda anxiously. "You've already been lost to
him once—isn't that enough?"

"What would you do if it were Nymphadora?" I asked. There was a tight constriction in my chest
that made it hard to breath. "What wouldn't you do to protect her?"

"But this is all speculative," said Ted, shaking his head. "This is all based off of rumors—
Voldemort's been gone for thirteen years, there's no real evidence indicating he's about to just
come back, Sirius."

"But there's still a risk," I said quietly, thinking of my reunion with Regulus. "I can't take knowing
he might come back one day and Harry's left unprotected—"

"Sirius," said Andromeda in a very motherly way. "Harry isn't unprotected. He never was."
Instantly the image of James and Lily lying dead flashed in my head. The knowledge that I had
put them right in Voldemort's hands was suddenly overwhelming.

"Could you excuse me for a minute?" I said, standing up awkwardly. I didn't wait for a response
before making a beeline for the back door. I stepped outside to the cool night air. The sun was
beginning to set, and the sky was a deep blue with a brilliant spot of orange in the distance. I
took a shaky breath when I heard the door creak open behind me.

Andromeda didn't say anything at first. She linked her arm in mine tightly, watching the sun
disappear over the horizon. When the last bit of orange had disappeared and twilight fell around
us, she said seriously, "I won't pretend I understand. But Harry is a very lucky boy—I've never
heard of a child being so loved by everyone. And that is nothing compared to the love of his very
protective godfather."

I stared ahead, unable to look at her.

"I don't know why it doesn't feel like it's enough to you," she continued. "But look at it this way—
James so loved his family that he died trying to save them. And Lily died to protect her son. And
you loved them so much that you risked everything for them—their deaths didn't happen
because you couldn't save them. Don't beat yourself up over it. You can't control everything. But
what you can control is what you do with yourself while you're here, while you're still alive. Love
those around you, and be open to their love as well."

There was a moment's silence.

"I don't think I deserve it."

"And why's that?" she asked softly. "Everything you did was out of love for your friends—you're
holding on to guilt like a shield. So how can you see that your friends are still all around you?
James and Lily never left you." She gave my arm another tight squeeze. "You're not unlovable
yet, you moron."

There was another silence. I knew there was some sense to what Andromeda was saying, but I
just couldn't let go of the idea of Voldemort returning. She had no idea about the horcruxes,
about how the rumors of Voldemort were more than just rumors…

"He targeted Harry last time," I finally said. "And he's not going to stop."

She didn't have a reply to this. We were silent for several minutes before Ted called from the
kitchen. "Everything all right out there?"

Andromeda cleared her throat. "Yes, dear, we're coming in." Andromeda turned to go inside and
tugged gently on my arm so I would follow.

"Food's just about done, I think," said Ted, investigating the contents of a deep dish he had
pulled from the oven. He graciously made no comment about me running from the table.

The rest of the evening was spent with no more talk of Voldemort. We swapped stories of
Nymphadora and Harry, and Andromeda and I occasionally slipped in tales of our own
childhoods. Andromeda filled me in on everything that happened since I had last seen her over
twenty years before. The room had a cozy feel to it with a fire and the smells from our mreal, and
after dinner Andromeda kept our tea cups full. The evening was pleasant, but it wouldn't take
much digging to find the tense layer of fear underneath. I think Voldemort would always be on the
periphery of our thoughts, and the center of mine.
When I returned home several hours later, Regulus was waiting up for me. He looked at me
expectantly when I entered the messy sitting room.

"She doesn't know anything," I said heavily, sitting on the couch nearby. "But I have an idea of
where we can look next."

Regulus raised his eyebrows.

"Bella's family vault."

Chapter ten:

"It'll be more convincing if you establish yourself as the Head of the family," said Regulus
knowingly. It was almost sunrise, and we had spent the entire evening thinking of ways to get
inside Bellatrix's vault at Gringott's. "She has a life sentence and no heirs, so it isn't as though
she's about to get the vault back."

"You think the goblins would fall for that?" I asked seriously.

"Just spin it as though you are simply attempting to secure the Black family fortune—the
Lestrange line is a dead end, it just comes right back to you. You're the rightful heir to whatever's
in there."

"Think it matters that she isn't dead yet?"

Regulus hesitated. "I'm really not sure. The Ministry reclaimed all her other possessions—and
yours, when you were arrested—I don't see why her vault should be any different."

"Robert Orwell," I said suddenly, remembering the letter Slughorn had sent me after our
disastrous meeting.

"Who?"

"He works at Gringott's—he's someone Slughorn knows. I can ask him."

"You want to ask an employee of Gringott's how to break into their vaults?" Regulus said,
eyebrows raised.

"Not break in," I said quickly. "Just to check around. No withdrawls."

"And what if the Dark Lord's horcrux is just sitting right there?" Regulus asked.

"The magic only protects valuables held by their rightful owners. If there's a horcrux in there, it's
free game."

"You're absolutely sure?" Regulus asked dubiously. "Because if you're wrong—"

"I'll cross-check my facts, but I'm almost positive. The goblins have all kinds of loopholes to
screw with wizards."

Regulus hesitated, thinking it over. "All right. Invite this Orwell person over and I'll hide out at the
family estate. But make absolutely sure. It's impossible to break into Gringott's and just walk
away from it."
I scoured my messy kitchen for a clean piece of parchment and scribbled a hasty letter to
Slughorn, asking that he set up a meeting between myself and Robert Orwell. Once my owl took
off into the distance, it was just a matter of sitting quietly, and waiting.

And waiting.

Finally, after almost three days of painful silence, I received a letter on official Gringott's
stationery.

Dear Sirius Orion Black III, Lord of the House of Black, Member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and
Order of Merlin, Second Class,

I rolled my eyes at the list of formal titles, but kept reading.

I recently received news from an esteemed colleague and friend of mine that you wish to arrange
a business meeting to discuss your accounts and affairs here at Gringott's Bank. It is my
pleasure to contact you personally, and invite you to stop by my office at the Diagon Alley branch
on Sunday, September twenty-third at two o'clock in the afternoon. I have cleared my afternoon
of all other appointments so that we may have time to thoroughly discuss your banking needs.

I look forward to the pleasure of your business.

Regards,

Robert Orwell, Department Head of Accounts

I taped the letter to my ice box before joining Regulus in the sitting room, which had exploded
into a sort of frenzied study. Books were piled everywhere discussing banking laws, inheritance,
and genealogy. Regulus and I had taken a wayward trip to our parents' house the day before in
order to search for important documents that may or may not indicate that I was officially
disowned from the family.

If it mattered. I mean, the Ministry had no problem handing over my parents' old house without
verifying the legality of it.

The Ministry wasn't very good with legal matters.

We had performed a few hasty cleaning spells to eliminate the worst of the dust and cobwebs,
but I could still hear creatures buzzing in the curtains and scuttling around in the dark corners of
our father's old study.

It was to our advantage that our father had a paranoid and precise disposition while alive. The
family records were carefully organized and labeled by year, detailing properties, titles, and all
kinds of rubbish the family had accumulated over the centuries. I ignored it all, instead searching
for any documents that indicated my parents legally removed me from their will and stripped me
of my rights to inheritance. Regulus seemed interested in a few rolls of parchment that tied us to
Austrian nobility, but I tossed all this aside in a heap.

Regulus looked at me balefully. "You could at least put them back properly."

"Why? I'm never going to look at them again, and you insist on being dead," I said flatly, tossing
another ancient scroll over my shoulder.

"Because there are deeds to property, and it's your history—"

"You're hilarious."

Regulus rolled his eyes, but didn't argue the point further.

Finally, shoved in the back row was a well-worn leather case that I recognized as my father's. He
used to haul it around anytime he went "into town," as he put it, which was code for the bank and
then the society club for endless cocktails from attractive witches before ending the evening at
the chimaera races. He dragged Regulus and myself there half a dozen times over our teen
years, much to our mother's displeasure. While the track was the most elite wizarding social
scene in Britain at the time, our mother's hatred for gambling was only outweighed by her disdain
for anything less than human.

I opened up the briefcase and pulled out several stacks of heavy parchment. It was dated 1978,
the year before he died.

"I, Orion Arcturus Black, of 12 Grimmauld Place, blah blah blah, hereby declare this to be my last
will and testament," I read aloud. Regulus stopped his own reading and looked up at me.

I skimmed through the heavy document. While there were long lists of properties I had forgotten
about and titles I couldn't be bothered with, it seemed my father had left everything to Regulus
and I, to be shared equally.

"That means it's all yours," said Regulus when I had stuffed the will back inside the briefcase.
"Father was head of the family, so everything he owned has transferred to you."

I frowned. "He wrote it in seventy-nine."

Regulus raised an eyebrow, not comprehending my tone. "What is your point?"

"I ran away when I was sixteen—I was blasted off the stupid tapestry. Why would he disown me
and then turn around and leave me everything?"

Regulus sighed, suddenly looking very tired. "Because you are his son," he said, as though
explaining to a child.

I rolled my eyes. "Like that ever meant anything in this family—besides, they all hated me."

"I will not doubt Mother did," said Regulus patiently. "But to Father, you were always his son,
whether he was proud of you or not. And as you ran away at sixteen, you were not here to see
the change in our parents. Oh, of course they were happy to hear that I had been approached to
join the Death Eaters," he said, almost bitterly. "But once they began to realize the extent the
Dark Lord was willing to go to achieve his vision, they began to second guess their opinions.
They had already lost one son, but this time was different. It was no longer about social values
and family honor—our parents realized that their sons might die. Everyone else's children were
dying—so of course our Father had a change of heart. I suspect he hoped that if you survived,
you might see that inheritance as a peace offering."

"No, I don't believe that," I said sternly. I had spent my childhood always on edge, always being
watched, judged, and coming up short. My parents hated me, and made it very clear that I was a
waste of Black blood. Another name to burn off the family tree. "I'm sure he was just trying to
make sure I didn't embarrass the Black family further by living in squalor."

Regulus shook his head. "You're never going to let go of the idea that our parents were horrible
people, are you?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to defer to Mother's portrait downstairs?" I said testily. "I'm
sure she can refresh your memory of just how hated I was."

"She was not quite that awful-"

"To you, perhaps," I snapped. "But I distinctly remember when she insisted I would have been
better off a stillbirth when I was only eleven. Or the time she actually tried to use a Blasting Curse
on me during Christmas one year because I refused to dance with Elizabeth Crabbe, that awful
hag. And I certainly can't forget the hundreds of times she mocked me in front of anyone who
would listen, insisting I was worse than a curse."

Regulus frowned. "I don't remember that."

I set my jaw instinctively. "Yeah, lucky you."

There was a long silence. Finally, Regulus spoke, "I will not deny that Mother was undoubtedly
ill, mentally. She was aloof and cruel. But I will not speak the same way of Father."

"Father was a push-over—"

"Not all of us had your audacity or energy to defy Walburga Black," Regulus interrupted. "Father
was a product of his upbringing—nothing more or less. But for all his faults, he had the foresight
to realize that his family was most important."

"No, he was an old man on his death bed."

"Would you have accepted him if he had reached out to you sooner? Or would you have called
him a purity fanatic and slammed your bedroom door?"

I didn't reply to this. I didn't want to argue with Regulus every time one of us opened our mouths.
If my father really was as Regulus described, then why did he sit quietly in this very study when
Mother kicked me out of the house? Why did he ignore the constant insults meant to shame me,
or the outright bursts of rage when she would attack me for embarrassing her at a social event?

I knew my father as a weak and paranoid man. My mother's willing puppet. I could not accept
Regulus's interpretation of our father's will.

I stood up, brushing dust off of myself. "Well, that's that, then. I'm not disowned. Mystery solved.
Let's get out of this awful house before we get eaten by something."

Regulus followed suit, but not before insisting to at least put the paperwork back into their rightful
boxes.

"They'll be eaten by doxies before morning," he said.

"Good."

So now it was a matter of simply waiting. The days leading up to my appointment with Orwell
were spent restlessly. It wasn't until the day before that Regulus cornered me about how I would
present myself.

"You are not wearing muggle clothes," he said sternly.

I raised an eyebrow. "Are you my mother?"

"You are a wizard, and you need to look like one!" he continued. "How are you supposed to
convince this banker that you are taking your family's wealth—the Black family wealth—seriously
if you stroll in dressed like a muggle with your devil-may-care attitude? And you need to cut your
hair while you're out getting some new robes."

"I think you're mistaking my banking meeting for a date."

Regulus wasn't amused. "Don't be stupid. Accept that I know some things better than yourself,
and this is one of them. Everyone knows you left the family years ago. So if you want to convince
the people who ran in the same social circle as our parents that you suddenly care, then you had
better look the part."

I sighed in exasperation. "All right, fine. I'll go today."

"How about now?" Regulus pressed, checking his watch. "It's already a quarter past two."

"How long do you think it takes to buy a robe?"

"Don't forget your haircut while you're out," Regulus added, tossing my jacket at me.

I rolled my eyes but got to my feet.

I hated going to Diagon Alley. People stared and went out of their way to follow me around the
shops, down the winding cobbled roads.

I found the old upscale barber my father used to drag us to just outside of Knockturn Alley. I was
actually surprised it was still here, but business appeared to be better than ever as the had
expanded into the flats up above.

"Can I help you?" was the barber's automatic reply when he heard the door open. He was busy
watching the razors clean themselves and didn't look up. The shop's floor was a polished white
marble, and the old leather chairs I remembered from my youth had been replaced with newer
models. Enchanted candles floated lazily overhead, filling the shop with a soft, even light.

"Er, I need a haircut."

"You have an appointment?"

"Well, no—"

"Then you'll need to make an appointment," he said. He pulled out a heavy book from
underneath the counter and slid it toward me. "Our soonest availability—" He suddenly stopped
short, looking at me for the first time. "Actually," he said, shoving the book back under the
counter. "I think I may be able to fit you in right now—"

"But I thought I needed an appointment," I said slowly, frowning.

He laughed, waving his hand dismissively. "A man of your social standing doesn't have time for
something as simple as a haircut. No, no, I'll fit you in right now."

"Okay," I said slowly, sitting down in the chair he gestured to. While enchanted combs began to
work their way through my hair, he pulled a box of new-looking razors out and set them on the
counter.
"What are you thinking? Do you intend to keep the length, or are we cutting it all off?"

"I don't know," I said honestly. "What's in style?"

"Well, the lately my customers have been following the trends of Quidditch Player Archie
Cinderfold for the younger crowd, and their fathers are opting for billionaire philanthropist
Jeremias Finch's newer cut."

"I have no idea what that means," I said honestly.

"A man that paves his own way," said the barber, sounding oddly like a proud father. "Then I
know just the look—a modern twist on a traditional cut. Elegant but with a hint of rebellion."

I didn't know how to reply to that. "Er, okay."

Immediately enchanted scissors began to cut of their own accord, snipping away my admittedly
overgrown hair.

"Your natural wave will compliment this style," the barber continued. "Most wizards must rely on
products to give the hair body, but you will not need much more than a splash of hair potion."

"Great," I said without enthusiasm.

The barber squeezed a small dollop of purple foam into his hands before working it into my hair. I
could tell it was much shorter on the sides and back, and prayed I didn't look like an arsehole.

"There," he said after a moment of careful styling. He snapped his fingers and a mirror flew to
life, hovering directly in front of me.

"Holy shit."

The barber chuckled at my reaction.

I had a hard time recognizing myself. This stupid haircut made me look several years younger,
and certainly much less boring.

"The benefit of this style is the appearance of being a high maintenance cut while actually
requiring very little maintenance at all," the barber said, as if he had to convince me further that I
suddenly looked much better. "It is generally paired with either a clean-shaven face or carefully-
maintained stubble along the jawline."

"I don't even look like myself," I said in awe.

"No, sir, it was simply that you didn't look like yourself before."

After my surprisingly enjoyable haircut it was off to the other side of the village to purchase
robes. I knew Regulus would throw a fit if I went into Madam Malkin's, so instead I headed for her
upscale competitor a block away. Dylis Lovecraft used to be the owner, but I wondered if she
was even still alive. She'd have to be at least a hundred by now.

I read a sign on the shop that said, by consultation only. I weighed my options, and decided to
ignore it. These sort of arrogant shops often put fake signs up in an attempt to keep the lower
classes out.
A bell rang when I opened the door, and I heard a pair of heels clicking against the polished
floor. A woman much younger than Dylis Lovecraft appeared, but she had the same dark eyes
and irritated expression. Maybe this was her granddaughter.

The girl obviously recognized my face immediately, because she suddenly lit up, and I was
bombarded with offerings of lemon or mint water, tea, or a whiskey neat, and she kept referring
to me as Mr. Black. I suddenly recalled why I hated society life so much in my childhood; even if
my parents had not been purity fanatics, this upper class nonsense was too much.

When I was finally seated in a leather armchair with a glass of water purely for something to do
with my hands, the girl asked what I was in for.

"Er, well, I need some new robes," I said.

"For what occasion are you shopping?"

I tried not to look stupid. "Business?"

An enchanted quill took notes as we spoke.

"Do you know your measurements, or would you like us to update them?"

"I have a feeling I'm a different size since the last time I was here."

The girl pulled out a ring of fabric swatches. "These are this season's colors," she said. "As you
can see, grey is very popular this year, but we can order custom robes in almost any color you
desire."

"Grey is fine."

"Fabrics range from a wool blend to silk and tweed," she continued, like it meant anything to me.

"You overestimate how much I know about clothing," I told her.

The girl gestured for me to stand up. "Then might I suggest a few for you to try on?"

"Works for me."

An enchanted tape measure took my measurements while the girl picked through various parts
of the store.

"Most of these are paired with a suit," she explained, hanging up her various finds on a long rack.
"The style is inspired by the more casual elegance seen in American fashions, a huge deviation
from the traditional full-coverage robes of Europe."

I didn't know what to say. "Sure."

My dressing room as practically the size of Remus's living room, furnished ostensibly with a silk
sofa and a pitcher of that odd mint water. The girl gave me one set at a time, insisting on
carefully pinning everything before I could look at myself in a mirror.

"What are your thoughts?" she asked while I stared at myself, dumbstruck.

I actually looked like a high class wizard. That is to say, nothing like myself.
"This style is enormously popular in government," she continued. "I believe the Minister's Cabinet
is fond of this look."

"I'll take it."

"Lovely. I'll remove the pins and we can dress you in the second set I have. It's already laid out in
your dressing room."

"Second one?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Do you not want a complete wardrobe?"

I looked at myself in the mirror again. I had to admit, I didn't look half-bad. The robes weren't
stuffy and formal like the ones my father had worn, and I liked the fact that they were inspired by
muggle fashion, even if the wizards who wore them vehemently denied that fact.

I allowed the girl to dress me in two more, but after that I began to feel suffocated by the constant
attention. She insisted on "refreshing" my lemon water with a new glass, but I could only handle
acting like a pretentious git for so long. I told the girl I would take them all, and ended up leaving
the shop with two new sets of robes, with orders for five more on the way.

"I didn't think you would actually do it," Regulus said when I had reappeared in the kitchen.

"What do you mean?" I asked, setting the boxes on the counter and slipping out of my jacket.

"I half-expected you to return with gaudy robes from the second-hand store and a shaved head,"
he said. He stood up to get a good look at me, and reached out a hand to touch my new haircut.
"Does it do that on its own?"

I swatted his hand away.

Regulus let a small wicked grin slip. "Are you afraid I'll ruin your new hair?"

"You made me do it," I pointed out, opening my ice box to stare inside of it for dinner inspiration.
"What do you want to eat?"

Regulus gave a half-shrug as he put on a pot of tea. I noticed he turned the gas stove on
manually instead of prodding it with his wand, and took a sick joy in the fact that he was using my
muggle appliances. "As always, I'll eat whatever we have."

We passed the night in quiet tension, neither of us sleeping well. Finally the day of my
appointment came, and while I was in the bathroom attempting to get familiar with styling my hair
at all, Regulus was ironing out minute creases from my new robes.

"Do you have dress shoes?"

I thought about it. Apparently I was silent for too long.

"Merlin, Sirius, did you plan to dress like a muggle teenager forever?"

"Until now, I never had a need to come off as a pretentious arsehole—"

Regulus rolled his eyes. "I'll go see what I have."

I was halfway through buttoning up the new clothes when Regulus appeared with a pair of black
oxfords. "These are old, but they will work."

I gave him a look of fake annoyance. "Old? How dare you."

"Shut up and put them on," he said. "I found them in my old bedroom. I think doxies were starting
to chew the opening a little, but no one should notice."

I held out my arms. "How do I look? Like a wanker?"

"You actually look respectable, which I never thought would be possible," said Regulus, eyeing
me. "Now, I want you to bring this with you," he added, handing me a brown leather briefcase.
"While you were out yesterday I went back to our parents' house and collected the more
important documents you'll need if you're going to pretend to consolidate the Black family
wealth."

I took it unenthusiastically. "Lovely."

Regulus gave me a long look. He looked like he wanted to scold me about behaving myself, but
instead he settled on a simple, "Good luck."

"Thanks," I said heavily. "I'm going to need it."

Robert Orwell's office was situated on one of the topmost floors of Gringott's. The hallway
outside his office was polished marble and the crystal chandeliers overhead appeared to be at
least two hundred years old. I waited on a silk blend sofa just outside his office door, trying not to
look as out of place as I felt. I had to admit, looking like an arrogant high class society wizard
made it easier to play one.

Orwell's secretary invited me inside, and set up the coffee table between us with a tray of tea and
biscuits. Orwell was already present, and stood up to shake my hand when I entered.

"What a pleasure to finally meet you," he said. He had a full head of red hair I couldn't help but
notice was cut like mine, and a navy suit that looked more expensive than all of mine put
together. He was young, too, younger than me by at least a few years. How someone in their
twenties managed to get such an ornate office was hard to fathom. "Can I make you a cup of
tea?"

"Er, yes, thank you," I said, trying to summon up my manners. As children, our Mother forced
Regulus and I to participate in classes aimed at fine-tuning our social graces. She absolutely
forbade slang terms, contracted words, and blunt sentences. I of course disregarded all of this,
but I tried to talk to Orwell the same way Regulus might.

"Your secretary was very kind to set this up," I said, taking the tea Orwell poured me.

"Yes, and she's blessed with a nice little arse. Not bad to look at."

I choked on my tea and tried to play it off.

"Have you read the morning's paper?" Orwell asked informally, not at all like the persona I had
envisioned after his polite letter. "Quintius Appletree is actually taking his cauldron stocks public
—now every poor wizard who fancies himself a business man is going to purchase a share and
drive the value into the ground."
I forced myself to look interested. I was somewhat familiar with stocks as that was how the Black
family made most of their money, but it was hard to sound like I cared. "Well, it couldn't be worse
than what happened to Stretton's Cauldrons back in the seventies—the entire year's worth of
cauldrons melted after one use and the business collapsed under the bad reputation."

Orwell chuckled at that. "Yes, I remember that. My own cauldron, first year at Hogwarts, melted
into the desk in Horace's classroom. It took the better part of a month for Filch to get it out."

I noticed how Orwell referred to Slughorn by his first name only, and couldn't help but feel
annoyed by how arrogant he seemed.

"Can I get you anything else before we start?" Orwell asked, crossing an ankle over his knee and
leaning back comfortably. "Scotch? Whiskey? I have a bottle of twenty-year-old gin somewhere
around here."

"Tea is fine," I said, offering a fake smile. "I never do business with alcohol in my hand."

Orwell picked up a stack of parchment he had sitting next to him and handed it to me. "This is the
summary of all the Black family accounts here at Gringott's," he said. "According to his will, Orion
Black's wealth was to be split between you and your brother, but as Gringott's is forced to
presume your brother is dead, it has all gone to you."

I looked at the bottom of the page at a rather large number.

"Is this all of it?"

Orwell looked over my shoulder. "Oh, no! No, that's your earnings from the Black investments for
the last year. Here," he said, flipping a few pages. "This is the total value."

Holy shit.

"As you can see, due to the passing of most of your relatives, the wealth circles back to you,"
said Orwell. "Properties, stocks, gold—it's all yours."

"What exactly was in my father's estate?" I asked. "It is my understanding that several of my
family members have accounts floating around without a claim."

"Unless there is a will, the wealth goes to the next of kin," said Orwell, taking a sip of his tea.

"My cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange, for one," I said. "She and her husband are in Azkaban for life
and are without children."

"Mrs. Lestrange is a Black by birth, correct?" Orwell asked, setting his teacup back down. "Then
all her wealth automatically goes back to the Black family, not the Lestranges. Her closest male
relative is the heir."

"She has a nephew, her sister's son," I said, thinking of Draco Malfoy. Harry hated him, and if
Draco was anything like his father, I didn't blame him.

Orwell thought about it for a moment, clearly visualizing the family tree in his head. "No, it's still
yours," he said. "The nephew falls in line after you as his relationship to Mrs. Lestrange is
through his mother, not father."

"Just so I'm clear," I said carefully. "Bellatrix no longer has a claim over her wealth?"
"Well, that's tricky," said Orwell, leaning forward on the sofa. "She may have a life sentence, but
she is not deceased. She still has some rights to her accounts."

"Such as?"

He thought about it a moment. "She has to authorize any withdrawals. How the goblins figure
she can do that from Azkaban is beyond me, but there you have it."

"What I want to know is whether or not I can touch her money, as both the head of the family and
the heir to her wealth," I said, laying it out bluntly. I hated dealing with money—everyone was so
vague about what should be a black and white issue.

"It's complicated," Orwell finally said. "It's yours, yes, and you can manage it, but you cannot
spend any of it. Picture it like a trust fund—it's the easiest way to look at it. Until Mrs. Lestrange
passes, the money can only sit in the bank and earn interest. The nice thing about that, however,
is that it isn't taxed since the money never really touches your hands."

"Can I still go into the vault?" I asked. I really didn't care about the gold in there; I just wanted to
see if my cousin was hiding a horcrux.

"You can," said Orwell without interest. "I know some families like to check in on their wealth—
they don't really trust the numbers on the paper."

"That's not really it," I said, feeling like I had to defend myself. I wracked my brain for a lie.
"There's quite a bit of family art that went to Bellatrix—I'd like to make sure it stayed in the family
possession after her arrest rather than getting repossessed by the Ministry."

Orwell nodded, suddenly interested. "Oh, that will be interesting. And speaking of—did the
Ministry repossess any of your wealth? They couldn't have touched your gold or estates, but
artwork, antiques—those are all easily picked up without a trace."

I briefly thought back to my bare flat in muggle London when I was twenty-one. I had spent the
better part of six months hiding there, getting rid of everything I owned except my motorbike.
Everything of importance needed to fit into a backpack in case I had to run. If the Ministry ever
found that apartment, I doubted whether they gained anything by repossessing it. No doubt some
squatters broke in and took advantage of the charmed coffee maker.

"This is my area of expertise," Orwell continued. "I can trace all of your money—the properties
that are rightfully yours, the gold that should be deposited into your accounts, and most
especially any wealth that disappeared as a result of the war."

I supposed this was as good of a cover story as any. I could feel the relief on my face, and
decided to play into it. "That would be an enormous relief," I told him. I pulled my briefcase into
my lap. "I brought some paperwork that I considered useful," I said, when in reality I had no idea
what Regulus had stuffed inside. I handed him the stack, and watched quietly while he scanned
through it.

"I'll make copies of these, and do a little research," he said, standing up. "And then we can head
down to Bellatrix Lestragne's vault."

The goblins watched us carefully, eyes narrowed as we made our way through the labyrinth of
tunnels toward the vaults. Finally we came to an abrupt stop outside a large stone wall with the
number 532 engraved onto the center.
Orwell and I followed the goblin that brought us here—Griphook—and we waited in an
uncomfortable anticipation as the goblin opened the vault. The door melted away to reveal an
absurd pile of gold—coins, goblets, and jewelry. There were silver suits of armor, strange animal
skins, antique rugs, and artwork piled to the cave-like ceiling. Given that it was Bellatrix's vault,
there were also a number of Dark objects, including a skull still wearing an ancient-looking
crown.

Orwell and I took a few hesitant steps inside before the goblin suddenly stopped Orwell.

"You can't go inside," he said firmly. "There are extra security measures, and you cannot risk
touching anything."

Orwell looked at me quizzically, but I just shrugged.

"Only Black."

"If there is anything obviously missing that ought to be here, let me know," said Orwell, taking
three steps back and waiting next to Griphook.

I didn't know what it was I was looking for. Half the vault screamed of Dark Magic, but nothing
stood out to me. Undoubtedly Voldemort would have made his second horcrux something easily
looked over, just as he had done with the locket. I looked through caskets of jewelry and fine
china, making sure to take my time. Meanwhile Griphook stood in the middle of the vault's
entrance, watching my every move in stony silence while Orwell yawned while he waited for me
to finish.

I had reached the back of the vault, and there was nothing. I sighed, wondering how long I could
stall in here. Voldemort could have hidden his soul into a Galleon for all I knew—there were at
least a quarter million of them in here.

"All right," I said in defeat, turning back to the entrance. "I think—"

I stopped in my tracks, listening carefully. There was an odd sort of buzzing noise to my right.

Immediately my eyes fell on a golden goblet, nestled next to a pile of artwork. I picked it up by its
golden handle slowly, examining the engraved badger on the side. The cup felt oddly heavy in
my hands, and almost seemed to vibrate despite not moving. I frowned, turning it over. The
buzzing had grown louder.

I had an overwhelming urge to walk out of the vault with it, but I had to force the odd thought out
of my head. There was no way Griphook would just let me waltz out of Gringott's with Bellatrix's
possessions, even if I was heir to them.

I turned the cup back over and got a better look at the engraved badger.

Lion, snake, badger, and eagle.

This was the crest of Hufflepuff.

The buzzing seemed to be coming from inside my head, and my hands felt like they were stuck
to the cup. Suddenly I began to think of ways I could break out of here—it would only take a
single blasting charm to get Orwell out of my way, and all I had to do was overpower Griphook to
get out of here—the cup would be easy to hide.

"You ready?"
I snapped out of it and dropped the cup. Suddenly the buzzing was gone and my head was clear.

"Griphook says we need to head back up," Orwell called. "The bank's closing in twenty minutes."

"Yeah," I said hoarsely, still frowning at the cup at my feet.

It was the other horcrux. It had to be.

Chapter eleven:

"What do we do with it?"

The cup was sitting on my coffee table between us, humming quietly.

"I can't believe you took it," Regulus said, running his hands through his hair distractedly. He had
done that a lot since I returned home, and his hair was stuck on end.

"It's not like they can arrest me—"

"I mean getting it out of Gringott's!" Regulus said exasperatedly.

"Yeah, that was kind of spur of the moment," I admitted, half-shrugging.

Regulus gave me an incredulous look. "You really just walked out of Gringott's with this cup in
your pocket?"

I shrugged. My mind was still numb from the events of today. "Er, yeah, that about sums it up."

Regulus got to his feet and began pacing for the second time. "That doesn't make any sense—
how could you have gotten past all their security?"

"Well, Griphook was polite enough to explain that the spells protecting Bella's vault only protects
her wealth from outsiders—I am not an outsider, and this cup technically isn't hers."

"So you're trying to tell me that it was merely a loophole?" Regulus asked, almost sounding
angry.

I sighed exasperatedly. "Are you mad that I stole it?"

"Of course not! I'm just wondering why you could be so thick-headed as to risk your neck in plain
sight of witnesses!"

"It's not like the Ministry is going to arrest me over this," I said, rolling my eyes. "So how do we
destroy it?"

Regulus gave the cup a dark look. "I will have to confer with Kreacher, as he destroyed the
locket."

"Great—go confer so we can get rid of it," I said irritably, standing up. "This fucking buzzing is
driving me nuts."

Regulus picked up the cup and began examining the crest on it.
"It's the Hufflepuff crest," I said tiredly. "Whoever originally owned it probably had their whole
family in that house."

Regulus frowned, turning it between his hands. He wasn't listening to me.

"Hello?" I said loudly, kicking his foot. Regulus snapped back to life and quickly set the cup
down. He gave me a sharp look. "That's Helga Hufflepuff's goblet, I'm sure of it."

I felt my eyes widen in disbelief. "Are you sure?"

"I'm positive—and I have a feeling the locket Kreacher destroyed belonged to Salazar Slytherin.
There's a chance the Dark Lord used all the personal effects of the Founder." He shot the cup a
dark look. "After it is destroyed, you will need to replace it with a replica in Bella's vault. Bring
some items from our parent's house that are believable, and say you are making a deposit."

I was silent for a moment. We had gotten the goblet by pure luck—the others would not be nearly
as easy. "Reg, we're going to need help?"

"Excuse me?"

"Dumbledore," I said pointedly. "We have to tell him."

"No."

I sighed in exasperation. "There is no way we can hunt for the rest of them secretly—especially if
we're looking for prized heirlooms of the Founders—"

"We agreed," said Regulus firmly. "As soon as you want to bring Dumbledore into this, I'm gone."

I shook my head. "We can't do this alone."

"It's your choice, brother," said Regulus coolly. "Pick your side."

Regulus left that night to destroy the horcrux with Kreacher and find someone who could make a
convincing replica. This meant he would be gone for several weeks, and my job was to pretend
everything was normal.

"You can't just disappear after something from Bella's vault goes curiously missing," Regulus had
argued. "You need to stay in the public eye right now. I'll find you when I'm done."

I really didn't know what to do with myself after Regulus left.

I knew what I wanted to do.

But I was trying to be sensible. And responsible. Patient. Things everyone had told me my whole
life.

My house was empty and quiet once again, a stark contrast to the jumbled mess inside my head.
Peter's whereabouts, Voldemort returning to England, horcruxes, Regulus's whereabouts—the
list went on. I had all but forgotten about the boring routine I used to have before Regulus turned
up.
I tried to go back to my old schedule, but it all felt forced and fake. I cleared out my garden,
preparing everything for winter. I forgot all about Newman. Stuck in a restless tension, I began
driving my motorcycle all over the country; sometimes on empty roads, other times well into the
sky. A few times I think someone caught sight of me, but I doubted whether the Ministry would
dare complain to me. They hadn't yet made up for their "embarrassing mistake," and so I figured
I was free to do whatever I wanted.

Near early October, while fishing for change at the Apothecary, I found an old magazine clipping
stuffed in my wallet. Frowning, I unfolded it and saw an unfamiliar address scribbled there.

"Shit," I said aloud. The old woman ahead of me in line gave me a sour look at my language, but
I ignored her. I had completely forgotten about Hestia in the wake of trying to find more
information on Voldemort's horcruxes.

I quickly paid for my potions and wrote Hestia a quick letter outside the owlery.

Hestia,

Sorry I'm a prat. Forgot all about your address. Would you be interested in a pint some time?

Sirius

As soon as I sent it I immediately regretted it. Was it rude to admit I had forgotten about her, or
should I have just ignored that part?

This was ridiculous.

I headed home and tried not to think about it. I kicked off my shoes and made myself comfortable
on my usual spot in the sitting room, pulling a half-read book off the floor. It wasn't enough, so I lit
a cigarette too. But then I had smoked four before I even managed to work my way through one
page, so I put the book down.

I thought about writing Harry, but what would I say?

What I really needed to do was talk to Dumbledore.

Regulus would be furious, and might not even come back to England, but we were at a dead
end. We had to talk to someone who could pull more strings than a dead man and an ex-convict.

I couldn't dwell on it too long or I knew I'd manage to talk myself out of it. Instead, I grabbed my
shoes and apparated just outside the Hogwarts grounds.

The corridors were empty, and I figured everyone must still be in class. I made my way up the
flights of stairs two at a time, taking every shortcut I knew of until I reached the gargoyle.

"Fuck," I said, sighing. I had no idea what the password was. "Lemon drop. Chocolate frog.
Fizzing Whizbee. Er, licorice wand. Sugar quill. Oh, just fucking open," I added in annoyance.
"Acid pops? Canary cream, fudge flies—"

The gargoyle suddenly came to life, stepping aside.

"Fudge flies? Really?" I muttered to myself as I ascended the stairs. I knocked sharply on his
office door, which opened of its own accord.
"Sirius, this is certainly a pleasant surprise." Dumbledore was standing on the far side of his
office, no doubt interrupted in his usual pacing. He studied my face for a moment. "And yet your
expression seems to indicate otherwise. Is everything all right?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but I didn't know where to begin. How do I explain everything
without giving Regulus away?

How did I keep ending up in situations where I'm begging Dumbledore for help?

"Have a seat," Dumbledore offered, doing the same behind his desk. He peered at me over his
half-moon glasses, studying me.

"I don't know where to start," I said slowly, rubbing a hand over my eyes.

"What better place, than at the beginning?" Dumbledore replied.

I let my hand drop. "Voldemort's alive," I said bluntly. I waited for Dumbledore to react, but he
didn't so much as blink. "Somehow I get the impression you already knew that," I added slowly,
frowning.

"It was always my suspicion that Lord Voldemort was never gone for good," Dumbledore
allowed.

"I know why he's still alive, too," I continued hollowly. "Horcruxes. I don't know how many he has,
but I know they're out there. Voldemort hid parts of his soul before he went after Harry, and now
he can't be destroyed until all the horcruxes are gone."

Dumbledore looked surprised by this, but it was fleeting. He was skilled at controlling his
features, but I had spent half my schooldays in this office trying to decipher if I was in any real
trouble or not. "How do you know this?"

"My brother died trying to destroy one of them," I said, deliberately not including the detail that
Regulus had survived. "It was a locket. Regulus figured out Voldemort's secret, and sacrificed
himself in hopes of making Voldemort mortal."

"You're absolutely certain?" The blue eyes were piercing, and I had an eerie feeling of being on
trial again.

"Kreacher told me," I offered dully. It was mostly true. "He can't lie to me."

Dumbledore sighed, sitting back in his chair. He suddenly looked much older. "I have suspected
Lord Voldemort of finding ways to preserve his immortality—you will remember the time in which
he possessed a Hogwarts teacher and attempted to steal Flamel's Stone." Dumbledore sighed
heavily, suddenly looking much older. Then he said, "You will, of course, remember two years
ago when Harry and his friend entered the Chamber of Secrets."

I frowned. "What about it?"

"The diary Riddle was preserved in—the diary Harry destroyed—I am certain was a horcrux."

"So you knew about this?" I asked heatedly, angry.

"I suspected it. I had no evidence," said Dumbledore diplomatically.

"And you didn't say anything? You were just going to let them continue to exist?"

"I did not know there were others—your story confirms there were at least two—"

"Three."

Dumbledore looked at me strangely.

"Helga Hufflepuff's cup was one," I said. "It was in my cousin Bellatrix Lestrange's vault at
Gringott's. Since I inherited her wealth, I inherited the horcrux as well—"

"Has it been destroyed?" Dumbledore asked, uncharacteristically rough.

I sighed. "Not yet."

Dumbledore gave me a look I couldn't read, but I didn't have the patience to figure it out. "And I'm
certain the locket—the one my brother destroyed—was Slytherin's. So there's a good chance
that there's one for each House." I got to my feet, too restless to sit still. "We have to find the
others."

Dumbledore gave me a surprised look.

"I'm not going to wait until Voldemort gets stronger to start fighting back," I said, voice rising. "As
long as there are Horcruxes out there, Voldemort's going to come back eventually—"

"Sirius, you are talking about the Darkest of magic—finding and destroying a horcrux—especially
one of Lord Voldemort's—is not an easy task. It claimed your brother's life."

"So?" I said stubbornly. "Look, I don't care if it puts myself in danger, as long as Harry is safe.
Would you really rather wait until Voldemort comes back to start looking? Because by then it will
be too late—"

"Do you know what you will be looking for? Or where Voldemort's most secret hiding places will
be?"

I wanted to rip out my hair. I had to force my hands straight to keep myself from balling them into
fists, which would make it too tempting to hit Dumbledore. "I have no idea where to look—that's
why I came to you."

There was a long silence. Finally, Dumbledore spoke. "Where was the locket?"

"In some cave," I said flatly. It didn't mean anything to me, but for some reason that seemed to
peak Dumbledore's interest. "What?"

"Of course," said Dumbledore pensively, more for his benefit than for mine, I'm sure. "He would
have hidden them in a place with special meaning to him."

"A cave is special to Voldemort?" I said, not following.

"Lord Voldemort would not have trusted his most precious possessions to just any hiding spot—
each one will have some significance. The cave, for example, is a place he would have
frequented as a boy. I remember learning of him luring other children down there and terrifying
them while he was living in an orphanage." Dumbledore thought for a moment, then said gravely,
"But you cannot just go looking for them—you will attract attention—"
I rolled my eyes. "Can you just be blunt with me for a moment? I'm going after these horcruxes
no matter what. If you can tell me how many there might be, or where I should look, that would
be great. But there's nothing you can say that will stop me."

Dumbledore stared at me so intently it looked as though he was trying to read my mind. But I had
no remaining patience for this, and just stared back."

"I will help you," said Dumbledore cautiously, finally breaking eye contact. "But all I ask in return
is that you be patient—we are going to need more help than just ourselves."

I raised an eyebrow. "Are you talking about the Order?"

"You will need to contact them secretly," said Dumbledore quietly, as though someone might be
listening. "And not before I tell you to. I have a few more names we can contact as well. I
understand you want to get out there immediately and start scouring the earth, but we have to be
unnoticed. The moment Voldemort catches wind of what is going on, he will move them."

I didn't reply. I knew Dumbledore was right, but he was also overly cautious sometimes. Secrecy
was important, but time was vital.

"What about Harry?"

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

"I'm going to assume you don't want me to tell him anything?" I said, already prepared to ignore
those instructions.

"I know I cannot stop you if you decide to," said Dumbledore. "But I will impress upon you that it
may do more harm than good."

I sighed. "So when do you want me to start contacting people?"

"I will send you an owl in a few days' time—though I suspect you may want to tell Remus—"

"He already knows about the horcruxes," I said, running a hand through my hair.

"Then you may want to update him on our situation," Dumbledore allowed. He didn't look
surprised that I had already told Remus about this.

I checked my watch and saw that it was a quarter to four. Remus would likely still be in class. I
stood up and Dumbledore followed suit.

"From here on out, you must be very careful, Sirius. Every movement will have to be carefully
orchestrated if we are to keep our advantage."

That annoyed me. He was talking to me like I was a blundering child. It was because of me that
Dumbledore even had confirmation of other horcruxes, and now he was going to tell me not to
mess it up? I was too irritated to reply, and shut his door roughly behind me.

The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom wasn't far from Dumbledore's office, and it only
took a minute or two to reach it. The door was cracked a few inches, so I decided to wait in the
corridor and listen while Remus finished his lecture, apparently on defensive spells. To fill the
time, I tried to guess which year Remus was teaching to, and figured it was fifth. At half past four,
a bell finally rang, and I heard students from all the surrounding classrooms scrambling to collect
their bags.
"Remember to bring in your essays tomorrow!" I heard Remus shout over the noise.

The classroom door suddenly opened, and I turned to see a stunned group of teenaged girls
stopped dead in the doorway. Several seconds passed.

"Don't mind me," I said, trying to break the awkward silence. "Just waiting on your professor."

Finally the students in the back started shoving their way forward, removing the few blocking the
doorway. The students spilled out, staring at me as they passed. I tried to ignore it, deliberately
looking at nothing in particular while I waited for the classroom to clear. Finally, when the line
thinned out, I stepped inside the safety of Remus's classroom.

"Did someone give you detention with me?" Remus asked, looking at me over his shoulder.

"Yeah, you gonna make me do lines? 'Professor Lupin is a git.'"

"Nice hair. Let's talk in my office," said Remus, beckoning the way. We ascended the half-spiral
staircase and Remus shut the door behind us.

"So, er, is Regulus still there?" he asked quietly.

"No, he left," I said dully. "But I do have more news. I cracked and told Dumbledore—he wants to
reassemble the Order. And we found another horcrux."

Remus looked surprised—about which part, I couldn't tell.

"Yeah, so Dumbledore's going to let me know when to round everyone up again—I just have to
wait quietly," I added bitterly.

"Where was this other horcrux."

"Bella's Gringott's vault," I said.

Remus looked at me with wide eyes. "How did you break in?" he asked in disbelief.

"I didn't—I inherited all of the Black family money, which includes her vault. On a whim Regulus
and I decided we should check it out, and the horcrux happened to be sitting there."

"What was it?"

"Helga Hufflepuff's goblet—"

"You're kidding!"

I shrugged. "Reg thinks the locket belonged to Salazar Slytherin. So we're looking for heirlooms
of the other two founders. And Dumbledore just decided to inform me that the diary Harry dealt
with two years ago was a horcrux—didn't see a need to let me know before now."

Remus was frowning at me. "That's not right," he finally said.

I snorted. "You're telling me."

"No, I mean it—if he had any indication that Voldemort lived on, he should have told you. That
puts Harry in danger."
My anger was starting to swell up in my chest again. I tried to force it down, but the whole
situation was frustrating. I wanted to scream. "Dumbledore seems to think I would handle
everything irresponsibly. Since I fucked up and killed my friends, what's to stop me from screwing
up that badly again?" I said waspishly.

"Does Harry know?"

I shook my head. "No, he doesn't know anything. Yet," I added as an afterthought.

Remus prepared some tea and gestured that we should sit on the threadbare sofa in the corner.
"It may not be such a bad idea to tell him," he finally said, to my surprise.

"Really?" I said skeptically. "You agree with me?"

Remus shrugged. "Harry's going to find out sooner or later—I'm sure he'd rather hear it from you.
I don't necessarily think I would tell him everything. But the important stuff, yes. I think so."

I sighed, resting my head on the back of the old sofa. I was never good at being patient. In our
school days, we all balanced each other out. I egged everyone on, Remus was responsible, and
James had always fallen somewhere in the middle. "I wish James and Lily were here."

"Me too," Remus replied quietly. "Me too."

I thought of the old members of the Order. Most of us were dead by now. "I need to make a
mental list. Who am I contacting?"

Remus thought for a moment. "Mad-Eye, of course—"

"You don't think he's gotten a bit…paranoid?" I asked hesitantly.

Remus shrugged. "I don't doubt that he has, but Dumbledore will want him regardless. There's
Dedalus Diggle, Elphias Dodge, Emmeline Vance…Dung," Remus added pointedly. He frowned.
Like me, he had a hard time recalling who had survived the first time. "I'm sure Dumbledore will
speak to certain members of the staff here at Hogwarts."

"So four people, really."

Remus looked at me.

"That's all we have?" I pressed.

"Well, can you think of anyone else we might consider contacting?" Remus asked, scratching the
back of his neck.

"The Weasleys might be worth a shot," I said slowly. "And…I dunno, maybe that Auror Kingsley?
He helped a lot during the trial, and Dumbledore seemed to trust him. Oh, there's Sturgis
Podmore. Right?" I added hesitantly at the look on Remus' face.

"I haven't seen or heard of him since the war ended," said Remus. "But why not? Add him to your
list."

Relieved that Podmore hadn't died unbeknownst to me while I was in prison, I continued, "Who
else? There has to be more people we know."
"I think this is a decent starting point," said Remus, almost placating. "I'm sure as we induct new
members, they will have contacts of their own. What about Regulus?"

"Regulus is going to be furious when he finds out the Order is reassembling," I said quickly. "He
wants nothing to do with it. He's gone right now—he's destroying the horcrux and finding a
replica to replace it with."

Remus gave me an uncomfortable look.

"Stop it," I snapped. "Don't look at me like that—I know what you're thinking, but I trust my
brother. He's not trying to resurrect Voldemort."

"Then why didn't you go with him?" Remus asked, frowning.

I sighed. "Regulus and I agreed it would look less suspicious if I didn't disappear from the country
for a bit just yet. My face is still in those sodding tabloids every week—I have no doubt the
goblins know I took the cup from Bella's vault, but they can't technically do anything about it."

"Okay," said Remus placatingly. "Okay, I believe you."

I suddenly felt like there was a huge weight on my shoulders. I felt old and tired. "How am I going
to tell Harry?"

Remus was quiet for a moment, sipping his tea. "Tell him in person. Wait until Christmas break,
when he comes home with you. That way the Order will be reassembled, we'll have a clearer
idea of what we're doing. I have no doubt Harry will have questions, and we'll hopefully have
more answers then."

I sighed, sinking lower into the sofa. "Do I suck at this?"

Remus looked over at me. "Suck at what?"

I gestured at nothing in particular, or maybe at everything. "I dunno—all of it. Being Harry's
guardian. Being an adult."

"Quite the opposide, I'd say," said Remus. "But I don't want to stroke your ego."

I smacked him. "Sod off."

Remus smiled, a hint of mischief in it. "You're doing just fine, Sirius."

I checked my watch again, taking another sip from my pint. It was twenty past seven and Hestia
still hadn't showed up. Maybe she was ditching me. I ran my hands through my hair distractedly,
trying not to think of that. I couldn't shake the feeling that everyone in the pub knew I was being
stood up, and they were all staring at me.

"Sorry I'm late," she said a little breathlessly, suddenly sliding into the seat across from me.
"Someone came in at the last second with the worst case of Spattergroit I've ever seen—pus
everywhere."

"That sounds disgusting," I said, inwardly relieved.

"Oh, it was—I had to burn my uniform. Now that the image is in your brain, what're we having?"
she asked, looking at the fare in front of me.

"London's finest," I said, pointing to my pint. "And some chips for dinner."

"I distinctly remember telling you to eat real food," she said, smirking.

"This is food."

"It's pub food."

"Can I get you a drink?"

"Er—yeah, whatever you're having."

I finished the rest of my pint in one gulp, and stood up to get more. I felt fuzzy upon standing;
whether from relief or the alcohol, I couldn't tell.

Hestia was working her way through the chips basket when I returned with our drinks.

"So will Harry be coming over for Christmas break?"

"He better. I'm bored out of my mind in that house." This, of course, wasn't one-hundred percent
true—but I couldn't deny that I needed a pleasant distraction.

Hestia smiled at that. "So what do you like to do in your spare time?"

I thought about it and let out a humorless chuckle. "I'm afraid you'll find me rather boring."

"I doubt that—you manage to make it into gossip magazines at least twice a month."

"Er, well, I've still got my garden," I said, inwardly cringing at how lame I sounded. "And I ride a
motorbike if I get the itch to be reckless."

Hestia's brows knitted together. "A motorbike? What, like the muggle thing?"

"Exactly like the muggle thing," I said, taking a sip of my pint. "Except that it flies," I added in an
undertone.

Hestia's face broke into a wide smile. "Can we ride it?"

"Now?"

"Well, not now," she said, pointing to my pint. "You might be a lightweight for all I know. Next
time."

"Sure," I said, suddenly fuzzy in the head, and not from the beer.

"If you could do one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?" she prodded.

I had to think about that one. I bit my lower lip as I contemplated. Since Azkaban it's felt as if my
life wasn't my own. "I think I'd like to travel," I finally said. "And I know that's such a boring
answer. But after being locked away for so long I'd like to see what else is out there."
"What's one thing you want to do before you die?"

I immediately thought of Harry, but I knew ensuring the destruction of Voldemort wasn't quite
what she was referring to. I tried to think back to what I used to be like, before Azkaban, and
chuckled at a distant memory. "Well, there's one thing I've always wanted to try—er, it's called
cliff diving."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is that what it sounds like it is?"

"You're going to think I have a death wish—it's a popular muggle activity I learned about when I
was in school. You jump off a cliff into a lake or the ocean. The higher up, the better."

"And I'm assuming there's obviously no magic involved to slow your fall," she said slowly.

I grinned, running a hand over my chin and shaking my head. "No."

"All right," she said, a contemplative look on her face. "I can sort of see a reckless appeal in that.
It's funny, because I wouldn't have pegged you for extreme sports."

"Yeah, well, I got old and boring," I replied.

"Who says that means you can't still do these things?" she said. "You want to travel, end your life
by jumping off a cliff, you have a flying motorcycle—how come you don't do them?"

I shrugged, hesitating. "I guess I don't have a good answer."

She took a long sip of her pint. "Well, if there's no good reason not to, then go for it. I will join you
for the flying motorcycle part, but I draw the line at jumping into anything greater than my
bathtub."

"All right, now it's my turn," I said. "You have the advantage of reading all about me, but I don't
know much of anything about you. What would you do forever if you could?"

"Healing people," she said automatically. "It's the only thing I've found where I don't feel like a
hypocrite."

I frowned at that. "What do you mean?"

She gave a sort of half-shrug. "It's impossible to twist healing and turn it into something ugly. It's
purifying. I figure if I'm going to spend my life on an earth where there's so much suffering, then I
want to be on the good side. Besides," she added, a small smile playing around her pink lips.
"When you break all your bones I can put them back together."

It was like an electric current went through me. My heart suddenly raced to fill my veins with
adrenaline and the hair stood up on the back of my neck. "And the one thing you want to do
before you die?"

She thought about it a moment. "That's too hard for me."

"Why?"

"I want to do everything. I was never very good at sitting still."

"So how do you decide what you're going to do?" I asked, picking out the crumbs from the empty
chips basket.

"I just pick it on impulse—whatever sounds the best in the moment," she said, gently turning her
pint glass in her hands.

"So what's the thing you've wanted to do most recently?

"I have one in mind, but I'm saving it for later," she said cryptically. "But I guess I'll say…I want to
ride an elephant. I saw it in a muggle book, once. You can go to Thailand and do it. But since I
can't afford a vacation right now, a flying motorcycle will have to do."

I smiled at that.

After we finished our drinks and a second basket of chips, Hestia came home with me. We didn't
actually plan it out—she didn't ask, and I didn't offer. She just came with me as if it was the most
natural thing to do, and we ended up in my kitchen, where Hestia insisted on cooking a real
dinner. We spent the night in my sloppy drawing room, swapping stories. Hestia seemed
especially interested in the pranks James and I often pulled while at school.

By six in the morning we were starting to nod off. I was just about to offer Hestia the spare
bedroom when a thought suddenly occurred to me.

"Hey—wake up!" I said in a stage whisper. Hestia's eyes snapped open and she looked up at me
sleepily. "Do you want to go for a ride?"

I gave Hestia the warmest coat I had, and she waited at the edge of my drive while I warmed up
the motorbike. The night sky was fading into a pale blue, and in the distance there was a brilliant
speck of orange as the sun began to rise. I pulled the bike around and tossed her the helmet.
She climbed onto the bike behind me eagerly, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist.

I sped off down the drive and turned onto the muggle road. The air was cold and biting against
my exposed face, but it was refreshing. Suddenly awake and full of adrenaline, I took the bike up
into the air. Hestia gripped me tighter, laughing.

I flew the bike toward the coastline, just below the cloud line. On one side the clouds were a
brilliant orange, and on the other still a dark, smoky purple. The cold morning air bit at our faces,
and I could feel Hestia's dark hair whipping around in the wind. We reached the beach just after
sunrise. I parked the bike carefully, and Hestia pulled off her helmet before disembarking. Her
face was flooded with soft morning light and her hair—like mine—was a wild mess.

I felt like I could look at her forever.

Hestia smiled at me, trying to finger-comb her locks. "Want to go down to the water?"

I cut the ignition and followed her. Birds cawed in the distance, searching the low tide for food.
The sky was a soft pink now, and our breath glowed in the cold morning air. The beach was
empty of other people so early in the morning. Hestia and I walked along the shoreline for about
a mile, occasionally picking out intricate shells along the way. Once or twice I picked out a
rubbery tuber and chased her with it, where she quickly responded by throwing fistfuls of wet
sand at me.

When the sun was fully risen and Hestia and I began yawning again, I decided to drive us back
home.
I fully expected Hestia to say she needed to go home to sleep, but instead she asked where the
shower was. I handed her some clean towels through the cracked bathroom door, but Hestia
pulled it open all the way, revealing all of her pale white skin. Her dark eyes flashed at me,
inviting me in.

My heart stopped.

Chapter twelve:

Hestia's fingers traced the outlines of my body softly. Her cold touch sent
electric shocks against my sensitive skin. Her delicate fingers moved from my
throat to the dip in my collar bone before working their way down my arm. I felt
her hesitate over the cusp of the wasted muscle tissue, where the old tendons
came down and met bone. A series of black numbers and letters glared back,
permanently marked into my pale skin.

I had expected to see a look of disgust on Hestia's face when she saw such
an ugly, shameful reminder of what I used to be. A convict. A man less than
human. I watched her carefully, ready to pull away at any moment. I tensed
underneath her, waiting, my heart beating furiously.

Hestia traced over the branded mark gently, fingertips barely grazing the
surface of my skin. Then she bent down and I felt the unmistakable touch of
her lips—soft and warm—against the exposed mark. Her dark hair grazed my
forearm and I felt an electric shock course through me.

Hestia's warm lips found the dip in my throat, the sensitive crest of my jaw. I
ran a hand down the smooth skin of her shoulder, fingers tightening around
her arm as she adjusted her weight on top of me. I found the delicate nape of
her neck and worked my fingers through her damp hair, pulling her closer. Our
bodies were intertwined, and it was impossible to say where my heartbeat
stopped and hers began.

I wanted to disappear inside her. I wanted to be filled with her scent, her
touch, to melt into the safety of her body and dissolve.

I had no idea where I was when I woke up. This happened regularly, but for
those first few seconds it was still annoyingly terrifying. I looked around me,
and saw a familiar dark head poking out from underneath the duvet. As my
heart settled I began to recognize the bed as my own, and remembered where
I was.

I untangled my legs and sat up, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. I stood up
and searched for dry clothes. Hestia rolled over in my bed, wrapped up in the
duvet, still asleep. I fished for our discarded wet clothes from the hallway and
bathroom, taking them downstairs to get washed. While the machine ran its
load, I put on a pot of water for tea. Somewhere in the other room I could hear
the grandfather clock chime the time.

Four in the afternoon.

Yawning, I pulled the day's copy of the Daily Prophet toward myself and

fished out the crossword. I was halfway though it when Hestia appeared in the
doorway, dressed in one of my old t-shirts. I watched her sit down at the table
across from me, and the air suddenly felt electrified. Hestia brushed her hair
off her neck, exposing the delicate white skin again. Something in my chest
began to ache, to yearn for the touch of her body a hundred times over.

It was like a hunger deep in my soul, bubbling up to the surface.

Hestia poured herself a mug of tea, taking a delicate sip of the hot liquid. She
twirled the string of the teabag around her finger and looked up at me, dark
eyes searching.

"I hope you don't mind I stole some of your clothes," she said.

I unstuck my throat. "Not at all—I've got the rest of our stuff going through the
wash right now."

She nodded silently, biting her lower lip for a split second. Hestia stretched
wide, and I watched the cotton t-shirt glide smoothly over the bones of her
frame, places where my hands had been just hours before.

Spaces where I wanted to be again.

"Are you hungry?"

She shrugged. "I could probably eat something."

We fell quiet again, neither sure what to say.

I pushed my half-finished crossword aside and stood up to check on the

washing. Down the hall, I could hear Hestia moving around in my kitchen.

We met up again in the hallway, drawn to each other like an unstoppable

force. My fingers worked their way through Hestia's hair, down her back, over
the soft curves of her body. Her own hands explored me with equal
anticipation. I could never get close enough to her.

Hestia removed my shirt with the fervor of a hungry wolf. Our legs were
tangled, our hands gripping skin that felt as familiar as our own. In a blur we
moved from the wall to the floor, exploring every inch of each other's bodies
with a greedy hunger. I pressed Hestia against the wooden floor, our mouths
locked.

I could never get enough of her.

The air was cold and full of static, biting against my bare face. I dragged my
trunk roughly behind me, hunching my shoulders tighter around my scarf. The
train was still running, steam blowing all around the platform. I caught sight of
Sirius standing off to the side, wrapped so heavily in layers that I almost didn't
recognize him.

When he caught sight of me he pulled his scarf off his face and smiled.
"Ready to go home?"

"You have no idea," I said as Sirius helped me load my trunk onto a trolley.
"The homework so far has been ridiculous—all I keep hearing about is rubbish
about the O.W.L.s."

Sirius steered my cart off platform 9 ¾ and we navigated our way through the
muggle part of the train station. Large Christmas trees were everywhere, and
an enormous wreath hung around the center clock.

"I didn't really study for my O.W.L.s," Sirius admitted as we pushed through
the crowd.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, but weren't you and dad geniuses or something?"

I saw Sirius smirk at that. "Is that what they've been telling you?"

"Professor Lupin insists it's the only way the professors let you guys get away
with causing so much trouble."

"You still call him 'professor'?"

"Okay, Remus—you know who I meant," I said, pulling my coat tighter around
me. "I'm supposed to call him professor at school."

"Ah."

"What did you do to your hair?"

Almost instinctively Sirius's hand went to his head. "Oh, I cut it," he said
distractedly. "Why, do I look like a wanker?"
I chuckled at that. "No, but I'm pretty sure every woman here is staring at you
in appreciation."

We had exited the crowded station, and Sirius led the way to his parked
motorcycle. After countess trips where I complained about apparition, Sirius
finally agreed to pick me up in a less nausea-inducing way. Sirius loaded my
trunk into the sidecar, which was comically oversized. I watched as Sirius
glanced over his shoulder before Shrinking the trunk to size.

"Don't let the muggles catch you."

Sirius handed me a purple helmet. "Safety first."

"What happened to the black one?" I wanted to know. If the purple was a dark
violet it wouldn't be so bad, but this was almost neon.

"I left it at Hestia's, and the purple is the only other one I had," said Sirius,
putting on his own sleek black helmet.

My face split into a wide grin. "Hestia?"

Sirius determinedly ignored me. He started up the engine to the motorbike. "I
promise not to laugh at you until we get home."

"You're hilarious."

Sirius took the muggle way out of London, but quickly took the motorbike into
the air as soon as he was sure we were out of sight. The air was bitter cold up
here, and I could swear ice crystals were forming on the sidecar. The only
thing keeping me from freezing to death was the warmth of the engine
between our legs.

Finally we reached the familiar treeline leading to Sirius's property, and he

landed the bike on a snowy drive. I pulled my helmet off as Sirius cut the
engine, tossing it into the back of the sidecar. I yanked my trunk out roughly
so Sirius could walk the bike into the shed.

We made a beeline across the frosted ground toward the house, which was
wonderfully warm.

I hauled my trunk into my room while Sirius busied himself with something
downstairs. It was in the same state of disarray I had left it in at the end of
summer, and my souvenirs from the World Cup were still sitting on the top of
the bed. I pulled off my coat and scarf, tossing these onto my trunk.

"Harry?"
I jumped, banging my knee into my trunk in the process.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you—" Sirius offered a weak smile as he sat on
the edge of my bed. Sirius had the ability to move through this old house
without stepping on a single creaking floorboard, and it was usually impossible
to hear him coming.

"Er, it's all right," I said, massaging my knee cap. I sat down on the trunk. I
could tell instantly by the worried look on Sirius's face that he wanted to talk.
"What's up?"

Sirius didn't speak right away, as though deliberating how to begin. His face
was unreadable, but I noticed the way his fingers played with the frayed
corner of his shirt, and the way his heel tapped against the floor. Examining
Sirius's body language was the only way to tell what he was feeling most of
the time; I guess Azkaban must have done that to him. Sirius hated talking
about what he was thinking most of the time.

"What?" I said, more alarmed now. "Is something wrong?"

"Not…exactly. No," he finally decided, changing tactics almost instantly. He

took a deep breath. "But we do need to talk."

I frowned. "Okay," I said slowly. "But can you just come out with it? You're
going to make me think someone's died—"

"No one is dead," Sirius said flatly, clasping his hands together tightly. I hadn't
seen Sirius fidget this much since we first met. Something must definitely be
wrong to have him on edge this badly. "I just think you ought to know the
truth…"

My frown deepened. "About?"

Sirius sighed, as though frustrated with himself. "Okay, I'm not sure where to
begin… Do you remember in your second year, that diary that belonged to
Voldemort?"

How could I forget? "What about it?"

"When Dumbledore explained it to you, what did he say?"

This was definitely not what I had been expecting Sirius to talk about. "Er, just
that Voldemort's…spirit, or something, lived inside it. Like a memory. From
when he was in school."

For some reason Sirius rolled his eyes.

"Sirius, what does this have to do with anything?" I asked, brows knitted
together.

"That diary was something called a horcrux," Sirius said bluntly. "It's a very
Dark piece of magic wherein a wizard conceals part of their soul in an object.
Though their body may die, their soul continues on."

I felt my eyebrows rise. Okay? I didn't get the significance.

"Voldemort made several—at least three for certain, and likely five," Sirius
continued quickly, rushing over his words now. "This is why he didn't die the
night his curse rebounded. Voldemort is still out there, and parts of his soul
are hidden all over England. And the latest rumors are that Voldemort is
gaining strength again—"

"What?" I interrupted. "You think he might come back?"

Sirius gave me a pained look. He suddenly looked very weary. I hated seeing
him like this. "It's possible," he finally said. "Dumbledore has reassembled the
Order—"

"The what?"

"Order of the Phoenix. It's the resistance group your parents and I used to
work with, before," he said hastily. "So everyone is on the lookout for these
two other horcruxes so they can be destroyed."

"D'you know where they are?"

"Not exactly," Sirius said slowly. "But we have a pretty good idea what we're
looking for. It's just a matter of doing this all secretly—if Voldemort, wherever
he is, catches wind that his horcruxes are in danger, then the whole plan is
ruined."

I had to process that for a minute. "So what you're saying is that I can't tell
anyone about this."

Sirius could practically read my mind sometimes. "I don't doubt you'll share it
with Ron and Hermione," he said knowingly. "But please, please be cautious.
Dumbledore didn't want me telling you myself—"

"Why not?" I said, suddenly heated. "I've faced Voldemort three times!"

"I know," Sirius said hastily. "He just thinks you're too young—"

"I'm fourteen!"
"Harry, I know," said Sirius placatingly. "Just listen—no one outside of you
three can know, and I mean that. Don't talk about it if there's even the smallest
possibility that someone is listening. Portraits, ghosts, even mice—I don't care.
This is very serious."

I took a deep breath. "Okay," I said slowly. "So what happens when all these
horcrux things are gone?"

Sirius shrugged. "I'm not sure. Obviously Voldemort will be mortal again.
Maybe he'll finally just die off."

I laughed humorlessly at the prospect. "That'd be nice."

There was a brief pause.

"So how did you find out about all this? Did Dumbledore tell you?"

Sirius gave a derisive snort. "No. No, I told him."

"Really?" I said in surprise. "Okay, so how did you find out?"

Sirius hesitated again. "That's the other part you have to keep a secret," he
said carefully. He paused, collecting his thoughts, then continued, "Do you
remember that man you saw at the World Cup?"

"Yes," I said automatically.

"Well, your observation was spot on," he said, looking almost uncomfortable
now. "It was my brother," he added as clarification.

My brain felt like it had hit a wall. "But you said he was dead—"

"I thought he was dead," Sirius interrupted. "And so did everyone else." Sirius
ran his hands through his hair distractedly, suddenly looking very tired. "My
brother joined the Death Eaters before he had left Hogwarts. He and I fell out
of contact after I ran away—I had no idea he was working for Voldemort so
young. I might have been able to stop him." Sirius swallowed, looking down at
his hands now. "Anyway, Regulus worked his way up into Voldemort's favor—
I guess close to the time when we all thought he had died, my brother
discovered Voldemort's secret about the horcruxes. He thought it was just the
one, and so he went after it in the hopes of destroying it. I guess Voldemort's
trap got the better of him, and Regulus didn't realize he had survived until
everything was over.

"So he hid himself away to fake his death—he said it was to protect the family
from retaliation. He had no idea that our father was already dead and I was in
prison. He says he got wind that Voldemort had returned to England, and
realized that there must be more. So he came back."

Sirius looked up at me. His handsome face was smooth and expressionless,
but his grey eyes were just as haunted as I've always known them to be.
Everyone always remarked how "normal" Sirius was for having spent so much
time in Azkaban, but I often wondered if he suffered much more than he let
on. Not that he would ever tell me.

"I found him at our parents' house, after I dropped you off at the train. That's
when he told me everything. Regulus made me swear not to tell anyone he
was still alive, so you and Remus are the only two that know," he added.

"Where's he at now?" I asked, head heavy with all of this new information.

Sirius gave a half-shrug. "Gone. He went to go destroy the horcrux we found

—"

"You found one?"

"Well, technically I stole it," Sirius said slyly, a small smirk playing around his
face. "I inherited all the Black family wealth, it turns out. This includes all the
Gringott's vaults of my dead or imprisoned family members who supported
Voldemort. My cousin, Bellatrix, was one of Voldemort's top Death Eaters.
She's in Azkaban with her husband Rodolphus. So Regulus and I agreed that
we should investigate her vault—I didn't actually think anything was going to
be there," he added, straightening up. "But I couldn't just leave it there."

"Didn't the goblins say anything?" I asked. I remembered Hagrid telling me

that it was impossible to break into Gringott's.

"Well, they can't really, you see," said Sirius. "The vault is technically mine
now, and the horcrux never belonged to Bella anyway. The magic only
protects wealth rightfully owned by the witch or wizard who holds the vault.
Goblins have all kinds of loopholes to screw with wizards."

I had to admit, I was impressed by Sirius's bold recklessness. "So your bother
has it now?"

"Yeah," said Sirius. "He's supposed to let me know when he's destroyed it."

I was silent for several minutes, processing everything Sirius had just told me.
I decided to ask the nagging question that was in the back of my mind. "So
could Voldemort actually come back? Before all the horcrux things are
destroyed?"
"It's possible," Sirius said slowly. "But I want you to know that we're doing
everything possible to prevent that. I will never let anything harm you."

I felt overwhelmed by the force behind those last words. I had a sudden urge
to hug my godfather, but he looked like he would shatter if I did. "I know," I
said softly, frowning.

"Now, that's enough bad news," said Sirius with great effort to sound casual.
"How about some dinner? You hungry?"

"Starving," I admitted, standing up and following Sirius downstairs to the

kitchen. Now that Sirius wasn't dressed in his heavy coat, I could see his
frame better and realized he had finally filled out some. I nagged Sirius to eat
a real meal every time I was home, but he insisted he had a small appetite. I
was glad to see Sirius looking better, and wondered what the cause was.

"So this Hestia," I said when we had entered the kitchen. "Who is she?"

Sirius was careful not to look at me.

Was he embarrassed?

"A friend," he said vaguely.

I sank into one of the chairs at the table, eyebrow raised. "A very good
friend?" I asked pointedly.

Sirius gave me a sardonic look. "Do I have your permission to date her?" he
asked in sarcasm.

"If she's the one who's been feeding you, then yeah."

Sirius gave me a look before putting on a pot of tea.

"So where did you meet her?" I continued, genuinely interested. Sirius had
never given any indication that he had an interest in dating in the time that I've
known him. This was new.

And good for him.

Sirius shrugged, biting the inside of his cheek as he turned on the stove.
"Well, if you really want to know, she was the only mediwitch brave enough to
come into my room when they pulled me out of Azkaban and everyone still
thought I was a murderer. We've sort of kept in touch off and on—just more so
lately."

I couldn't help but grin at that.

"Shouldn't I be asking you these things?" Sirius said, turning the conversation
around. "Who's your girlfriend?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"I don't have one," I said truthfully.

"Okay, then who have you got your eye on?"

"No one." I felt my face flush and knew it betrayed me instantly.

Sirius grinned. "What's her name?"

"She hasn't got one, because there isn't one—"

Sirius laughed. "Harry, it's all right—you're a teenager! You're supposed to

look at girls! Or guys, too, I guess," he added, as though suddenly aware of
something. His brows knit together as I slapped my palm against my forehead.

"Stop it."

"Whatever you like is fine," Sirius continued earnestly. "Really—"

"Oh my god, stop!"

Sirius shrugged, pulling the now-whistling kettle off the heat. "Okay, so no
girls. What else are you not going to tell me about?"

I tried not to roll my eyes. "Believe me, this school year has been rather boring
—there's nothing worth telling."

"While I'm not sure the excitement of fourth year at Hogwarts could compete
with the thrill that is clearing my garden of dead plants, I'd still like to hear
about it."

"Just…normal stuff. We won our first game against Hufflepuff," I said, taking
the tea Sirius offered me. "But barely—their Seeker is really good."

"Who is it?"

"Cedric Diggory?"

"I know of his father," Sirius said. "I'm pretty sure he works for the Ministry."

"And Snape's a huge git," I continued. "I don't think he realizes O.W.L.s don't
start until next year."

"At least you have Remus at the school," Sirius offered.

"Snape keeps…hinting about his condition," I added, irritated. "And Remus
just takes it—"

"Well, Remus isn't one to fight," said Sirius knowingly. "And Snape knows he
can't actually say anything—Dumbledore would be furious."

"Malfoy's just as bad. I can't wait to play Slytherin so I can wipe that stupid
look off his face."

Sirius chuckled at that. "His dad bought the whole team brooms, didn't he?"

"Yes, but they still suck."

Sirius grinned. "Then that'll be an easy win, yeah? Now, what do you want to
eat?"

I shrugged. "I'm starving, so I'll eat anything you have."

Sirius leaned back in his chair and lazily pointed his wand at the pantry. The
door sprung open, revealing a half-filled cabinet. "I have…cereal," he said,
tilting his chair back on its hind legs to get a good look. "And whiskey."

"Oh, definitely the whiskey."

"There's some sort of leftovers in the ice box," he added, standing up now to
go look. "Hestia made some casserole last night—"

"Did she?" I asked idly.

Sirius gave me a long look, sighing. "Tell me—are you jealous?"

I laughed at that. "No. Honestly, I think it's great you have a girlfriend. When's
the wedding?"

"Don't make me send you to bed—"

"I'm fourteen, you can't send me to bed."

"Yeah, you're right," Sirius said, pulling out a wrapped casserole dish and
setting it on the counter between us. "That'd be a waste. I'd probably make
you shovel the drive or something. Without magic," he added in a dramatic
stage whisper.

"No you wouldn't."

"You know my mum used to make me do sh—I mean, stuff like that?" Sirius
said, poking the oven with his wand. "Whenever she would get mad at me—
mind you, this was all the time—she'd give me some awful task like remove
doxies from the curtains in the spare bedrooms. Now, I don't know whether
you've ever tried to catch doxies with your bare hands, but they have quite the
bite."

I frowned. "Was your mum insane?"

"I really think she was," Sirius said, closing the oven door on our dinner. "My
existence just made it worse."

"Sounds like the Dursleys," I said before I could stop myself. Sirius gave me a
fleeting look, and I knew instantly what he was thinking. "'Course," I added
pointedly. "they're quite terrified of you turning up and hexing them, so mostly
they just leave me alone."

"D'you reckon they'd prefer to be slugs or snails?" Sirius asked in carefully

light tones. "Just for future reference."

Our late dinner was a quiet affair. I told Sirius inane stories about school and
he laughed at my jokes, but there was no getting rid of the distracted look
about him.

It was near eleven when I finally grew tired enough to go to bed. Sirius, as
usual, insisted he wasn't tired yet and stayed up reading in the messy living
room. I showered quickly and changed into my pj's, swiping all the stuff off the
top of my bed so I could get in.

I woke up, groggily, looking around for the source of the noise that had woken
me up. I was just about to write it off as nothing and go back to sleep when I
heard it again.

Frowning, I sat up straighter, sleep slipping from my mind. I listened hard. A

faint whining. It was coming from downstairs.

I hesitated outside of Sirius's bedroom door as a precaution, but it was silent. I

made my way down toward the living room, wondering if maybe the owls had
gotten stuck or something, when I heard it again.

It was definitely a human voice.

I entered the living room, and could see the silhouette of Sirius on one of the
couches, asleep. His book had been discarded on the floor. He jerked in his
sleep, letting out a few incoherent words.

"Sirius?"
I reached out a hand to gently touch Sirius's shoulder—I didn't want to startle
him. Sirius fell still and was silent again for so long that I considered just
heading back upstairs. Just as I stood up to go, he shuddered again, swinging
out wildly with one arm. I ducked the blow, and reached out to shake him.

"Sirius! Wake up-"

Sirius let out a soft noise that almost sounded like a cry. "Noooo…please…"

Heart beating furiously against my throat, I shook him harder. "Sirius!" I said
loudly, close to his ear.

In his nightmare state, Sirius took one last desperate swing at me before I
smacked him awake. He gasped for air like coming up from underwater,
scurrying away from me. I turned on the nearby lamp and Sirius looked
around wildly, as though expecting to be somewhere else.

I knew to let Sirius get his bearings before trying to calm him down, so I sat
back on the coffee table and waited.

Sirius's eyes found mine and I knew he finally recognized where he was. His
breathing had steadied some, but his hands shook horribly when he tried to
turn the lamp up a level.

"Here," I said, standing up to do it for him.

He disappeared behind those shaking hands, and I knew instantly that he

would be mortified at what had just transpired. I had only caught Sirius in the
midst of a nightmare two or three times, and it was years ago. I had a
sneaking suspicion he charmed his bedroom so that I wouldn't hear, but I
couldn't be sure.

I turned on the rest of the lights in the living room, deliberately getting rid of
any shadows. I turned on the ones in the hallway and kitchen while I was at it,
and put on a pot of water for tea. When I returned to the living room, Sirius
was still sitting on the couch, this time staring straight ahead. I hesitated
before taking slow, tentative steps toward him, cautiously sitting down on the
couch next to him.

"Are you okay?"

Sirius didn't respond. He gave no indication that he heard me, but I knew he
did.

"Is there anything I can do?" I pressed.

Sirius's haunted grey eyes closed for a minute.

"Sirius," I tried again, sternly this time. "I know you have nightmares. I haven't
forgotten the first night I was here. Look," I continued, exasperated by his
silence. "Locking yourself in your room every night with a thousand Silencing
Charms isn't helping. You've always said I can come to you if I need anything,
and—well—the same's true for me."

He gave a small inward sigh, looking down at his hands.

I groaned. "Sirius, will you please just talk to me?"

"Sorry, I just—" He stopped as though he was trying to organize his thoughts.

"I don't know what to say. I'm mortified, honestly."

I was looking directly at him now, a skeptical look on my face. "Why?" I asked,
not understanding.

Sirius shot me a hesitant look before shaking his head and sighing again.
"Because I'm your godfather—"

"Sirius, I don't know if you've heard, but being my godfather doesn't mean you
have to be some sort of super-human."

"No," he allowed slowly. "But it's my job to protect you—"

"How do you think I feel?" I pressed, almost angry now. "You always tell me I
can come to you if I need help, or if something's bothering me—but you can't
come to me." An awful thought came to mind. I had come to regard Sirius as
my only real family—as an odd mix of brother and father. But perhaps I would
always just be his best friend's kid. "Don't you trust me?"

"Harry, that's not it—"

"Then what is it?" I demanded.

He didn't look at me. I caught his throat catching once or twice when he tried
to speak. It came out barely louder than a whisper. "Because I'm ashamed of
myself."

I fell silent at that. I had an overwhelming urge to hug my godfather, to make

him see himself as I saw him. But if I stopped him from speaking now, he
might never bring it up again.

"I don't know how to live with myself after—after what I've done," he
continued, forcing the words out. His voice was of determined calm, but there
was the threat that it might break any moment. It was like running a knife
through my chest. "Taking care of you is all I have left."
He finally looked at me then, no carefully guarded mask this time. I had to fight
the urge to look away; it hurt to see Sirius this way. His face was a mix of
desperate fear and anguish. No wonder he refused to let anyone come too
close to him.

I didn't know what to say to that. I just wrapped my arms around his much
taller frame, holding him close. I felt Sirius return the embrace; he was
hesitant at first, but then his arms were snaked around me tightly.

"Okay," he said after a moment, pulling apart. "That's enough of me

embarrassing you." He forced a smile. The guard was back up, the carefully-
constructed carefree attitude in place.

I could only hope that I had gotten to Sirius, even a little, in his moment of
vulnerability. But for now things would just have to go back to normal. "Want
some tea?" I asked. "I've got a pot on."

Sirius raised his eyebrows. "Shouldn't you go back to bed?"

I gave him a look before standing up and heading to the kitchen. I could hear
Sirius following me. He pulled two mugs out of the dish rack while I got the
milk out of the fridge.

"Is Remus coming over for Christmas again this year?" I asked, careful to
keep the conversation light and normal.

Sirius shrugged. "Even if he's not planning on it, I'll make him. So, speaking
of…er, how would you feel if I invited Hestia over?"

"I don't mind."

Sirius looked at me expectantly, as though trying to see if I was lying.

"I'm serious," I continued, firmer this time. "I think it'll be a good thing."

"You don't think she'd be…invading our space?"

I did laugh at that now. "I'm not going to get jealous of her," I promised. "I think
it's excellent, I do. You need someone in this huge house with you."

"Well, I'm glad you feel that way, because we'll be adding on."

I frowned. "What?"

"I have another godson. And there's not enough room, so I'm afraid I'll have to
let you go."
"Shut up," I said, smacking Sirius's arm. He smirked at me.

It was back to normal.