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Chapter Text

Halloween 1981

The autumn wind carried the faint scent of chimney smoke and the sharp rustle of dry leaves. Godric’s Hollow, cloaked in late October dusk, slumbered like a village in an old folktale; quiet, damp, and worn in all the familiar ways. There was a church bell tolling faintly in the distance, and the orange-yellow flicker of pumpkin lanterns were peeking out from windows, dimmed behind net curtains and fogged glass.

Albus Dumbledore stood on the edge of a lane, hands deep in his robes, gazing at a modest stone cottage that had once been his family home. The shutters were crooked now. Ivy choked the eastern wall. The paint on the door had peeled to a colour best described as tired.

Tall and thin, with a long silver beard that tucked neatly into the belt of his deep plum robes, Dumbledore looked every bit the figure of legend and wearied wisdom. His half-moon spectacles perched low on his crooked nose, and his bright blue eyes, normally twinkling; were dull tonight, shadowed with grief and memory.

Funny, he thought. You never quite remember the exact shade of loss until you see it again.

He lingered a moment longer before shaking himself. This wasn’t the time for ghosts.

With a soft rustle of his robes, Dumbledore reached into one of his many cavernous pockets, fingers brushing past several lemon drops, an unlabelled silver instrument that occasionally spat out sparks, and a torn opera ticket from 1947. Finally, he drew out a small, folded piece of parchment, yellowed at the edges.

"The Potters are at number seventeen, Maple Walk, Godric’s Hollow."

He read it again, brow furrowing just slightly.

Sirius’s hand? Odd, but perhaps he wrote it in haste. Dumbledore’s lips twitched faintly. He never had much patience for fine penmanship.

But his musings were interrupted by the sudden squealing of children's laughter, echoing down the lane like a burst of fireworks.

“Oi, look! It’s Merlin!”

Dumbledore turned just in time to see a group of four children in mismatched Halloween costumes charging towards him. A pirate, a fairy, a miniature Dalek, and one boy wearing what appeared to be a repurposed tea cozy with glitter glued to it.

“Trick or treat, mister wizard man!” the pirate declared, brandishing a plastic cutlass that bent slightly on impact with the air.

Dumbledore smiled down at them, the lines in his face creasing warmly. “Ah, fearsome pirates and terrifying... kitchen appliances. What a dangerous lot you must be.”

“Are you really Merlin?” asked the Dalek, his voice muffled behind cardboard and tape.

“I was, once,” Dumbledore said gravely, “but I retired when I discovered the paperwork involved.”

The children giggled. The fairy held out a plastic pumpkin.

“I’m afraid I’ve nothing sweet on me,” Dumbledore said, patting his pockets. “Just a few experimental devices, several live beetles, and a pair of socks I’ve been meaning to return.”

“You’re weird,” said the pirate cheerfully.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said solemnly. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist and a magician’s flourish, he produced a handful of neatly wrapped chocolates from the sleeve of his robe. “But not entirely without redeeming qualities.”

The fairy accepted the chocolates with childish delight, depositing them carefully into her plastic pumpkin as if they were treasure hard-won.

“Now,” said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling, “Run along before I accidentally turn you into turnips.”

They shrieked with laughter and galloped off into the night, their giddy cries echoing into the gathering dark. Dumbledore smiled softly, then turned towards Maple Walk.

Number Seventeen sat quietly at the end of the lane, half-shrouded in creeping mist and silence. A quaint, humble home; the kind that would have gone unnoticed in any suburb.

Exactly the point, Dumbledore thought.

He stepped forward, holding the note tightly in one hand, and as he reached the invisible boundary surrounding the house, he felt the air shiver like a spider’s web plucked by invisible fingers.

The Fidelius Charm accepted him.

The cottage shimmered into view fully, its lights glowing softly in the windows.

The prophecy had come to him not long ago like a shard of light through a thick fog; veiled and dangerous, yet filled with impossible possibility. It had spoken of a child, of potential, of the end of one who had brought war and shadow to their world. A lifeline, perhaps. Or a curse wrapped in hope.

For years, Lord Voldemort had bled the magical world dry with terror and ambition, not merely a Dark wizard, but the worst of their kind. One who saw power as a right, blood as currency, and fear as a language he had mastered fluently. Every glimmer of resistance had been stamped out, every corner of peace scorched.

And then the prophecy came like a flicker in the dark.

Relief had been swift. And so had anguish. If Voldemort caught wind of it, and he had, then the child and everyone around him would be in mortal danger. The thorns would be pulled from the vine before they could bloom. Dumbledore had seen such patterns before. Always the innocents who paid the earliest price.

He’d persuaded the Potters to go under the Fidelius Charm soon after. They had resisted at first. James too proud, Lily too trusting in her own magic. But the risk was too great. A secret held in the soul of another, made unfindable even to those standing upon the very threshold of the truth. He’d explained the spell in quiet detail: the Secret-Keeper’s soul would become the anchor. Only their knowledge could reveal the house. As long as they lived and kept the secret, the Potters would be safe.

He had tried to do the same with the Longbottoms, who, by some cruel twist of fate, were bound by the same prophecy. But both Frank and Alice were embedded in the Ministry’s resistance efforts. Aurors with active targets on their backs, their house serving as a command post more often than a home. They had hesitated, understandably. The logistics alone were difficult.

But the Potters... they had agreed. And this house, nestled away on this unassuming street in Godric’s Hollow, had become a sanctuary.

And now it remained hidden, for however long it must.

Inside, James Potter was sprawled sideways on the couch, a battered copy of Quidditch Through the Ages balanced precariously on his stomach. His perpetually messy black hair stuck out in every direction, as though even rest couldn't tame it. His wire-rimmed glasses sat askew on the bridge of his nose. And his wand sat on the end table, next to a steaming cup of tea that had long since gone cold.

Dumbledore studied him quietly, remembering the boy who had once filled the corridors of Hogwarts with mischief and brilliance in equal measure.

James had always shown a natural aptitude for Transfiguration; not just skilled, but intuitive, the sort of mind that saw the shape of a spell before the theory ever caught up. His wandwork was quick, elegant, and endlessly inventive. And in battle, he’d proven himself again and again. Not just brave, but unwavering, a stalwart among the resistance’s fiercest. One of Dumbledore’s most trusted lieutenants in a war that asked too much of too many.

He had fought not for glory, but for a world where he might live with his wife and son unburdened by shadows. Bold, infuriatingly clever, and fiercely loyal to the people he loved, without hesitation or reserve.

“Albus!” he said, sitting up with a grin that somehow still had remnants of the twelve-year-old who used to charm broomsticks to hover inches above the floor of Dumbledore’s office. “You made it. Lily’s upstairs with Harry, probably trying to get him to sleep. She might as well try taming a dragon.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said, brushing a few specks of lint from his sleeve. “Then I’ve arrived at either the worst or best possible moment.”

James laughed and motioned towards the kitchen. “Sit down, please. Kettle’s still warm, if you don’t mind helping yourself. I think we’ve got some of those biscuits you like. The kind that turns your tongue purple.”

“I’ve always had a soft spot for regrettable decisions,” Dumbledore said lightly.

“Oh, and Peter stopped by earlier,” James added, reaching for his cold tea. “Brought Harry another armload of sweets, most of which he tried to eat through the wrapper.”

“Harry or Peter?”

“Both!”

Lily came down a moment later, tying her deep auburn hair back with one hand. Her eyes, clear, green; soft but always alert, searching with a gaze that could undo even the most carefully guarded truths. A slight smudge of flour dusted her left sleeve. Evidently, Harry had also tried to eat something not wrapped in foil.

“Albus,” she said warmly, and Dumbledore stood to greet her.

“Lily,” he replied, bowing his head slightly. “As luminous as ever.”

“Flattery,” she said, “but I’ll allow it.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “How is the young master?”

“Finally asleep,” she said, exhaling. “I had to give him a rattle enchanted to play harp music. He fussed for twenty minutes, then fell asleep to a rendition of Greensleeves. Which I take as a mark of good taste.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, then lingered a little longer on her, on the composed intelligence behind her gaze, the quiet power she carried without needing to announce it.

Lily Evans. Sharp, stubborn, exceptional. The best charms student I ever taught, and that includes some very clever names indeed. She always understood that magic wasn’t just force. It was precision. Intention.

She had never been loud in her brilliance, but it rang through in everything she did. Steadfast in her principles, quick to challenge injustice, and quicker still to forgive where forgiveness was due. There was a quiet steel in her, the kind that did not bend when the world asked it to.

Dumbledore let out a slow breath. The world had asked far too much of her.

“You’ve done remarkable work here,” he said sincerely. “There’s more magic in the walls of this home than many ancient castles.”

“I’ve had to get creative,” she replied with a small shrug. “We weren’t about to trust only the Fidelius. James thinks I’ve gone overboard.”

“James,” Dumbledore said gently, “hasn’t spent quite so many hours elbow-deep in arithmancy texts.”

“I have to do something while Harry naps,” she replied with a smirk.

Their laughter was quiet but warm.

Outside, across the narrow lane from Number Seventeen, a short, plump man crouched low in the cover of a dense, untrimmed hedge, barely distinguishable from the shadows around him. He shifted nervously, the hem of his cloak damp with dew, breath curling white in the cold air.

Peter Pettigrew had always known how to disappear; not with the elegance of a skilled wizard, but with the instinct of something small and cornered. His pale, round face was pinched with cold and fear, eyes darting with a twitchy, rodent-like alertness. A weak chin disappeared into a scarf that had seen better winters, and his fingers fidgeted ceaselessly around the handle of his wand as though it might vanish if not clutched tight.

He had a way of folding into himself, as if trying to shrink from the world’s gaze, to not be noticed, and more importantly, not be remembered.

But tonight, all that furtive energy was fixed on a single point: the quiet, glowing windows of the cottage across the road.

Dumbledore. Damn it.

He hadn’t expected the old man to show. Tonight, of all nights.

Peter swallowed hard. He had to alert the Dark Lord now. He had to move.

He slinked back through the hedges, his breath shallow and ears straining for any sign of being spotted. The Dark Lord needs to know that Dumbledore is here, he thought, heart pounding like a trapped beetle in his chest.

He vanished into the mist.

Chapter Text

The trees surrounding Godric’s Hollow stood like silent witnesses, tall, bare-limbed things stretching into a night as black as spilled ink. The moon hung low and disinterested above, smothered half by slow-moving clouds. It was cold, though Lord Voldemort did not feel it. His tall, lean frame stood at the edge of the trees, flanked by shadows in masks, dozens of Death Eaters waiting without a word.

The grass underfoot was wet with dew. It soaked through boot leather and chilled the bones of lesser men. But they dared not complain.

Voldemort said nothing. He had stood there, still as a statue, for over an hour.

Waiting.

His red eyes gleamed in the dark, unfocused yet alert. He wasn’t just watching. He was listening. To the currents of magic, to the silence between branches, the world had gone still in the way animals go still before a predator strikes.

“Bellatrix,” he said softly.

She straightened instantly. “My Lord?”

Her eyes were fixed on the figure just ahead. Her head slightly bowed with a reverent awe. The man before her was no man at all. Not anymore.

His skin was as pale as candle wax, almost translucent under the weak moonlight, and though his face was mostly veiled by the hood of his cloak, she could see the sharp contours of it; the hollow cheeks, the sharp nose, the gleam of his eyes like banked coals. Once, long ago, he had been handsome. Charismatic. Human.

But he had shed that weakness, carved it away bit by bit, transformed himself into something greater - terrible and eternal.

To her, he was divine. He had become what wizards were meant to be. Power, unfiltered. Purpose, unshakable.

“How long since he left?”

“Fifty-one minutes.”

He did not nod. Simply… absorbed it.

Behind him, Lucius and Nott exchanged a glance.

“You think Wormtail botched it?” Nott muttered under his breath, just audible enough for a few nearby to hear. “Wouldn’t be the first time-”

“Enough,” snapped Lucius, his voice tense. “Not now.”

Voldemort turned his head very slightly. The muttering died instantly.

And then a sharp crack echoed through the woods.

Peter Pettigrew tumbled out of thin air, falling to one knee in the grass, his cloak askew and hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

“My Lord,” he gasped, scrambling upright, “he’s there. Dumbledore… he’s in the cottage.”

For a moment, there was no sound but the breeze through dead leaves.

Voldemort’s voice was a whisper. “Dumbledore.”

Peter nodded frantically. “He only just arrived. I-I thought he might leave, but he went inside.”

Voldemort’s face was unreadable.

“I thought… I mean, I didn’t know what to do. I came straight back to tell you. I-I thought perhaps it would be better to wait until…”

“You thought.” The words were so soft, they might have been mistaken for wind.

Peter shrank back instinctively.

Voldemort stepped forward. The others shifted slightly, unconsciously creating space around their master. It was not rehearsed. It was animal instinct.

“Tell me, Peter,” he said, in a voice so gentle it scraped. “Did I command you to think?”

“N-no, my Lord.”

“And yet here you are. Thinking.”

Peter looked like he wanted to vanish into the soil.

Voldemort leaned in slightly, his eyes glowing like twin coals. “Dumbledore’s presence changes nothing. Nothing.”

“Yes, my Lord. I-I was only trying to…”

“Trying to what?” Voldemort interrupted, a slow smile twisting his mouth. “Save the boy? Protect your old friends?”

Peter flinched.

A few of the Death Eaters shifted behind them. Lucius was deliberately looking at the ground. Dolohov stifled a grin. Bellatrix was grinning openly.

Voldemort didn’t take his eyes off Peter.

“No, you’re too much a coward for treachery,” he said, almost with amusement. “You fear death far more than you remember friendship. That is why I tolerate your trembling, your failures.”

He reached out and placed a pale, spider-like hand on Peter’s shoulder. Peter shivered like a man being touched by ice.

“I have a better use for you.”

“My Lord?” Peter croaked.

Voldemort leaned in, hissing now: “Dumbledore is an obstacle. And obstacles are moved.”

He began to pace, robes whispering across the grass.

“You will return to Godric’s Hollow and remain hidden. Watch the Potters. Wait.”

Peter’s mouth opened in panicked protest, but Voldemort continued without pause.

“I will attack the Longbottoms tonight. Personally. Openly. That will draw the old fool like blood draws wolves. When he leaves the Potters... you will tell me.”

Peter was trembling. “Yes, my Lord.”

“I will give him something worth running for,” Voldemort said. “A real attack. Fire. Screams. Death.”

The other Death Eaters stirred with excitement. Bellatrix let out a little laugh. Peter was pale as parchment.

Voldemort stepped closer again. “You do this right, and you will be rewarded. Fail... and I will know.”

His eyes narrowed.

“And you will suffer in ways no wand has ever imagined.”

Peter swallowed. “Y-yes, my Lord.”

“Go.”

Peter disapparated with a muted crack, as if he could not vanish fast enough.

Not all were worthy of magic. Lord Voldemort had long believed it, long known it. Blood diluted magic. Weakness squandered it. Magic was not a gift; it was dominion. And he, the greatest sorcerer alive, was owed obedience, was destined to stand above all others - wizards, muggles, squibs, even time itself.

And tonight… tonight was not conquest. Tonight was pruning. There were thorns in his side, names that refused to be cowed. Dumbledore’s pet rebels. The prophecy. The boys.

He would silence them all. And the world would remember what it meant to defy Lord Voldemort.

Behind Voldemort, the Death Eaters began to move, sensing their moment had come. Rodolphus Lestrange tightened his gloves. Mulciber flexed his fingers eagerly. Dolohov was already murmuring something dark and wordless under his breath.

Lucius hesitated before stepping forward. “My Lord… if I may-”

“You may not,” Voldemort said without looking at him. “Tonight is not for politics. Tonight is for elimination.”

He turned to the rest.

“We strike the Longbottoms. Their bloodline is strong. Dangerous. It ends now.”

Bellatrix’s eyes glittered madly in the moonlight.

Rookwood cracked his knuckles.

A hush settled as Voldemort raised his wand and apparated, the others following in staggered bursts like falling stars.

They landed in a sloping field just beyond the treeline, the Longbottom estate looming in the near distance; a proud, stately manor wreathed in hedges and old magic. Pale torchlight flickered from the upstairs windows. Closer still, layers of enchantments webbed across the grounds, faintly visible to trained eyes - pulsing, woven, and old.

It was protection done properly. Done by Aurors.

Voldemort stared at it, unimpressed.

“Rookwood,” he said, his voice low and expectant.

Rookwood, the Department of Mysteries expert and one of the few Death Eaters with true magical finesse, stepped forward and raised his wand.

“The outer matrix is layered. Defensive wards keyed to blood and family signature… there’s a reactive loop. I’ll need to…”

“You’re stalling,” snapped Bellatrix.

“I’m disarming it,” Rookwood muttered, beads of sweat forming on his temple. “If you rush it, it’ll trip the alarm ward-”

“I don’t care if it trips,” Voldemort said.

He stepped forward, past them all.

Lucius moved to speak and thought better of it.

Voldemort raised his wand. The air thickened, magic coiling tightly in the hollow of the world, as if even the trees were holding breath.

“Finite Arcana,” he whispered and the whisper struck like a bell.

The wards buckled. A pulse of force rippled outward, momentarily freezing even the insects in the grass.

They held. Flickered. Reasserted. Voldemort’s eyes narrowed in mild disdain.

He lifted his wand again and slashed it down through the air like a blade.

With a sound like shattering glass dragged across stone, the protective enchantments exploded. They were not dispelled. They were destroyed.

The earth groaned beneath their feet. Lanterns in the manor’s windows flickered wildly. Somewhere within, a dog began barking furiously.

The wards were gone. The manor stood defenceless before them.

Voldemort smiled, slow and thin.

“Make them scream.”

Chapter Text

The bedroom was filled with soft, golden light from a floating candle that bobbed gently near the ceiling, casting flickers across the wallpaper, a parade of dancing broomsticks and giggling cauldrons. It was past Neville’s bedtime, but Frank was letting him ride atop his shoulders like a miniature general, arms raised, chortling with delight as he bounced up and down.

“Neville Longbottom,” Frank said with mock solemnity, pacing slowly across the room. “Bravest Auror in the Department.”

“Bravest and the chunkiest,” Alice laughed, sitting cross-legged on the bed, her wand twirling absently between her fingers as she watched them. “You’ll flatten your father before you ever flatten a Dark wizard, sweetheart.”

Neville let out a gurgling war cry, full of mischief. His chubby fists tangled into Frank’s thick sandy hair, and Frank winced playfully, catching him by the ankles before he tumbled off.

Frank Longbottom was tall and broad-shouldered, with a square jaw and the kind of calm that rarely cracked. His Auror robes hung over the back of the rocking chair in the corner, worn at the cuffs, still faintly smelling of smoke and damp alleyways. His eyes; kind, focused, just a little tired, met Alice’s over Neville’s squirming head, and they shared a quiet look.

He was still the man she’d fallen for at the Department - earnest, brilliant, and stubborn as stone. But now, more than ever, he was a father. The lines around his mouth were deeper. His silences were longer.

Alice reached out and scooped Neville off, settling him into her lap. He smelled like baby shampoo and biscuits, soft and warm and utterly trusting. His dark blond curls stuck up in tufts. He had her chin and Frank’s wide brown eyes, which blinked up at her now with contentment.

Fifteen months old. Merlin. Had it only been that long?

Her fingers drifted through Neville’s curls as her mind wandered, unbidden and unwelcome, to that night.

Dumbledore had come quietly. No notice. No summons. Just a soft knock and a tired look in his eyes.

“There’s a prophecy,” he had said, his voice heavier than she’d ever heard it. “It may concern your son.”

He hadn’t said more than that. Not in so many words. But he hadn’t needed to. The unspoken weight in his gaze had told them enough. Voldemort was watching. Choosing. Weighing destinies like bones in a scale.

She remembered gripping Frank’s hand so tightly it had left crescents in his palm.

There had been fear, of course. How could there not be? But underneath the fear… there had been something else. A flicker of pride. Guilt-ridden, quiet, buried. The thought that their son, their Neville, might be part of something bigger. That perhaps he could be the one to end all this.

But they were Aurors. Soldiers of the Ministry of Magic. The ones who hunted dark wizards. They didn’t have the luxury of hiding behind wards and charms while others bled in the streets. They had argued with Dumbledore. Hesitated. Fidelius Charm was a beautiful idea, but impractical. Their house was a waypoint for the Resistance. The Ministry needed them. There was always a floo call at midnight. A door creaking open at dawn.

And so, they had done the next best thing. Strengthened the protective wards. Charms layered thrice over. Hideouts created. Routines changed. Escape routes memorized. Neville never out of sight. Never.

Still, it never felt like enough.

Alice looked up, her gaze falling to the window, where the grounds below was quiet, a soft breeze playing through the trees. She tried not to think about how many people would have to lay their lives on the line if it came to that. The Prewetts. Tamsin. Emmeline. Caradoc. Alastor. Marius. Jonas. Her father-in-law. Even dear little Dedalus. They would fight tooth and wand for Neville. For all of them.

But war had a way of taking without asking. She cradled Neville closer, his head now tucked under her round, innocent face, and pressed a soft kiss to his curls.

“Sleep, love,” she whispered, voice catching.

It wasn’t a sound, not at first.

More like a snap in the fabric of the world, as if the world had swallowed a breath and didn’t know how to exhale again.

Then came the sound: a distant scream of splintering magic, like iron rending itself apart.

The wards had fallen.

Alice froze, her eyes meeting Frank’s across the room as the wards shivered and fell. In that single glance passed a thousand words: love, fear, apology, and the unspoken vow to stand together until the very end.

With practiced urgency, Alice swept Neville into her arms as Frank rushed to the far corner of the nursery, pulling a lever hidden behind a false panel. The wall groaned open, revealing a narrow, magically concealed alcove - just large enough for a child. Alice kissed Neville’s forehead, her hands trembling, before nestling him inside and sealing the entrance with a whispered charm.

“Positions!” bellowed Alastor Moody from downstairs, his voice already sharp with command. “Wands out. Now!”

Bootsteps thundered across the manor. Aurors and Order members poured into the main hall, eyes sharp, expressions grim.

Alice bolted down the stairs two at a time, robes flaring behind her. “That wasn’t a breach Alastor. That was an obliteration.”

“They crushed the outer barrier,” said Jonas Fleet, a scarred Auror with a limp and a slow, methodical drawl. “Like snapping twigs.”

“I tried casting a Patronus. Nothing went out,” said Moody grimly. “They’ve ringed us in tight. No messages, no tracking spells. We’re boxed.”

“Then we need someone out,” said Caradoc Dearborn. “Someone has to get through and warn the old man.”

Alice’s eyes flicked towards the east hallway towards the greenhouse.

“We’ll figure that in a second,” said Moody. “Defence patterns for now. Push them into the main entry. That’s our best chokepoint.”

“We’ve only got a few seconds,” muttered Marius Thorne, a young Order recruit with a quiet voice and twitchy wand grip. “Wards are gone. They’re probably already…”

The front doors exploded inward.

They came like a tidal wave of black.

Dozens upon dozens of Death Eaters, burst through the entry in a coordinated strike, spells cutting like blades through the air. Bolts of sickly green and red light flooded the front hall.

Jonas took one in the leg immediately, collapsing behind a column with a grunt.

“Shields up!” shouted Alice, vaulting over an overturned table.

Marius covered her left, throwing a blinding stunner that caught one masked figure square in the chest. “One down!”

“For now,” Jonas grunted, the pain in his legs still flaring but managed to cast a slicing hex across the room from the floor.

Frank appeared at Alice’s side, face already covered in soot, wand sparking with residual heat. “The Prewetts, Dedalus and Tamsin are holding the back corridor for now! But the Death Eaters are hammering every line of defence.”

“Greenhouse side?”

“Still quiet. We can get someone out now, or we lose the chance.”

A thunderous crack echoed from the kitchen hall.

Frank Longbottom Sr. stepped into the fray; tall, broad, with white hair swept back and wand already raised.

“Not going to let you lot have all the fun,” he growled. “Let’s give ‘em hell.”

Moody gave him a swift nod. “Glad to see retirement hasn’t made you soft.”

“Wife says I’m insufferable without a war.”

Frank Sr. moved with remarkable precision, blasting a masked figure back through the doorway with a flaming lariat spell and shielding Jonas with his offhand.

Moody pointed to Emmeline. “You’re fastest. Side greenhouse, then run. Patronus Dumbledore once you’re clear.”

Emmeline nodded once, eyes fierce. “Cover me.”

Frank and Alice surged forward in tandem, casting synchronized hexes that shattered a Death Eater’s shield and sent him spinning into the fireplace. Jonas, gritting his teeth, dragged himself upright and added a blinding flare that lit up the hall like lightning.

“Go!” Frank shouted.

Emmeline ducked into the side corridor and vanished.

The fight escalated, brutal and breathless.

Caradoc shielded Frank Sr. as the old Auror blasted a trio of enemies with a chain hex that arced through the chandelier.

Jonas, despite his wounds, kept casting from cover, narrowly saving Marius from a cutting curse.

Marius conjured a wall of thorned vines, trapping Rodolphus Lestrange long enough for Moody to shatter his mask and wand with a thunder spell.

Frank Sr. grabbed Jonas by the collar and flung him clear of a killing curse but caught the rebound of another hex straight to his chest. He staggered, knees buckling.

Alice reached for him but he raised his wand one last time and muttered, “Reducto.”

The last of his strength tore a smoking hole in the stairwell and three Death Eaters with it.

He collapsed beside the family coat of arms, eyes still blazing.

They fell one by one.

Jonas bled out behind the statue of an old Longbottom ancestor.

Caradoc shielded Marius from a Killing curse, then took a bone-shatter curse to the ribs. He hit the ground hard, coughing blood.

“Cover him!” Alice barked, vaulting over a broken banister and firing off a trio of hexes so fast the air burned.

Caradoc gritted his teeth. “I’m fine,” he rasped.

He wasn't. But he still managed to take down another attacker with a wide-angle flame hex before a second curse slammed into his chest; and this time, he didn’t get up.

Marius, clever, wide-eyed Marius, managed to hex Dolohov’s wand arm before Bellatrix’s slicing hex hit him across the chest.

Alice screamed as he went down, her voice hoarse.

Frank reached her side. “They’re breaching the rear wing!”

“They can’t get near the nursery,” Alice said.

“They won’t.”

They shared one look. A soldier’s look. A lover’s look. And then they surged upstairs to hold the stairwell.

From below, there came a sudden hush.

And then clear as a blade drawn in silence, they heard it. Voldemort’s voice, cold and commanding, curling through the air like frost through a crack.

“Bring me the boy.”

A look of grim comprehension passed between Alice and Frank, that same silent language they had honed in the heat of countless battlefields. The kind only shared by two souls who had walked through fire together and now stood at its edge once more.

Their defences, so carefully layered, so meticulously planned had crumbled in seconds. Wards shattered. Time ran out. Everything they had built to protect their son had folded like a badly shuffled deck of Exploding Snap.

There was no final stand left to make. Only one final act of deception.

Alice’s fingers curled tighter around her wand. Frank gave the smallest nod, his eyes glassy with the ache of what must be done.

“For Neville,” she said softly, as though his name might break while saying.

“For Neville,” he echoed, steady even now.

Their eyes never left each other, even as the unspeakable rose in their throats. They took a breath; the kind taken before plunging underwater, or off a cliff’s edge, and said it at once.

“I love you.”

Their wands rose together. No hesitation, no delay.

“Obliviate.”

Two blue jets of light crossed mid-air like a closing pair of wings.

A breath later, there was only silence.

Frank Longbottom blinked, dazed. Across from him, Alice swayed slightly where she stood, eyes vacant, lips parted in some half-formed question.

They looked towards the nursery - at the cot, the plush dragon in the corner, the rattle that still rolled faintly on the floor, and saw nothing familiar. The love that had once filled these walls had been wiped clean. They did not know there had ever been a boy. They did not know they had once been parents.

The world cracked as another spell ripped the floor out from beneath their feet. Frank didn’t even have time to shout. The force lifted him off his feet and then he was falling. His back hit the bannister, then the floor, before he tumbled down the remaining stairs, landing hard in the entrance hall below.

Alice was flung through the upper hall, landing hard, bones screaming in protest. She staggered up, coughing, disoriented. Magic, powerful, ancient, hungry slammed down like a guillotine and the path down the stairwell sealed with violent thud.

She was alone.

“Crucio,” a voice shrieked and Frank’s screams tore through the house like a siren through the silence.

Slumped against the nursery door on the upper landing, Alice heard every sound echoing up from below.

Each scream that tore from Frank’s throat was a blade to her chest, and she pressed her fists against her mouth, as if that could keep the sound out, or the pain in.

“WHERE IS THE BOY?” came the shriek, wild and gleeful and unmistakable. Bellatrix Lestrange.

The Cruciatus Curse made no sound of its own. No sharp crack, no flash of light. Just a whisper of incantation, and then the body broke itself in agony.

Frank screamed again.

“I don’t know!” he choked. “I don’t-please-I don’t have a son-I don’t…”

Alice shut her eyes. Her heart was thundering in her ears, drowning out the world. She knew the Cruciatus. Knew it too well. She had seen seasoned Aurors crumble under it, reduced to twitching wrecks in a matter of seconds. She had withstood it once during a raid gone wrong. The pain was not like fire or knives. No, fire and knives were merciful. The Cruciatus stripped away everything until there was nothing left but raw nerve and white-hot suffering. Until screaming felt like breathing.

And now it was being used on Frank. Her Frank. Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent, helpless tears as her back pressed against the nursery wall, breath shallow and ragged. She tried to rise, to move, to reach the stairs down which Frank’s screams still echoed like gunshots but her limbs felt splintered, hollowed by fear and pain. Her body wouldn’t obey. It was as though her bones had forgotten how to stand.

“Tell us where the brat is!” Bellatrix was practically singing now.

Frank sobbed. “I don’t know! I swear it-I don’t-please-just stop…”

Alice bit down on a sob of her own, trembling.

She had never felt so powerless. Never felt so much rage and grief coil inside her bones. All she knew was that Frank was out there. And she could do nothing. Her muscles trembled, but her mind fled to gentler days, as if trying to shield her from the screams. To the way Frank used to twirl her around the kitchen, humming off-key to the Wireless as the kettle whistled in the background. The way he always burned the toast and insisted it added "character." The time he got flour on his nose and denied it with such mock-seriousness she laughed until her sides ached. She could still feel his fingers brushing flour from her cheek. Still see the glint of mischief in his eyes when he dipped in a mock-dramatic bow, saying, “For you, Mrs. Longbottom, anything.”

Now his voice came twisted by agony, his body breaking under a curse no one should have to bear. But in her heart, he was still there; in a sunlit kitchen, spinning her through magic and love.

And she would have given anything to return there. Anything to take his pain away.

Then, Voldemort came.

Voldemort entered like a shadow given form, red eyes glowing, wand loose and casual in his hand.

“Alice Longbottom,” he said, his voice silked with menace.

She pulled herself upright, wand trembling in her bloodied grip.

“You’ve lost.” There was a quiet amusement in his tone, the kind reserved for watching something break.

Alice’s jaw clenched. “You think this is a victory?”

His red eyes glinted. “Your son will die.”

Something in her expression faltered, just a flicker, quickly buried. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Voldemort took a step closer, wand lowering slightly. “Don’t insult me.”

“I’m not,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I’m telling the truth. I have no son.”

His voice dropped, colder than the wind through the broken windows. “Where is the boy?”

Alice met his gaze, shoulders squared, chin raised. “There is no boy. You’re chasing ghosts.”

A pause. His eyes narrowed, searching her for a lie. She stared back, unwavering.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said again, quieter now, but no less firm.

Voldemort raised his wand with a motion like drawing breath; a cruel smile curled across his pale face. “Then let us see what the truth costs.”

Alice felt it before it happened, the splitting pressure behind her eyes, as if her mind were a door being torn off its hinges. He was inside her thoughts before she could brace herself, ripping through memory and emotion with surgical coldness.

There was no room for resistance. Her mind’s defences crumbled like ash beneath his will.

He moved quickly, ravenous, his presence slithering deeper into her subconscious. Searching.

And then he found it.

A dock, cloaked in Irish mist. A weather-worn ship tethered to its moorings, sails furled like resting wings. Augusta Longbottom stood at the end of the pier, her face tight with fear and resolve, cradling a bundled child to her chest. A soft cry. The creak of timber. The roar of distant waters as the ship vanished beyond the fog. Safety. Secrecy. Shores far away.

Frank, in a final moment of brilliance, had left something in her mind. The final misdirection. A ghost to chase.

A memory half-formed, hazy at the edges. But real enough.

Voldemort recoiled from her mind, his eyes narrowing.

He had seen what he came for.

A trace. A path.

The boy was gone. Beyond his reach.

For now.

Voldemort’s fury snapped through him like a breaking bone. He hissed - animalistic, betrayed. Then, he raised his wand and a bolt of raw green force tore Alice across the room. She hit the panel in the stone wall with a terrible crack and slid down in silence.

She did not move again.

A pulse of cold entered Voldemort’s consciousness. A signal, internal and instinctive.

Peter had activated his mark.

Dumbledore has left.

The Potter house was unguarded.

He turned without a word and disapparated, the nursery flickering dark behind him.

He never saw the photograph fall beside Alice’s broken wand. In it, Frank Longbottom beamed, triumphant, holding a laughing baby Neville aloft like a prized Quidditch Cup. Beside him, Alice reached up with both hands, half-exasperated, half-laughing herself, trying to wrangle a woollen jumper over Neville’s flailing arms. The glass had cracked, but the joy inside it remained untouched.

And he never heard the soft creak of the panel as the hidden lever clicked into motion, nor the quiet thud of tiny hands as Neville clambered out on all fours, cheeks flushed with sleep, crawling towards his mother’s motionless form with the innocent belief that they were still playing hide and seek.

Chapter Text

The silver fox slipped through the warded walls like moonlight - graceful, breathless, and afraid. It spoke in Emmeline Vance’s voice, thin with fear and urgency.

“The Longbottoms are under attack! You-Know-Who is here. Dumbledore-please, come-”

The Patronus vanished with a ripple of starlight. Lily Potter felt the cold settle over her skin like snow.

Albus Dumbledore didn’t speak.

He stood still, his eyes locked on the last shimmer of the message, shoulders drawn tight in his plum robes. His gaze drifted slowly to the sitting room window, to the fog-streaked night beyond.

He said nothing. Because he already knew what he had to do.

James rose first. “You have to go.”

Dumbledore’s expression darkened, his gaze flicking towards the curtained windows. “I shouldn't leave you. Not tonight. Not with what this could mean. They might strike here too.”

Lily drew a steadying breath. “We’re under the Fidelius, Albus. The charm holds. And the others, they need you more.”

“She’s right. If they fall, we might lose everything,” James stepped up beside them, as if he were itching to leap into the fray himself, the fire of battle flickering just behind his eyes, barely held in check by the weight of duty. His voice was low but urgent. “Voldemort’s finally shown his face in the open again. First time in months. This could well be the last throw of the dice.”

Dumbledore hesitated, torn.

“And we’ll be alright,” Lily said softly, though her knuckles had gone white around her wand.

James nodded firmly, glancing between the two of them. “We trust the charm Albus. And we trust our friends.”

Dumbledore looked at them both; Lily’s fierce intelligence, James’s defiant steadiness. Something inside him ached. He saw them not just as the parents of a child bound to the prophecy, but as what they were: good people. Full of love and magic and conviction. People who had chosen war when they could have chosen safety.

And both so terribly, heartbreakingly young.

“I will go,” Dumbledore said quietly. “And I will send someone to watch over Godric’s Hollow. The Order will keep vigil. You will not be left alone for long.”

“Thank you,” Lily whispered.

And without another word, Albus Dumbledore stepped out of the cottage and vanished into the night.

After he left, the silence felt deeper.

There were nights when James still saw the flames. Smoke rising from what used to be his home, curling through shattered beams and rafters. The Dark Mark had hovered above the wreckage like a brand. The message had been clear: the Potters had refused to kneel, and Voldemort had made an example of them.

He had been in his final year at Hogwarts when the news arrived. One owl. A few terse lines. Everything ended, just like that.

For a while, he drifted. Numb. Angry. The kind of anger that turned inward until it burned everything in its path. It was Dumbledore who pulled him out. He hadn’t consoled him; James hadn’t wanted that, but he gave him purpose.

“There is work to be done,” the old man had said, his voice quiet but resolute. “And very few with the heart to do it.”

The Order of the Phoenix had been a whisper back then, spoken in shadowed corridors and quiet corners where hope seemed all but extinguished. Long before the Ministry mounted any real resistance against Voldemort’s growing incursion, there had been this: a handful of witches and wizards, brave, or perhaps reckless enough to stand against the tide. No politics. No ambition. Just a promise. A flicker of defiance. A desperate hope for a world free of fear.

James had taken that chance. He had nothing left to lose, and everything to fight for. He hadn’t hesitated. He had said yes the same night.

So did Sirius. And Remus.

Even Peter, with a nervous smile and shaking hands.

They’d been inseparable since their first year; brothers not by blood, but by choice. The four of them had survived detentions, full moons, heartbreaks, and adolescent chaos. They’d created their own world with maps and nicknames, created spells and undergone transformations and somehow, that foolish, unwavering loyalty had carried them through to this.

They’d all joined not because they weren’t afraid but because they were. And because they knew the only way out was through. The Marauders had always been reckless, brilliant, and fiercely loyal. They had chosen to fight.

And for the first time since he’d lost his parents, James felt like he was doing something that mattered. When he stood beside his comrades from the Order, wands drawn and hearts battered but unbroken, he remembered what it meant to be a Potter - stubborn, loyal, and unwilling to yield.

“Do you think they will come for us?” Lily’s voice cut gently through the fog of James’s thoughts.

He leaned against the mantel, fingers brushing a photo in which, Harry, no more than a year old, zoomed about on a tiny toy broom, his hair a wild blur of black as he giggled madly. James, arms outstretched to catch him, wore an exaggerated grimace just as Harry swooped and bonked him square on the nose. Behind them, Lily had collapsed onto the grass, laughing so hard her eyes were squeezed shut, her red hair tumbling over her shoulders.

The image looped endlessly, joy captured in motion, too young to know the shadow creeping near.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But if they do… we’re ready.”

They had placed so much trust in the magic and in the man who held their secret.

Trust would be their last mistake.

Lily checked the nursery one final time.

There, in the centre of the nursery, stood the cradle - small, elegant, carved with stars. It held the place of quiet honour in the room, bathed in the pale light spilling through the curtained window.

Lily stepped closer, her breath catching as she looked down.

Swaddled in runed blankets, the child inside appeared still. Too still. Then the barest shift of movement. A soft twitch of the hand. And then stillness again.

Her stomach twisted, even now.

What lay before her wasn’t Harry.

Not really.

It was the echo of him, something she had crafted in desperation and agony, woven together from blood, bone, and breath. A carefully crafted illusion drawn from the fringes of traditional knowledge. A homunculus. Its magical signature pulsed faintly beneath the skin, a near-perfect mimicry of her son’s. Even a skilled Legilimens would be fooled for a time. Perhaps long enough.

James had been horrified when she first asked for what she needed. The body of a dead child. She had whispered it in pieces, almost unable to say the words aloud. And James, his face grey with revulsion, had argued and pleaded. But in the end, he understood the need. He had travelled the country in secret, slipping between towns with a grief he couldn’t comprehend. He had visited muggle mortuaries under assumed names, asking after unclaimed bodies, hoping he’d find what he needed. One day, he found an infant, unnamed, unclaimed, and utterly forgotten; lying in cold stillness, waiting for someone who never came.

Lily had worked in silence, hands trembling even as her magic obeyed. Every rune was etched through a veil of tears; for the child who had lost his life, for the mother who would never know, and for herself, becoming someone capable of this. Of turning to obscure, dark magic. Of crossing lines, she had once sworn to never approach. Becoming like the very people she had vowed to stand against. She had broken down more than once in the process; sick with guilt, with shame, with the horror of what love was forcing her to become. And with every breath, she whispered apologies to the child, to the mother and to her own soul.

But in the end, she had done it. For Harry.

This thing lying silent in the cot was a safeguard. A decoy. A sin carved in runes and blood to buy her son a chance. It was her unthinkable answer to an impossible question. If the Fidelius charm failed, if every safeguard crumbled, the abomination would be there, already lying in Harry’s cot, its breath faint but measured. And maybe, just maybe, Voldemort would never know the difference.

And somewhere far from the wreckage, Harry might have a chance to live.

She’d always been called the brightest witch of her generation.

Not many remembered that now. She hadn’t sought fame, not like James or Sirius. But Lily had been the girl who could conjure an entire flock of birds by her second year. Who brewed a flawless Draught of the Living Death before most of her classmates had even mastered Forgetfulness Potions. Who once restructured a shielding charm so elegantly and efficiently that even Professor Flitwick had asked for a copy of her notes.

She only hoped that all of that brilliance, all the quiet, tireless cleverness would be enough to give her son a chance to live.

The silver rattle on the shelf continued to hum faintly, its enchanted melody looping through soft, tinny notes. The music drifted through the nursery like a sigh.

Half-buried beneath a scatter of plush creatures and wooden toys, in an unassuming cot pushed back against the far wall, the real Harry Potter slept soundly. His jet-black hair sticking up at odd angles stubbornly immune to his mother’s every attempt to tame it. Long lashes fanned over soft, pale skin as he slumbered gently, lost to dreams. One tiny hand was curled tight around the pendant at his neck - a sliver of silver shaped into a stag standing in a field of lilies.

She had been putting the final touches on the pendant when Dumbledore arrived. It was one of her own designs, delicate and deceptively simple. The pendant was a portkey, calibrated to recognise danger and activate instantly.

It was her final insurance. The last door, should every other fail.

Lily had agonised for days over where to anchor the portkey’s destination. She ran through countless possibilities, each less reassuring than the last. In the end, she settled on a conclusion, dissatisfying, but prudent.

They were hidden under the Fidelius Charm. Protected by Dumbledore himself. If harm reached them despite that, it would mean something unthinkable: their friends compromised, Dumbledore outmanoeuvred, and the war truly lost. In such a world, the only safe harbour left might be one far from magic entirely.

So, she chose her sister.

Petunia was cold, rigid, and had never truly forgiven Lily for being different. She resented the world Lily belonged to. Her husband, Vernon, was worse - loud, narrow-minded, and proudly ignorant. They belonged to a world that had no room for magic, or anything that strayed beyond the ordinary.

And yet Lily believed that Petunia wouldn’t turn away a child. Not Harry. She had made her promise before she went into hiding: if the worst ever came to pass, Petunia would take him in. Give him shelter. A roof. A name. A sliver of safety.

It wouldn’t be love. It might not even be kindness. But it would be life.

They were blood. And blood, Lily knew, still carried power - ancient, binding, and undeniable.

She looked at Harry.

Your life for mine. Without question.

Downstairs, the air changed.

It was like magic held its breath.

She heard James swear. “He’s here.”

Lily ran down the landing, her feet barely touching the stairs as she reached James.

“Go,” he said, voice rough with urgency. “Take Harry and run. Please, Lily. Keep him safe.”

“But I can-”

“No.” His eyes locked with hers, fierce and unyielding. He touched her face, tender but steady, voice low but urgent. “You know the plan. I’ll hold him off. Just go!”

She kissed him, quickly, fiercely, like she’d done a thousand times and ran.

Then came the sound. Like thunder breaking in reverse.

The wards screamed.

James Potter stood his ground.

The door exploded inward with a thunderous crack, splinters flying like shrapnel. The air turned colder, heavier, as if recoiling from the presence now standing on the threshold.

A figure stepped through; tall, hooded, pale as bone, robes rippling like smoke in the windless air.

Voldemort.

“James Potter,” he said, voice silken and cruel, amused as if greeting an old acquaintance. “Three times you’ve escaped me.”

James didn’t respond. He flicked his wand.

The chandelier overhead twisted in an instant, transfigured into a rain of jagged iron spikes. They fell like spears.

Voldemort flicked his wand lazily. The metal burst into flames midair, vanishing into ash.

“Clever,” Voldemort murmured. “But pointless.”

James’s response was wordless, a jet of white-hot fire shaped into a griffin, talons outstretched, wings unfurled. It screeched as it launched down the hallway.

Voldemort sidestepped, letting the spell burn past him, scorching the wall and setting the tapestries aflame. In the red light, James cast again, a battering wind that smashed through the corridor, sending chairs and shattered portraits tumbling.

The duel began in earnest.

Voldemort moved like smoke; each spell laced with cruel precision. Walls convulsed and twisted under his magic, wallpaper peeling back into thorns, wooden beams snapping into spears.

James countered. He deflected a curse that would have turned his lungs to ice. Rebounded another that twisted gravity underfoot. He conjured a net of lightning, a binding spell woven with desperate brilliance. For a heartbeat, Voldemort paused.

Then green light shattered it apart.

They circled, spells firing like lightning, the house groaning under the strain. Paintings screamed and fled their frames. The grandfather clock in the hall warped into a hissing serpent. James transfigured it back mid-duel only to block a curse that melted the tiles beneath his feet.

His robes were scorched, his wand-arm numb, but he stood fast.

He knew he couldn’t win.

But he could stall.

And stall he did.

For every second gained it was another moment for Lily. Another heartbeat for Harry.

Upstairs, Lily frantically tried to activate the portkey. Again. And again.

It should have triggered when the wards fell. That was the plan. That was the plan!

But there were no familiar ripples of magic, only silence. The pendant pulsed once, a faint silver glow flickering at its core… then stilled, inert once more. She clutched at the silver pendant around Harry’s neck, willing it to glow again, to react, to do something.

He broke the wards too quickly. Merlin… Voldemort crushed our protections and caged us in the same breath. With the same spell!

Her mouth went dry. Her wand trembled. There’s no way out. He’s here. He’s coming. She clutched Harry to her chest, one final time.

I thought I had more time. I thought I could save you.

She tried to send a Patronus. The spell fizzled, shattered in midair. Wards. Thick, suffocating. Nothing would get through. It was like the house was sealed in magic-tight glass.

She turned to Harry. He was awake now, bright green eyes blinking at her with sleepy confusion.

She kissed his forehead and whispered, “I’m so sorry, love.”

The blast that ended the duel rattled the very bones of the house. James was gone, a flash of brilliance, extinguished. Harry had begun to cry, a sharp, startled wail that cut through the thick, smoky air. Lily was already there, in the far corner of the nursery, gathering him into her arms. She held him close, whispering soft, desperate comforts as his small fists clutched at her collar.

She hadn’t thought to grab her wand. Her only instinct had been to reach her son.

And through the smoke and silence, Voldemort stepped forward.

He stepped into the nursery like death on velvet - soundless, inexorable. He stopped by the cradle where the homunculus moved slightly within its rune-etched blankets, its magical signature pulsing faintly.

In the shadowed corner, a child in Lily’s arms. A flicker of something passed over his face. Not fear, but confusion. Genuine, sharp.

And he smiled though it did not reach his eyes. “Brilliant,” he said softly, the word falling like silk. “What a clever little trick.”

Lily gently lowered Harry back into the cradle, her fingers lingering for a breath too long on his cheek. Then she turned and stood tall between Voldemort and her son. Her limbs shook, but she shielded the cot with her body.

Harry looked up from behind her with wide, wondering eyes, no understanding; only the quiet curiosity of a child too young to fear monsters.

Voldemort tilted his head, the pale hollows of his face unreadable. “Step aside,” he said, almost kindly. But it was not pity, never pity, but the cold mimicry of it, a cruel echo designed only to hurt more.

“Please,” Lily whispered, her voice cracking. “He’s just a baby. He’s done nothing-he doesn’t even know what’s happening. Please…kill me instead.”

“Such love,” he murmured, tilting his head. “It’s wasted, you know. Love doesn’t stop death.”

She shook her head, inching back until her spine hit the cot. She reached a hand forward, trembling, and grabbed the hem of his cloak.

“Please,” she begged, voice breaking into a sob. “Don’t hurt him.”

“Step aside,” Voldemort repeated, and this time the chill had returned to his voice.

“No-please-he’s my son…”

“Step aside, girl,” he said, sounding almost weary now. “You needn’t die for this.”

Lily held fast.

She flung her arms wide before the cradle like a final ward, her frame a fragile fortress of flesh and love, as if her will alone could hold back death. Her hands trembled but did not lower. Her vivid green eyes, bright with the fire of sacrifice locked onto his, a silent storm of plea and defiance. She looked like someone walking to the gallows with her chin held high, not because she did not fear death, but because she refused to let it take her child without a fight.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t run. She simply looked into the face of the darkest wizard of the age and stayed exactly where she was.

“I’m begging you,” she whispered.

Voldemort raised his wand. “The boy must die.” His whisper coiled around the room like smoke, low and close, as though he was already in her ear.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Green light flared. The Killing Curse, ancient and unforgivable, surged through the air like a judgement passed, hungry to claim yet another soul.

Lily’s body crumpled. She had not raised her wand. She had not resisted.

She had only loved - fiercely, wholly, without condition.

And in that love, she cast the oldest, most sacred magic the world had long forgotten.
A magic not found in books or incantations, but born of blood and sacrifice. And something ancient stirred in its wake.

The silence that followed was not empty.  It was infinite. It was absolute.

Harry Potter, now alone in the cot, pushed himself to his feet on wobbling legs.

His mother lay still, her warmth fading. He didn’t understand. But he felt the absence.

A soft, uncertain sound bubbled from his lips, “Mama…?”

He tottered forward, clutching the bars of the cot, reaching out a chubby hand towards the dark figure now looming above.

A curious babble left his mouth, half-question, half-call.

The figure raised his wand. No hesitation. No mercy.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The spell hit the boy.

The curse rebounded not simply in a flash, but as if it was flung backwards by the universe itself.

The nursery warped, its walls bending inward as if reality itself could not bear the weight of what had been unravelled.

Voldemort staggered. His wand flared once, violently, and then disintegrated into a fine dust, falling through his fingers like ash from a funeral pyre.

He screamed. But it was not human. It was the raw, soundless howling of something ancient being torn from the fabric of the world.

His body convulsed, caved in on itself like a dying star and then exploded outward in a white-hot burst of green flame and corrupted magic.

The blast consumed everything in its path. Walls turned to smoke. Floorboards scorched black. Fire devoured the air. The house groaned, cracked, and wept in timber.

At that precise moment, with the roar of broken magic still echoing through the hollowed bones of the house, the wards that Voldemort had erected, collapsed.

And then the pendant at Harry’s neck blazed with sudden, searing light.

The portkey flared and Harry vanished just before the first flames could lick at his tiny frame. He was swallowed by light, spirited away by the last spell his mother ever cast. The cradle stood empty.

What followed was silence. A stillness so absolute it rang like a bell.

When the Order arrived minutes later, the ruins still smouldered.

The guard Dumbledore had promised, four figures in soot-streaked cloaks approached through the haze. First to reach the rubble was Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts and dearest of friends to James and Lily. He stepped into the wreckage with extreme care. His massive frame trembled, not from cold but from grief, as he crossed the threshold of shattered wood and scorched carpet. Smoke clung to the ruin like mourning cloth, and Hagrid’s breath hitched as he took in the silence that had once been a home.

They found the remains of the nursery first. Broken furniture lay scattered, splintered and charred, remnants of a life torn asunder. What had once been a child’s cot now lay in ruins, its frame shattered beyond recognition, while plush toys, once loved and cradled, were obliterated and strewn about in a cruel mockery of innocence.

A small, charred figure among the wreckage. Too small. Too still. Next to it was Lily, burnt almost beyond recognition. And then, at the foot of the stairs, James, crushed and broken.

All silent. All gone.

“No,” Hagrid said hoarsely.

He dropped to his knees beside Lily, his massive shoulders trembling like a felled mountain.

“Lily… no… not yeh… not little Harry…”

His voice cracked as he turned, crawling through the rubble on hands too large for such delicate loss.

“James, lad…” he whispered, kneeling by the broken figure at the stairs. He tried to say more, to call out, to plead, but no words came out. His lips trembled with the weight of impossible hope, as if sheer will might wake them. As if this were just a nightmare, and any moment now, they'd stir.

And then his gaze swept the wreckage, as if searching, hoping for a miracle in the ashes.

But the only thing left in the ruins was loss.

Chapter Text

The wind howled down the lane behind him, catching at his cloak as Albus Dumbledore stepped beyond the protective threshold of the Potter’s cottage leaving behind prophecy, and a future on the knife’s edge.

With a flick of his wand, two silver phoenixes burst forth, wings catching the moonlight as they soared into the night, their shimmering trails slicing through the dark, silver cries against the rising storm. No flourish, no delay, only purpose. One veered north towards Hogwarts. The other disappeared south, towards the Ministry, cutting through the clouds. He could only hope it wasn’t already too late.

He turned on the spot and vanished.

He apparated with a thunderclap just outside the Longbottom estate, a hilltop manor nestled in silence that no longer felt natural.

Too quiet, he thought. Too still.

The air was heavy, thick with dark enchantments.

He raised his wand, eyes cold behind half-moon spectacles.

With a twist of his wrist, the wards set up by the Death Eaters folded like cloth, unraveling at his touch. He walked through the perimeter like a blade cutting through silk.

The front lawn was soaked in magic and blood.

Half the garden had been scorched black. A greenhouse on the side, shattered. Broken glass glittered under the pale moon like teeth. And at the base of the grand steps, beneath the flickering porch lamps, the duel still raged.

Bellatrix Lestrange was laughing, unhinged, as she flung curses at Emmeline Vance, her wild hair flickering with flame and fury. Rodolphus and Rabastan stood back-to-back, their spells sharp and synchronized, a deadly dance of defence and retaliation. Barty Crouch Jr., pale, snarling, his eyes alight with fanatic glee had his wand trained on Alastor Moody, who, bloodied from a gash along his shoulder, returned fire with grim precision.

Masked Death Eaters moved like shadows between the smoke and ruin, hurling hexes and fire. One of them sent a purple curse crashing into a stone wall near Gideon Prewett, who ducked low and retaliated with a blinding flash of blue. Fabian Prewett covered him, his wand moving in swift, slashing arcs as he blocked a volley of jinxes. Dedalus Diggle, his hat lost somewhere in the chaos, conjured a rain of glass-shard hexes that tore through a flanking ambush, shouting encouragements between gasping breaths.

It was chaos, fire and fury against grit and desperation. The Order held their ground, but the tide was rising. Every second was bought in blood.

And surrounding them were bodies. Three Death Eaters sprawled lifeless in the rosebeds, limbs twisted unnaturally. Another had fallen face-down in the gravel path, wand clutched in a rigid fist. Two more were crumpled near the side gate, their masks cracked, blood darkening the ivy. The last lay slumped over the shattered garden wall, smoke still curling from his robes.

Dumbledore lifted his wand. The air cracked.

Chains of liquid gold shot from his wandtip, precise as lightning. They wrapped around Rabastan first, then Barty, binding wrists to shoulders. Rodolphus tried to shield his brother, but was blasted into the manor wall, crumpling in a heap with a grunt.

Bellatrix turned, wild-eyed. “You!”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said softly, stepping forward.

She shrieked and hurled a slicing hex that curved like a serpent. Dumbledore deflected it without a flicker of emotion, his wand dancing like a whisper across piano keys. A second later, the earth surged upward beneath Bellatrix, then hardened, entombing her to the waist. She screamed, her upper body thrashing wildly above the ground.

The other Death Eaters, already unleashing fire and fury across the grounds, turned sharply as one; wands snapping towards Dumbledore the moment they registered his presence, and surged into motion.

Bolts of dark magic and unforgivables lanced towards Dumbledore, jagged spells meant to maim or kill. Dumbledore’s wand became a blur. He moved like flowing water, cloak billowing, spells shattering harmlessly against conjured shields or dissipating mid-air under his calm counter-charms. Fire twisted, ice cracked, lightning arced and still he advanced, expression unreadable.

Panic began to ripple through the crowd.

Some of the masked figures broke formation, backing away slowly, then turning to run. They knew Dumbledore’s reputation; that he would not kill, that he would seek to capture rather than destroy. And that mercy, they realized, could be exploited.

The more pragmatic among them, those who’d joined Voldemort for power rather than faith, began to flee. Disillusionment Charms flickered as cowards turned invisible and bolted. Others used Apparition, vanishing in hissing cracks. One hurled a final Reducto over his shoulder as he disappeared. One screamed as a golden chain caught him mid-turn, yanking him backward into the mud.

By now, the air shimmered with residual spells, each collision lighting the dark with flashes of silver, violet, and red. The force of Dumbledore’s counter-curses warped the space around him like heat on stone.

Dumbledore’s power was not just visible. It was palpable, a pressure in the air, a storm in waiting. With a gesture, he turned a curse to ash; with another, he redirected three spells to crash into one another mid-flight. He conjured a silver net that crackled as it snapped over two more masked figures, binding them mid-sprint.

Even the more aggressive Death Eaters faltered. The display was too controlled, too effortless as though Dumbledore were not duelling but conducting an orchestra, his wand the baton and the battlefield his stage.

By the time the last few tried to mount a coordinated stand, most of their number had already vanished.

A handful stayed behind, whether too zealous or too slow to escape. They regrouped, desperate, flinging curses in a mad flurry - Fiendfyre sparks, Slicing Hexes, even a wild Killing Curse that Dumbledore sidestepped with the barest turn of his heel. His response was silent: an Incarcerous sent golden ropes streaking from his wand, ensnaring three at once.

Above them, clouds began to churn. Dumbledore raised his wand once more and, with a sound like snapping thunder sent a wave of pulsating magic outward. Time seemed to lag for a moment, enough to freeze the last runner in mid-step before golden ropes bound him midair like an insect in amber.

Silence fell at last, broken only by Bellatrix’s ragged, furious screams and the clinking of golden chains.

It was not a duel. It was a demonstration.

In under a couple of minutes, they were all subdued - stunned, bound, and disarmed.

Alastor Moody limped forward, blood seeping from beneath his collar. His eyes, sharp, wary, and set beneath a heavy brow, scanned the scene with grim precision. His face was a patchwork of scars, his nose badly misshapen, and his grizzled hair stuck to his brow with sweat.

“Albus,” he growled.

Dumbledore inclined his head. “You’ve held long. I apologize for the delay.”

“Wasn’t expecting a full damn battalion.”

“They weren’t expecting such tough resistance either.”

Behind him, flashes of Apparition signalled the arrival of Ministry Aurors and more Order members.

Lucius Malfoy, Dolohov, Mulciber and Nott; the more renowned of the Death Eaters, had fled promptly upon Dumbledore’s arrival.

And Augustus Rookwood, lurking in the shadows of the trees, pulled a torn Ministry cloak over his Death Eater robes and walked calmly into the reinforcements, just another late-arriving Ministry employee

No one noticed.

The shattered door creaked on its hinges as Dumbledore stepped inside, the ruined threshold giving way to a house that had fought to the last breath.

The entryway bore the marks of violence - scorched stone, shattered sconces, spells burned into the air. The body of a Death Eater slumped at the foot of the staircase, one arm flung out as though reaching for something. Another was sprawled against the far wall, a dark smear trailing where he'd slid down. Near the base of a toppled suit of armor, a couple lay motionless beneath twisted metal, smoke curling faintly from their robes.

“Where’s Voldemort?” he asked quietly.

Moody shook his head. “He went upstairs mid-assault. Separated Alice from the rest of us. No one’s seen him since.”

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed slightly.

And then it passed through them.

A shift. Not a sound. Not a tremor. But a lurch in the magical fabric itself. Like a string plucked at the core of the world.

Moody stopped cold.

“You felt that?” he asked, voice low.

“Yes,” Dumbledore murmured. “The magic... It felt like it was unravelling from the core.”

Moody turned to face him fully. “That wasn’t any kind of escape spell. That was something being ripped free. Something ending.”

Dumbledore didn’t reply at once. His face was still, and yet behind the stillness thoughts raced like wildfire.

“Could it be…?” Moody prompted.

Dumbledore looked up the staircase, towards where Voldemort had last gone. Towards Alice. Towards Neville.

“It’s possible,” he said slowly. “If he confronted Alice…if Neville…if the prophecy…”

He didn’t finish.

Moody nodded grimly. “She was a hell of a duellist. Out of her depth, maybe, but… she’d die swinging.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly, as if listening to something only he could hear.

“If what we felt was his destruction,” he said softly, “it would explain the silence. that hollow stillness, like the echo that follows a scream.”

“What if it wasn’t?” Moody asked.

Dumbledore opened his eyes again, glinting like cracked glass in the hallway’s dim light.

“Then we are standing in the quiet between two storms.”

The grandeur of the entrance hall had been twisted by war. Spells had torn open the wood panelling, portraits lay scorched and silent in their frames, and smoke clung to the ceiling like a dying ghost.

Just ahead, beneath the family coat of arms, a proud lion rampant beneath the words Virtus Ex Tenebris, lay Frank Longbottom Sr., crumpled on his side, wand still clutched in a rigid hand.

Dumbledore paused beside him, eyes shadowed.

Three wars, he thought. One man, and this is how the last one took him.

Behind the shattered pedestal of a stone statue of a Longbottom ancestor with sword raised in defiance, he spotted the slumped bodies of Jonas Fleet and Caradoc Dearborn, their robes scorched, wands fallen at their sides. Both had gone down shielding the other.

Beyond them, Marius Thorne lay collapsed in a corner, his chest split clean through by a slashing hex, blood soaked into the intricate carpet like ink on parchment.

Dumbledore bowed his head, briefly closing his eyes.

They weren't soldiers. Not really. Just men who stood when others might have run. And now...

His grip on his wand tightened, but his voice, when he finally spoke aloud, was low and reverent:

"Your courage will be remembered."

Dumbledore stepped over fallen beams and ducked under the shattered chandelier, Moody close behind him, wand raised.

In the flickering half-light, they found Frank Longbottom Jr. against the wall, half-curled on the blood-slick floor.

His eyes were wide but unseeing, his limbs twitching in uneven spasms. His mouth hung open in a soundless scream.

Dumbledore dropped to one knee and gently ran his wand over Frank’s temple, then across his chest, murmuring charms under his breath. Golden light shimmered briefly, then guttered into a sickly grey.

He drew in a slow breath, his expression unreadable. Moody knelt beside him. “How bad?”

Dumbledore didn’t answer immediately. Finally, he said, “St. Mungo’s will be able to say more.”

Moody’s eye fixed on him. “Albus.”

Dumbledore hesitated, then sighed. “My best guess? His mind has been… shattered… splintered into fragments... Nothing remains… Not even madness.”

Moody’s jaw tensed. “Best guess?”

“And my guesses,” Dumbledore said softly, “tend to be accurate. I wish I could tell you otherwise.”

Moody exhaled shakily and looked away, blinking fast. Dumbledore placed a hand gently on his friend’s shoulder.

“He was your favourite,” he said. “I remember. You said once that he was the only student who could out-think you in a sparring lesson.”

Moody gave a bitter half-chuckle that died in his throat. “Bright. Brave. Bloody stubborn,” he muttered, fingers curled gently around Frank’s still-trembling hand, the strength still there, but flickering, like the last light of a dying star.

Moody rose stiffly from Frank’s side, wiping his eyes with the edge of his sleeve. Dumbledore lingered a moment longer, gaze unfocused, before he too stood.

They moved through the house, quiet now, empty of magic and screams and climbed the stairs to the nursery corridor. The hallway smelled of ash and perfume. At the end of it, Dumbledore stopped.

Alice Longbottom lay crumpled by the nursery door, robes scorched, wand broken clean in half. Her hair, singed at the ends, fanned across the floor like a broken halo.

In her arms, nestled against the silence, was Neville. The toddler was reaching up with small, unsteady hands, pawing at her bloodied cheek, babbling soft nonsense through hiccupped breaths.

“Mama? Mama… up.”

He pressed his face to her chest, listening. Waiting.

“Mum sleep,” he whispered, almost soothing himself. “Mum sleep.”

Dumbledore’s heart, weathered by war, worn by loss cracked, slow and silent, He knelt. Gently, he touched the child’s back, and whispered, “She loved you more than anything, Neville. Never forget that.”

The prisoners were being processed on the front lawn when he returned. Bellatrix was still grinning, her lips bloodied and eyes mad as if she’d won.

Rookwood stood off to the side, barking orders to junior Aurors. Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on him for only a second.

A mistake, one of many that night.

As dawn crept into the sky, Albus Dumbledore stood among the broken gardens and the battered dead.

Moody approached him quietly. “Eleven dead. Ten more in custody,” He growled, eyeing the shackled Death Eaters with contempt. “Rest scattered like rats. We lost five. Emmeline’s alive, shaken. Diggle and Gideon are fine. Fabian took a hit to the ribs.”

“Who is the fifth?”

“Tamsin Yarrow.” he paused, “Frank’s partner in the Department. She was holding the back.”

Dumbledore said nothing for a long time.

Boots crunched over broken glass behind them. Barty Crouch Sr., the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, strode up the garden path, cloaked in regulation grey, expression carved from granite. There was no visible reaction in his face as he took in the bound forms of the Lestranges and Crouch Jr., lying among the stunned. Only his voice betrayed anything, a hint of sadness yet clipped and dry as flint. “We’ll take the prisoners to the Department immediately. Azkaban will have cells waiting.”

Moody gave a stiff nod. “Didn’t expect this kind of boldness tonight. And to see your boy among this lot, Barty. I’m sorry.”

Crouch didn’t blink. “We underestimated how far they were willing to go. And in regards to my son - I didn’t think so either.”

His gaze locked on his son for half a beat longer but gave no further sign. Just turned away and began barking orders to the Aurors securing the site.

As he left, Moody muttered under his breath, “Cold-blooded bastard.”

“He’s still your superior,” Dumbledore said mildly.

“Aye,” Moody grunted. “Doesn’t mean I’d trust him with a wand near my back.”

A cry split the night - raw, ragged, and human.

Augusta Longbottom, wife of Frank Longbottom Sr., came stumbling into the garden, her cloak half unfastened, her eyes wild. Her hat was gone, and with it the poise she always wore like armour. What remained was a mother who had lost everything, a widow, a woman unmoored. She didn’t see the chains glinting in the grass, or the bodies strewn across the lawn. Her gaze locked only on Dumbledore and Moody, standing bloodstained and silent amid the wreckage.

“No,” she rasped. Then louder: “No.”

She pushed past a fallen chair, tripped, caught herself, staggered on. Her breath came in gasps as she reached them, her voice cracking open in grief.

“Tell me they’re not-Tell me-please…”

Dumbledore did not speak. He only looked at her with that unbearable stillness. Moody’s face twitched, and he took a half-step forward.

“They’re gone, Augusta,” he said gruffly. His voice cracked at the edge. “I should’ve…” He stopped, jaw tight. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry.”

She shook her head like a child refusing to hear, fists clenched at her sides, mouth open but no words coming. Then her knees buckled, and she might’ve fallen if Moody hadn’t caught her. She didn’t sob. She made no sound at all. Her hands gripped the front of his cloak like she was trying to hold herself together.

Dumbledore moved closer, his voice quiet but urgent.

“Neville is alive,” he said. “He’s safe.”

Her eyes flicked up, blurred and shining.

“He has you, Augusta,” Dumbledore went on. “Your grandson has only you now.”

Moody nodded once, jaw tight. “You look after him,” he said, rough as gravel. “That boy’s the reason we fought. Don’t let that be for nothing.”

She didn’t reply. Just turned, slowly and unsteadily towards the house. And then she moved, not with the sharp certainty she was known for, but like someone walking through a world that no longer made sense.

Dumbledore’s gaze returned to the manor, his shoulders heavy with the night’s weight. Moody added grimly. “We still don’t know what this was all for. It doesn’t feel finished. What about the Potters?”

Dumbledore straightened. “I need to check on them. I sent Hagrid to stand guard, and watch for any signs. Now I need to see for myself”

Moody took a breath. “I’m coming.”

Dumbledore gave him a brief nod, and the two stepped forward, preparing to disapparate. But before they could vanish…

Hagrid came pounding up the path from the woods, his coat billowing, eyes red and wild; great shuddering sobs breaking the silence.

“Professor - Professor!” he choked. “Gone - they’re gone!”

His enormous frame buckled to his knees at the manor gates, sobbing like a child. “Th’house - blasted t’bits - no one there but James… an’ Lily - not moving… an’… an’…” He couldn’t finish.

Dumbledore stepped forward, face turning pale.

“Harry?” he asked quietly.

Hagrid shook his great head, tears streaming into his tangled beard. “Curled up on the floor. All… all burnt. Thought maybe - maybe - he’s not breathing” His voice cracked completely.

Moody's face went deathly still. He said nothing. Just turned to Dumbledore.

Dumbledore closed his eyes, and for a long moment, he said nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow, as though carved out of something ancient and worn. “This night will echo for generations,” he whispered. “So much lost… and still more we do not yet understand.”

Moody stood silent beside him, gaze sharp and unreadable. Then, cautiously: “But weren’t they under the Fidelius?”

Dumbledore didn’t answer immediately. His hand clenched slightly around his wand, the knuckles bone-white.

Then, in a voice barely audible: “Sirius.”

Just the name. And in it - betrayal, confusion, grief.

Moody stiffened, his eyes narrowing. “Merlin help us…”

The silence that followed was complete.

Chapter Text

The sky outside was only just beginning to soften, not yet morning, not quite night. A cold grey light filtered down through the high, dusty skylight of the pressroom, cutting faint shafts through the floating smoke.

The room itself was vast and oddly shaped, all angles and arches, with thick brass piping running along the ceiling like veins, and strange enchanted gears embedded in the stone walls. It looked centuries old and yet, somehow, every surface hummed faintly with life, as if the building itself were awake.

A solitary wizard sat hunched at a desk off to one side, half-shadowed by a crooked stack of parchment. He looked like he hadn't slept in three days. His robes were wrinkled, his long moustache stained with ink and something suspiciously green, and his wire-rimmed spectacles sat crooked on his nose.

He puffed silently on a battered pipe shaped like a flobberworm. The smoke it gave off was thick and strange; spiralling up in slow curls of lavender, turquoise, and the occasional unnatural chartreuse. It smelled faintly of burnt treacle and old socks.

He watched, not with interest, but with the flat gaze of someone who had seen it a thousand times as the ‘Writing Line’ came to life.

A row of enchanted quills stood in their inkpots, twitching, then began scribbling furiously across individual sheets of parchment. They wrote as if possessed, each quill a different hand, capturing different voices. Headlines. Eyewitness accounts. Ministry statements. Lists of the dead. As the last stroke of ink dried, the sheets fluttered up into the air, joining others already circling like birds. Without warning, they began to fold and shift, rearranging themselves with audible snaps, columns aligning, stories clicking into place like a puzzle assembling itself.

A moment later, an ornate peacock-feather quill descended from the rafters in a delicate swirl of blue magic. It dipped towards the assembled pages and began sketching elegant, curling headlines and decorative margins with perfect artistry - golden sunbursts, Ministry seals, a phoenix silhouette etched along the bottom corner.

Moving photographs, freshly developed in the adjoining room, drifted into view. A shot of the ruined house in Godric’s Hollow. An image of aurors gathered at the gates of St Mungo’s. One of Dumbledore, eyes grim, robes scorched. The photos floated downward like fallen leaves, finding their place on the paper with soft, wet plops, fitting perfectly into the blank spaces as if drawn there all along.

Once the layout was complete, the full sheet glided into the air and soared towards the heart of the room - the ‘Enchanted Press’.

It was a monstrous thing: half-copper, half-living creature by the look of it, huffing steam and twitching like it resented the very idea of work. The moment the sheet slipped between its rollers, it shuddered to life.

Gears spun. Levers clanked. A sudden bang! sent a cloud of magenta steam into the ceiling. He barely flinched. The press groaned, gave a sound like a hiccup, and then,

WHUNK-CLACK-WHOOSH.

It began spitting out newspapers in perfect rhythm. Each issue flew out, neatly folded, then rolled itself with a flick and dropped into a glowing chute, where it settled in line with dozens of others, still warm from the press. He reached out with one ink-stained hand, grabbed the topmost roll, and unfurled it slowly.

At the top of the front page, framed in gold-lettering, it read:

The Daily Prophet
November 1st, 1981
Special Edition – 7 Knuts

His eyes drifted over the headlines, slow and heavy, as if bracing for what they already knew.

THE DARK LORD FALLS!

Neville Longbottom, The Boy Who Lived

By Clarissa Marchbanks, Senior Correspondent

In a night that will be remembered for generations to come, You-Know-Who, the Dark wizard who terrorised Britain for over a decade is gone.

Following an attack on the home of Frank and Alice Longbottom, the Dark Lord is believed to have been destroyed; with only one survivor from the cursed confrontation: their fifteen-month-old son, Neville.

The Ministry of Magic has confirmed that the child was discovered in the nursery of the ancestral Longbottom Manor, unharmed, and with residual traces of an Unforgivable Curse in the room. Sources close to the investigation say the Killing Curse had been cast, though how it failed remains a matter of magical debate.

Initial reports vary on the nature of You-Know-Who’s defeat. Some suggest cascading ward failures, others speculate on unstable curse-reflection loops, or even long-dormant family protections woven into the foundations of the ancient manor. A more creative (if less credible) theory suggests that a rogue centaur battalion intervened. The Ministry, at present, is refusing to comment on any specifics.

When asked about whispers of a prophecy, Clarissa Marchbanks reports the following:

“Anonymous sources inside the Department of Mysteries claim the child’s name may have been foretold. However, given the Department’s longstanding reputation for questionable practices and their fondness for cryptic, often indecipherable orbs, we advise readers to take such claims with a hearty pinch of salt.”

Dumbledore Speaks

“Some magics are older than we understand, and deeper than we know,” said Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and the Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

“What young Mr. Longbottom survived should not have been possible. But history often has a habit of being rewritten by the impossible.”

When asked about the nature of You-Know-Who’s defeat, Dumbledore declined to comment further, stating only that, “What matters now is that the child lives.”

What Happened That Night?

While official records remain sealed, reports suggest the attack occurred shortly after nightfall. Aurors arrived at the scene in response to a magical disturbance and found signs of a fierce and coordinated assault. With the dust still settling, reports confirm that several Death Eaters were killed, many were captured, and a handful managed to flee under cover of the chaos.

Among the confirmed casualties is Frank Longbottom Sr., a decorated retired Auror and war veteran, who is believed to have fallen during the initial defence of the estate. Also killed in the line of duty were Caradoc Dearborn, Jonas Fleet, Tamsin Yarrow and Marius Thorne, all of whom either served in the Auror surveillance team stationed at the Longbottoms’ residence or were friends of the family. Their contributions are already being hailed as heroic, having held the line long enough to ensure young Neville’s survival; and, in doing so, playing a crucial role in You-Know-Who’s downfall.

Alice Longbottom, a respected Auror and former Head Girl at Hogwarts, was found deceased on the upper level of the manor. She is believed to have fought to protect her son to her last breath. Her husband, Frank Longbottom, also an Auror and war hero, was found barely alive, his mental faculties reportedly damaged in ways that may never fully heal.

A senior Healer at St. Mungo’s, speaking under strict confidentiality, said:

“There are signs of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. His condition is… grave. We can offer comfort. We cannot yet speak of recovery.”

Cornelius Fudge, the official spokeswizard for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, addressed the press this morning:

“The situation is still evolving. We are confident that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has been... neutralised. This is a victory. Make no mistake. The terror that haunted our nights has ended. The Ministry salutes the bravery of the Longbottoms, and especially young Neville, whose survival defies reason.”

The infant hero has since been reunited with his grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, and is under Ministry protection.

Celebrations broke out across Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade as the news spread this morning. Fireworks were seen above Gringotts. A small dragon was reportedly released over Ottery St. Catchpole, illegally, authorities now confirm. In Godric’s Hollow, villagers lit enchanted lanterns that danced in the skies until dawn. Even Knockturn Alley saw its usual gloom broken by bursts of colored sparks. In Mould-on-the-Wold, a brass band of bewitched instruments paraded through the streets entirely unattended. There are reports of butterbeer fountains erupting in three separate pubs, and one overexcited warlock in Upper Flagley was fined for conjuring a herd of pigs that trampled a fence.

For many, this is a day, long hoped for but one tempered by heavy losses.

“We won,” said one senior Auror, “but we didn’t win clean.”

Continued on Page 4

From the Desk of the Prophet Staff:

We urge the wizarding community to respect the privacy of the Longbottom family during this time of mourning and transition. While we rejoice at the fall of the Dark Lord, we must remember that for some, this is not a moment of celebration but of grief and unthinkable loss.

Related Coverage:

"Augusta Longbottom: Iron Matron of the War Years" – Page 4

"Caught at the Manor: Lestrange Brothers, Bellatrix, and the Crouch Scandal" – Page 5

"A Child and a Curse: Historical Theories on Spell Rebounds" – Page 6

"The Department of Mysteries and Their Doomed Prophecies" – Page 7

"Timeline of Terror: A Chronicle of You-Know-Who’s Rise and Fall" – Pages 10–12

"Tragedy in Godric’s Hollow: Potter Family Confirmed Dead" – Page 13

"Memorial Services for the Fallen" – Page 14

Caught at the Manor: Lestrange Brothers, Bellatrix, and the Crouch Scandal

By Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent, Daily Prophet

It was supposed to be just another moonless Halloween night. But behind the stately hedgerows of Longbottom Manor, the Ministry’s most shocking scandal in decades was about to break wide open.

Bellatrix Lestrange, née Black, notoriously unstable, a proud heir to one of the oldest pureblood lines, was apprehended at the scene of the brutal Longbottom attack alongside her husband Rodolphus, brother-in-law Rabastan, and most disturbingly, Bartemius Crouch Jr., son of the current Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Bartemius Crouch.

Yes, you read that correctly.

“He was there. Wand drawn. Face like a madman,” whispered one stunned Auror who asked to remain unnamed. “Didn’t even blink when they took him down.”

The raid was reportedly ordered directly by You-Know-Who before his mysterious vanishing ended in catastrophe for the Death Eaters. Albus Dumbledore himself led the response team, capturing several high-profile Death Eaters and restoring a shaken public’s confidence in magical law enforcement. But while many are calling it a victory, others are asking hard questions.

The Crouch Conundrum

Young Bartemius Crouch Jr., a recent Hogwarts graduate and heir to one of the most ambitious families in the Ministry, now finds himself behind bars and at the centre of a storm his father likely cannot control.

Barty Crouch Sr., long known for his hard-line stance on law and order, declined to comment directly. But a Ministry insider hinted that the elder Crouch was seen exiting the interrogation wing with “an expression like stone and hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.”

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement released a brief statement:

“We are conducting a full investigation. All suspects are being held at a secure facility pending trial.”

Sources say the younger Crouch was apprehended carrying a wand bearing residue of the Cruciatus Curse. He is believed to have been personally involved in the torture of Auror Frank Longbottom, who remains hospitalized in critical condition at St. Mungo’s.

The public is left to wonder: Was young Crouch radicalized? Compelled? Or is his fall from grace a sign that even the most elite families are not immune to corruption?

Bellatrix Lestrange: Beauty or Madness?

It is no secret that Bellatrix Black was once a glittering jewel of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. But those who remember her as a striking debutante at Pureblood galas now see only the wild-eyed fanatic, screaming defiance as she was dragged from the rubble in chains.

“He will return! He will burn you all!” she shrieked, fighting Aurors like a woman possessed.

Known for her vicious dueling and fanatical loyalty to You-Know-Who, Bellatrix Lestrange has long been the subject of hushed speculation; not just for the horrors she’s committed, but for the powerful family she comes from. With ties to the Blacks, the Malfoys, and the Lestranges, it seems like privilege, along with madness, runs in her veins.

Is this the beginning of the fall of the Sacred Twenty-Eight?

What Comes Next?

Public trials for all the captured Death Eaters are expected to begin in the coming weeks. Insiders suggest the Ministry may invoke the emergency wartime sentencing protocols, bypassing the Wizengamot entirely.

“They want this done fast. The public is scared,” said one court scribe. “And frankly, no one wants to hear another one of Bellatrix’s speeches.”

The Prophet will be watching and so will the world.

And as for Barty Crouch Sr.? If he thought his biggest threat wore a mask and shouted “Crucio!” from shadows, he was wrong.

Sometimes, the real scandal is much, much closer to home.

The Crouch Cover-Up? Rumours Swirl About How Long the Ministry Really Knew

Continued on Page 7

Tragedy in Godric’s Hollow: Potter Family Confirmed Dead

By Elspeth Rowle, Senior Correspondent

The wizarding world was struck by tragedy in the early hours of this morning, as it was confirmed that James and Lily Potter were killed at their home in Godric’s Hollow late last night. Their young son, Harry Potter, is also believed to have died in the attack. All three were found amidst the ruins of their residence, the house having sustained catastrophic magical damage.

According to sources from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the entire structure was destroyed in what is being described as a “magical implosion of enormous scale.” The cause remains undetermined, though Ministry investigators have confirmed that the magical residue at the site is “unlike anything previously recorded.”

“We are working to piece together what happened,” stated Auror Alfred Bones, who is leading the investigation. “But the magical disturbance in the area has left everything scrambled - wards, traces, even the atmospheric memory is distorted.”

No Dark Mark was found above the ruins, leading to widespread speculation that Death Eaters may not have been involved or may have intentionally obscured their presence. However, given the events at Longbottom Manor that same night, many believe the attack may be connected to broader Death Eater activity.

The scene was first discovered by a response team led by Rubeus Hagrid, who arrived just after midnight. According to witnesses at the scene, the bodies of James and Lily Potter were discovered near the remains of the nursery. Mr. Potter was found near the front entrance, having suffered fatal injuries consistent with blunt magical force, while Mrs. Potter was located near her child’s cot, her body severely burned. A small, charred form believed to be that of their infant son, Harry Potter was found close by. No survivors were recovered from the scene.

“James and Lily were brave, brilliant, and endlessly kind,” said Professor Albus Dumbledore, who visited the site early this morning. “The loss is incalculable. Their courage in the face of darkness will not be forgotten.”

The Potter family, widely respected for their active role in the resistance against You-Know-Who’s forces, had been living in quiet seclusion in Godric’s Hollow. The Ministry of Magic has not yet released a formal statement, though officials confirm that one is expected later today, addressing the cause of the attack, the identities of those responsible, and the broader implications for the ongoing conflict.

Subtle Shadows: Ties That Raise Questions

While no official suspects have been named in the attack, some are pointing to possible links between those arrested at Longbottom Manor and the Potters. Among them was Bellatrix Lestrange, a cousin of Sirius Black, one of the Potters’ closest friends.

Though there is no evidence of Black’s involvement, whispers of internal betrayal have begun to circulate.

“The timing is… troubling,” said one Ministry insider. “We’re not ruling anything out.”

Sirius Black has not responded to requests for comment.

The Prophet asks readers to refrain from visiting the site, which remains cordoned off by Ministry officials. Respect for the deceased and their surviving relatives is requested.

Chapter Text

1st November, 1981, early morning hours

Petunia Dursley stirred from sleep with a start, her long neck stiff against the pillows. She lay still for a moment, thin fingers clutching the blanket, breath held tight in her chest. Her eyes, sharp and pale blue, darted towards the window. The house was quiet, just the low, thunderous snoring of her husband Vernon beside her, and the wind brushing against the glass.

Vernon shifted, jowls wobbling slightly, one meaty arm draped over his side. He didn’t stir.

Petunia exhaled slowly. It was probably nothing - a cat, or the wind, or a branch that needed trimming. Her imagination always did run wild when things were out of order. Still, her lips pressed into a thin, white line.

She stared at the ceiling for a long while, listening. Nothing. She must’ve imagined it. Then came the sound again, a sharper clang. Something metallic, shifting and scraping. And underneath it… a child’s cry. Thin, plaintive.

She sat up. “Vernon,” she hissed. “There’s someone outside.”

Vernon groaned, rolling over. “It’s just the wind. Or cats.”

“That’s not a cat,” she whispered. “That was a baby crying.”

He groaned again, but Petunia had already pulled on her robe and slipped from bed. Her bare feet touched the cold floor. She padded to the window and peered out onto the darkened street.

It was still. Too still. Privet Drive prided itself on stillness. Order. Normality. But something was not normal tonight.

She descended the stairs with deliberate care, each step creaking slightly under her weight. Vernon thumped down behind her with reluctant huffs, pulling a coat over his striped pyjamas.

The air outside was damp and sharp, the kind that clung to skin and teeth. Streetlamps buzzed faintly overhead. The bins sat crooked at the curb, one lid half-off. And near it, was a bundle. Moving.

Petunia froze. Vernon muttered, “Bloody kids, leaving things…”

But then the bundle cried again, a small, hiccupping sob. As they stepped closer, a tiny hand reached up, gripping the rim of the metal bin to steady itself. Then came a wobble. A foot.

It wasn’t a bundle at all. It was a baby, trying to stand.

Petunia gasped. Her breath caught.

A baby, hair wild and black, not much older than one. Dirty, but unhurt save for a vivid lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. His eyes, wide with confusion and fear, were a striking, unnatural green.

There was something in the shape of his face. His eyes were too familiar, though they were bleary with tears. She stooped without thinking, brushing a shaking hand across his tiny chest.

The blanket had embroidery. H.P. in soft blue thread. Beneath it, he wore a tiny baby cardigan - grey wool, hand-knit, with buttons shaped like broomstick.

“Oh, my-” Petunia staggered back.

Vernon leaned in, peering. “Is that…?”

“It’s him,” she said, voice cold. “It’s Lily’s son.”

The baby giggled suddenly, as if delighted at being seen. He reached up, arms open, and babbled happily, toddling forward with uncertain steps. The boy cooed and wobbled towards Vernon, arms up expectantly. Vernon’s face hardened. “Get that thing inside before the neighbours see,” he muttered. “I’ll not have people talking.”

They stood awkwardly in the kitchen. Vernon boiled the kettle out of habit. Harry sat on the table, dribbling onto the towel Petunia had laid beneath him.

Vernon scowled. “Found on our doorstep. Not even a letter, a note, anything. Dumped him on our doorstep in the middle of the bloody night. What did she expect us to do?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Petunia muttered, folding her arms. “Running off, leaving him behind.” Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to a conversation held in this very kitchen not so long ago, one she’d tried, and failed to forget.

The sky outside was grey with the promise of rain, and the kitchen smelled faintly of over-steeped tea. She sat stiff-backed at the table, arms folded, her lips pressed into a line as thin and sharp as a blade. Across from her, Lily cradled a steaming mug with both hands, her knuckles white, as though holding on to it could anchor her.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Lily said, her voice soft, urgent. “But if something ever happens to James and me, if we’re not around, I need to know Harry would be safe. With family.”

Petunia didn’t answer at once. Her eyes flicked towards the window, then down to her manicured nails. The silence stretched. Her posture said everything: tight, closed off, already pulling away.

Lily leaned forward slightly. “I’m not asking you to love him like your own. Just… don’t let him end up alone. He’s still your nephew.”

That word nephew seemed to land somewhere deep and unpleasant. Petunia sniffed, her nose wrinkling as if at a bad smell.

“And what would he say to all this?” she asked coolly. “Your… husband.”

“James knows I came. He agrees.”

Petunia rolled her eyes slightly, more out of habit than conviction. “Fine,” she said at last, her voice brittle. “If it comes to that. Which I suppose it will, if you keep flouncing about with wands and rebellions.”

Lily blinked, tears already threatening. “You will? Really?”

Petunia gave a slow, shallow nod. Not warmth, not affection; just a quiet, resentful concession.

“Oh, thank you,” Lily breathed, the relief washing over her like a wave. “Tuney, I- I knew you'd understand. I knew-” She reached out across the table, eyes shining, her hand finding her sister’s. “I love you.”

Petunia let her fingers be held, but didn’t return the pressure. Her eyes stayed fixed on a smudge on the countertop, jaw clenched. She didn’t say you’re welcome. She didn’t say I love you.

But Lily didn’t seem to notice. She was already crying; out of hope, out of exhaustion, out of faith in a future she might never see.

And Petunia, stone-faced and silent, watched her sister fall apart and wished she hadn’t answered the door.

Vernon’s voice cut through her thoughts, dragging her back to the present.

“She’s one of them, So… He is…”

“He will be one of them too.”

There was no grief in her voice. Only the sharp sting of old bitterness. Lily - who had everything. The attention. The magic. Their parents’ favour. And now this.

Dudley’s cry broke the tension, soft at first, then rising in urgency from somewhere upstairs.

Her shoulders tensed. Her son. Dudley, barely a month older than the child on the counter, was upstairs in his cot, likely woken by the commotion. Plump, fair-haired with wide blue eyes, he was everything Petunia had wanted in a baby - blissfully normal.

“I’ll get him,” she murmured, already moving, leaving the other child seated awkwardly on the counter.

Behind her, the boy gave a delighted giggle and began to crawl towards Vernon, one small hand reaching out, unbothered and unaware.

“Don’t touch me,” Vernon barked, stepping back as though Harry had spat acid. “Bloody nonsense…”

Petunia returned with Dudley in her arms, rocking him softly. He stared, drowsy and irritable, at the strange boy on the counter. “I looked,” she said quietly. “No sign of anyone. Not James. Not Lily.” She tried to hide the slight tremble in her voice. “It’s just… him.”

Vernon scowled. “Probably dropped the brat here and disappeared into thin air. Their kind always were irresponsible.”

Petunia didn’t answer. Her lips thinned, tighter than usual, like they were trying to hold something in.

She had promised.

And now here he was. Loud, magical, unnatural. Dumped on her doorstep, shattering the careful façade of normalcy she’d spent years perfecting. For a brief moment, a thought crept in, quiet, chilling: What if Lily was dead?

But it brought no grief. No pain. Just a dull pressure behind her eyes, and a rising tide of irritation. That her sister even in death, had managed to make herself Petunia’s problem once again.

She hated her sister. Lily. Golden, bright, unnatural Lily. A letter every few years. Christmas photos she never asked for. An invitation to their wedding, sent with flowery parchment and owls.

She looked at the baby again. He had found a wooden spoon and was gumming it gleefully. She felt… nothing. Not affection. Not grief. Not guilt. Just a tinge of obligation wrapped in resentment. Only the weight of a promise she’d never wanted to keep.

Vernon turned to her, his face red and tight with disbelief. “You’re not seriously thinking of keeping that, are you?”

Petunia flinched, as if the word had struck her. “Of course not,” she snapped. “He doesn’t belong here.”

“We’ll drop Dudley off at Marge’s in the morning,” Vernon said suddenly. “Then take… him… to one of those places. An orphanage.”

Petunia stared at him. She didn’t object.

“He’s not staying here,” Vernon continued. “I won’t have that in my house.”

She nodded, slowly. “We can say he was left on the street. No papers. No family. No one will know.”

“And we’ll never speak of it again,” Vernon added. “Not to anyone. Ever.”

The baby gurgled, clapping the spoon against the counter. He smiled at them both, innocent and content.

Neither smiled back.

The fog was still thick over Little Whinging when the Dursleys loaded the car.

Vernon grumbled as he shoved Dudley’s suitcase into the boot. Petunia carried the sleeping baby wrapped in the blanket, the faint blue monogram H.P. tucked into the folds like an unwelcome confession.

Harry slept quietly, nestled in the backseat next to Dudley, his soft snuffling the only sound as the Ford Cortina rattled to life.

They drove in silence. The roads were damp, hedgerows dripping from the night’s chill. A sleepy Sunday quiet hung over the country lanes.

Petunia broke the silence first. “We’ll be there in under an hour.”

Vernon didn’t look at her. “We say to Marge that we popped in to surprise her. Weekend treat. Roast and all that…”

Petunia allowed herself the thinnest of smiles.

Petunia had never particularly liked Vernon’s sister. Marge was loud, opinionated, and had a fondness for brandy and bull terriers that Petunia found uncouth. She carried herself with the swagger of someone who believed her opinions were facts and her presence a gift. Still, Petunia smiled and nodded through the family dinners, listened to the stories about breeding prize-winning dogs and her endless complaints about “softness in the younger generation.” It was easier that way. After all, Marge was family, and Petunia had long ago learned that appearances mattered more than comfort. Besides, Vernon adored her, and Petunia didn't want to deny him a familial connection.

They pulled into Marge’s drive at a quarter to seven. The sky was pinking over the hills.

“She doesn’t need to know,” Vernon muttered as they stepped out.

“Of course not.”

Harry remained asleep in the car. Petunia glanced once over her shoulder, her hand lingering on the door before she shut it. The softest of sighs escaped her lips.

Inside, Dudley babbled and clung to Marge’s thick arms as she cooed over him.

“You’re leaving already?” she asked, suspicious. “Didn’t you say you’d be staying?”

Vernon clapped her shoulder. “Just some business in town. We'll be back by evening. Let this one be the king of the castle for a few hours.”

Marge raised a brow but relented. “Well, make sure you're back for dinner.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Vernon said, already walking away.

The drive to London was slower.

Traffic thickened the closer they got to the city. The sky greyed again with low-hanging clouds like soot-streaked cotton. Petunia stared out of the window, arms folded, lips pressed tight.

Vernon kept his eyes fixed ahead.

“Did you see them?” she said suddenly.

“See what?”

“That man in a cloak.”

Vernon snorted. “What, you think that’s one of them?”

“I don’t know.”

“I saw one at the petrol station,” Vernon muttered after a beat. “Shaking a stranger’s hand, nearly knocked over a pram in the process.”

Petunia rubbed her arms. “I think they’re celebrating something.”

They pulled onto a narrow lane near Southwark, where a modest building stood at the end of a sloped road: St. Jude’s Home for Children, a brick structure with an iron gate and a faded blue door. Ivy crawled up its sides, and clotheslines danced lightly in the chill wind out back.

The car idled in front of the building, engine ticking softly in the damp morning air. Grey stone walls loomed beyond the fogged windshield, cold and unwelcoming. No one stirred inside. A milk bottle stood untouched on the doorstep.

Petunia stared at the orphanage, then at the boy in her arms. Harry had awakened, staring at her with wide, uncertain eyes. He cooed softly and reached for her necklace, his chubby fingers brushing her collarbone.

“Are we going in, then?” she asked.

Vernon shook his head sharply. “No. No paperwork. No questions. We don’t need people asking questions or getting the wrong idea. Best to keep this quiet. We’ll leave him round the back.”

“There’s a box near the bins,” she murmured. “With blankets.”

“Perfect.”

A silence settled between them.

“Someone will find him,” she added, softer now.

Vernon gave a grunt. “Eventually.”

Petunia didn’t respond. For a brief, breathless moment, a memory stirred: Lily’s voice, pleading in their kitchen. Please. If anything happens…

A flicker of guilt passed across her face, but it vanished just as quickly, smoothed over by years of practiced normalcy. This child didn’t belong in her world. Not in her home. Not beside Dudley. She sat up straighter, smoothing her skirt with sharp, deliberate motions.

Vernon put the car in gear. “Right, then.”

And together, they drove slowly around to the rear of the building, towards the life they intended to forget.

She carried Harry around the side, her shoes crunching the gravel.

Harry babbled again, his arms stretching to grasp her collar. A piece of his blanket fell and she stooped quickly to catch it.

“I’m not-” She faltered, looking into his eyes, Lily’s eyes. “I’m not the one you need.”

He smiled, utterly unbothered. His tiny hands reached for her again.

She laid him gently beside the kitchen entrance. A blanket slid sideways and she adjusted it.

“I’m not heartless,” she said, softly, more to herself than anyone else. “But I am not your mother. I never wanted magic in my house.”

He gurgled, happy to have the attention. His hands caught her sleeve.

Petunia stiffened. She gently pried his fingers off.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But it’s better this way. For everyone.”

Then she turned and hurried away. She didn’t look back.

Vernon was already turning the car around when she climbed in.

“Done?”

“Done.”

No more was said.

As they drove out of London, Petunia watched the fog twist above the chimneys. In the distance, a firework exploded, a single brilliant pop of green. A man in a cloak spun beneath it, laughing to himself. And just beyond, someone else was handing out sweets on the street to confused commuters.

Petunia shut her eyes.

Vernon switched on the radio. A tinny voice warbled about coal strikes, the pound falling, and reports of fireworks going off across the country for reasons yet unclear.

The baby they had left behind didn’t cry.

The fog hadn’t lifted.

Mrs. Audrey Melling, caretaker of the kitchens at St. Jude’s, stepped out into the yard to hang the morning wash. She muttered under her breath as she opened the back door, cursing the chill that had settled in her knees overnight.

She nearly tripped over the bundle beside the steps.

“Bloody-!”

She caught herself.

Beside the milk crate, a baby blinked up at her. His cheeks were red with cold, but he wasn’t crying. Instead, he was babbling happily, clutching the edges of his pale blue blanket, mouth forming little syllables.

“Mama,” he chirped happily, then “Dada… Harry!”

Audrey stood frozen for a second, mouth slightly ajar.

“Saints alive,” she muttered. “You poor little mite. Who’s left you here, then?”

The child cooed again, tugging at his blanket. A faint shimmer caught her eye - a silver pendant, delicately crafted, shaped like a stag in a field of lilies, hung around his neck.

She frowned and leaned in. “Bit fancy for a doorstep orphan, aren’t you?”

“Harry,” the baby said again.

Audrey’s mouth twitched. “Right, well. No use staying out here, is it?”

She scooped him up, not with affection, but a practiced care, like someone who had done this before. The boy nestled instinctively into her shoulder. She carried him inside, his blanket trailing along the cold stone floor.

Inside the office, Matron Grindle looked up from her paperwork, peering over her spectacles with a glare that had been honed over decades. She was tall, with a regal bearing and silver-streaked hair swept into a tight bun. Her presence commanded respect, not through volume, but with the cool certainty of someone who had seen far too much.

“Another one?” she said.

“Left at the back entrance,” Audrey said. “No note. No bag. Nothing but the blanket and this.” She held up the pendant. “Proper nice piece of work, mind you.”

The matron sighed. “You’d think if people were going to abandon children, they’d at least leave a name.”

“Name’s Harry, I think. Keeps saying it.”

“And what makes you think it’s his name and not his rabbit’s?”

“He’s got H.P. on his pyjamas.” She held the blanket up for inspection. “See here. Monogrammed.”

The matron leaned forward. “No blood, no bruises. No visible injuries?”

“No. Just this scar. Forehead.” She pulled the fringe back.

Matron Grindle squinted. “Hmm. Odd shape. Lightning bolt. Someone’s idea of clever branding, no doubt.”

“He’s warm. Bit shaken, maybe. But healthy.”

“We’ll have Dr. Kendrick look at him later.” The matron scribbled into a logbook. “Male, approximately one year. Found November 1st. Clothes clean. Good health. No note.”

She looked up. “All right. Add him to the ledger as Harry P. And notify Social Care.”

“You think they’ll bother coming before Tuesday?”

“Doubt it. But it keeps us right.”

Audrey gently placed Harry in the cot in the nursery down the hall, among the others still sleeping. He yawned and curled into the blanket as if he belonged.

She lingered for a moment, brushing a curl from his forehead.

He murmured again. “Mama.”

She sighed. “Not here, love. Not anymore.” Then she left.

Chapter Text

Muggle London – Near Cricklewood Station – 1^st November, 1981

Fudge stood with a starched collar and rain-spattered bowler hat, flanked by two nervous junior clerks and a Senior Obliviator who looked as if he hadn’t slept for nights.

Chaos. A crater in the middle of the street. Scorched cobblestones. A lamppost bent sideways. The reek of cordite and something worse, old magic and sudden death. Muggles huddled behind the hastily-erected perimeter, dazed and sobbing. And at the centre of it all: Sirius Black, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the blast zone, laughing like a man who’d snapped something deep inside his soul.

“Is that…?” Fudge asked quietly.

“Yes, sir,” said the nearest Auror. “Sirius Black. Confirmed.”

Fudge’s lips pressed into a line. The noise was unsettling; not cruel laughter, but hollow, high and broken. A man unmade. He approached cautiously, robes flapping around his ankles. “Mr. Black?”

Sirius didn’t look up. His hands were smeared with dirt, one of them clutching something metallic, what looked like a ring, warped and blackened.

“Mr. Black,” Fudge repeated, more firmly. “You are under investigation for an act of magical terrorism in a Muggle neighbourhood. There are… thirty-nine dead. More than fifty injured. The largest piece we recovered of one man was his finger.”

That stopped the laughter. Sirius looked up. And for a moment, Fudge hesitated. Those eyes were red, but not mad. Not exactly. Something worse. Empty.

“Peter…” Sirius whispered. “That rat…”

“According to several witnesses,” Fudge continued, swallowing, “you confronted Peter Pettigrew, accused him of betrayal, and he screamed something about your betrayal…then the explosion happened. You were found alone. Laughing.”

A squad of Hit Wizards moved forward, wands raised. A few had cast bubble-head charms against the stench of charred stone and ozone.

“We’ll need to take you into custody,” Fudge said, carefully. “For questioning.”

Still kneeling, Sirius extended his hands without resistance.

Fudge nodded. Two Aurors snapped magical binds around his wrists. He didn’t flinch.

Department of Magical Law Enforcement Processing Facility, Level Two, Ministry of Magic – Later that day

Cornelius Fudge often thought of the war; if one could even call it that, not as a grand clash of good and evil, but as a most unfortunate disruption of order. A civil strife, really. Something internal. Something corrosive.

You-Know-Who hadn’t marched in with foreign armies or flying banners. No, he’d emerged from within their own ranks. A whisper in darkened corridors. A shadow behind respectable names. Wizards and witches born of ancient lines, long discontent with how things were, or weren't.

At its heart, it had all been about blood. Blood and position. The old rhetoric. The old grievances. Not entirely new or baseless, even, if one stripped away the fanaticism and slaughter. The problem, in Fudge’s view, wasn’t the ideology so much as the method. You-Know-Who had turned politics into terror. Had taken what could have been a persuasive argument in the Wizengamot and twisted it into something far more vulgar - masks, murders, martyred Muggle-borns.

It had been reckless. Violent. Destabilising.

And more than anything, Fudge hated instability. It gnawed at the bones of institutions. It frightened investors. It delayed legislation. People died, yes, but people always died, didn’t they? The real crime was that the Ministry had been made to look powerless. That was the indignity he could never quite forgive.

Of course, he’d never say such things aloud. Not the parts about seeing a point. Not the grudging understanding that, perhaps, if the Ministry had offered a proper channel; something structured and sanctioned, then things might have unfolded differently. Civilly.

But they hadn’t. And now, all that remained was the wreckage. Names ruined. Families torn. The magical world scarred and suspicious, nursing wounds it refused to admit.

He smoothed his robes, adjusted his tie, and told himself, good riddance. The chaos had ended. The bodies were being counted, but the real work could finally begin. Consolidation. Stabilisation. The Ministry, with the right leadership, could see to it that something like this never spiralled so far out of hand again. Perhaps, in time, there would be room for a stronger framework, one with real authority. Proactive, not reactive. A Ministry that didn't flinch at shadows, but stepped forward with certainty. And who better to help guide that than someone who’d seen the worst of it up close, and kept his head?

He allowed himself a thin, self-satisfied nod. Then he turned to the parchment on his desk - a fresh arrest report, ink still drying.

Black, Sirius. Mass murder. Muggle casualties.

Fudge frowned and reached for his quill. It never quite ended, did it? He looked down from the observation chamber above the interrogation room, from behind a pane of enchanted glass.

Sirius Black sat in the chair, motionless. No demands. No protests. Still laughing, just quietly, under his breath, like someone who'd lost the rhythm of reality.

Fudge made a note in the file: “Delusional. Detached. Likely suffering magical psychosis. Dangerous.”

He didn’t know, couldn’t have known, that the laughter wasn’t triumph. It was everything that had been stolen.

In Sirius’ mind, the night replayed again and again: James’ lopsided grin, Lily’s laughter, the feel of baby Harry’s fingers clutching his thumb. Then ash. Silence. A scream in his chest that wouldn’t come out, so it laughed instead.

Hogwarts Castle - Headmaster’s Office - Late evening

The fire burned low in the hearth.

Albus Dumbledore stood facing the window, watching the darkened castle grounds. A steaming cup of tea sat untouched on his desk.

Moody’s voice echoed through the green flare of the Floo behind him.

“You heard?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said quietly.

“I came myself. Thought you might want to speak to him.”

Dumbledore didn’t turn. His shoulders were still. His voice was gentle, but something inside it had gone hollow. “There has been… too much grief in a single night, Alastor.”

Silence stretched between them. Moody, gruff and all too used to the weight of war, understood. This wasn’t just about Sirius. This was personal. James. Lily. Harry. Alice. Frank. And countless others. Now this.

Moody’s voice softened.

“I’ll go ahead with processing. Get it done. You… you take your time.”

The flames died down with a hiss.

Dumbledore finally sat. The portraits above him said nothing. Fawkes let out a soft, mournful trill. He stared at his hands, then into the fire.

And said not a word.

Department of Magical Law Enforcement Holding Cell Block, Level Two, Ministry of Magic - Morning, November 2nd, 1981

The iron door screeched open, echoing like a scream in the bowels of the holding block.

Alastor Moody stepped inside, boots striking cold stone with slow, deliberate weight. The air was thick with damp and iron - the kind of place meant to sap the soul long before the sentence was pronounced.

Sirius Black sat hunched on the edge of the cot, shackled at wrists and ankles, chains biting against bone with every twitch. His once-handsome face, sharp-jawed, effortlessly striking now looked like a ghost wearing a memory.  He wasn’t laughing anymore. Just staring past the stone wall, through it, through time. Blood flecked his robes, dried in sharp russet stains across his pale skin. His face slack and hollow and his hair hung limp in front of his grey eyes.

Moody stood silent for a beat, then stepped closer.

“Sirius,” he growled, voice low and rough. “You know who I am. We’re not playing games.”

No response. Not even a flicker.

Moody's jaw clenched. “I’m giving you one last chance. Talk. Tell me what happened. What you did. Or didn’t.”

Sirius didn’t flinch. His lips parted, and for a moment Moody thought he might speak but it was only a breath. Barely human. Just… pain.

He crouched down, close now. Eye-level. The chains shifted as Sirius turned his head, barely, and for a second Moody thought he saw something flicker behind those shattered grey eyes.

“Lily, James and Harry,” Moody said, quieter now. “They’re dead. You know that. But tell me this … did you do it? Or did you sell them out to You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters?”

Sirius flinched, finally. A twitch. A fracture. His mouth trembled. “I thought he was safe…” he whispered. “I thought…”

Moody leaned in, heartbeat spiking. “Who?”

Sirius blinked. His eyes were wet now, but not from tears. Just ruin. Guilt.

“I thought…” he rasped, and then his voice broke entirely.

And the laughter started. Low at first. Choked. Then rising, bitter, wild. Not triumphant. Not mad. Just broken. Laughter with no joy in it, only agony trying to claw its way out.

He stared at the boy he remembered from a handful of Order meetings; he once saw lounging on a windowsill with his boots up, trading barbs with McGonagall like it was a game; all careless charm and sharp edges, as if he'd been born in a storm and never quite stepped out of it. Sirius Black had always moved with a kind of casual elegance and an utter disregard for consequences; the kind bred into old wizarding families. The heir who shrugged off his bloodline, the rebel who made rebellion look like theatre. He didn’t posture. He didn’t need to. He had never needed permission to command a room. A smirk here, a shrug there, a witty comment and suddenly the room bent around him. There had been danger in him, too, the sort that made you watch your back and envy him all at once.

And now he sat in chains, laughing like it was the only thing left that didn’t hurt.

“That’s all I needed,” he said to no one in particular, then turned to the Auror at the door. “He’s gone. Mind’s splintered to pieces.”

He paused in the doorway. Looked back one last time.

Sirius Black was hunched again, laughing into the dark like a man whose soul had already left him. And for the first time in many years, Alastor Moody felt something dangerously close to pity.

Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Level Two, Ministry of Magic - Early afternoon

The storm outside raged against the enchanted windows, but it was nothing compared to the atmosphere in the chamber.

Minister Millicent Bagnold sat at the head of the long table, horn-rimmed spectacles perched low on her nose, quill poised above a thick parchment. Her face was pinched, her grey hair swept into an elegant bun, and her patience was clearly thinning.

The emergency writ glowed faintly. The parchment was a powerful magical document, pre-written, pending her signature.

Across the table, Bartemius Crouch Sr. stood stiffly, arms folded. His jaw looked chiselled from granite, and the set of his mouth warned he’d already made up his mind.

“This is unprecedented,” said Undersecretary Wilfrid Hopkirk, glancing nervously around the table. “No trial? No review by the Wizengamot?”

“We’re not tossing some minor hoodlum into a holding cell for a weekend,” said Hopkirk’s colleague, Amelia Bones, cool and professional, but visibly uneasy. “We’re imprisoning Sirius Black. The Black heir. Without trial. It sets a... precedent.”

Crouch slammed his fist on the table. “He murdered thirty-eight Muggles and a wizard. In a public street! Witnesses saw him laughing over the wreckage. And he was James Potter’s best man, for Merlin’s sake… if anyone could have betrayed them…”

“We don’t know that for certain,” Bones interjected. “There’s been no Veritaserum, no interrogation, nothing official. The man hasn’t said a word.”

“He doesn’t have to,” said Crouch. “The public is howling for justice. They want a name. A punishment. Not hand-wringing.”

Minister Bagnold looked up from the writ. “There’s been an international outcry,” she said softly. “Magical Congress of the USA’s envoy already sent an owl asking if we’re facing a wider Death Eater resurgence. The Muggle Prime Minister is pressing for an explanation of what happened in Cricklewood yesterday.”

“Madam Minister,” came another voice from the side, a thin, weary-looking official from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, “our Obliviators are stretched thin. We’re dealing with close to a hundred grieving Muggle families, structural damage to half a street, and a magical residue spike that triggered a breach alert with the International Confederation of Wizards.”

Crouch leaned forward, voice like steel. “And you want to risk public calm by giving Sirius Black the opportunity to grandstand? To plead innocence? Or worse, implicate others and spark sympathy?”

“He’s a Black,” muttered someone. “They’ll never believe he’s innocent.”

Minister Bagnold’s eyes scanned the room. Faces stared back - cautious, resigned, exhausted. A table full of bureaucrats, war veterans, and civil servants who had seen too many coffins and too little peace.

“Do we have consensus?”

There was silence. Then one by one, heads nodded. Bones, hesitantly. Hopkirk, grimacing. Crouch, eager.

No one dared oppose.

With a sigh, Bagnold signed the writ. The red seal shimmered, locked in place. “Then let it be recorded: Sirius Black is to be sent to Azkaban. Immediately. No trial. Under Article Seven of the Emergency Statute.”

She passed the writ to the attending Auror. “For the sake of public safety,” she said softly, “and to ensure the war truly ends. Take him. Cell Ninety-Three.”

Azkaban – Later That Night

Cell Ninety-Three swallowed Sirius Black whole.

The heavy door slammed shut, stone grinding against stone with finality. A harsh echo rolled down the corridor like a death knell, swallowed by the roaring wind and crashing sea just beyond the cliffside walls.

He didn’t scream. Not yet.

The cell was a coffin made of damp stone and stale air. A single rusting pipe dripped near the ceiling, a slow metronome ticking in a place where time had long since lost meaning. The chill was not just in the stone or in the marrow, it was deeper, heavier. A cold that settled into the soul.

The Dementors were not there yet but their presence licked at the edges of the cell like a rising tide. Their shadows clung to the walls, pooling in corners, breathing silence into every crack. The air itself grew heavier with their hunger.

Sirius had heard the stories, as every wizard had; how the Dementors sucked away warmth, hope, the very memory of light. How a man could survive in body but be hollowed out inside, left with nothing but despair echoing where joy had once lived.

But Sirius had no joy left to steal. No memories worth guarding. Only grief, a grief so vast it swallowed itself. And guilt, thick and suffocating, curled up like smoke in his throat.

The Dementors hovered at the threshold of his sanity, but found little to feast on. He had already lost himself. He sank to the corner, the chains on his ankles scraping across the floor. His body folded in on itself, knees to chest, arms wrapped tightly, like he might hold in what little was left.

In the silence, the truth came for him.

It was your idea.

His fingers dug into his scalp.

You convinced them.

They hadn’t wanted to do it, not at first. James had hesitated, Lily had frowned, concerned. But they trusted you.

“You wanted to fool Voldemort,” Sirius muttered aloud, as if hearing the words from his own lips would lessen the sting. “You thought it was clever. You thought…”

His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. They were so careful. They were going to use you. And you said no. You handed their lives to a rat.

And Harry. The name broke something in his chest.

Harry. His godson. That tiny thing with a laugh like summer bells, always trying to pull his hair, always clapping when Padfoot barked and rolled over.

Gone. Dead. Because Sirius Black had made a mistake.

He pressed his head against the freezing stone, breath shaking, his chest crushed under the weight of it all.

A flicker. A memory, cruel and kind.

James in his dressing gown, laughing as Harry buzzed past on a toy broomstick. Lily chasing them, long red hair like wildfire in the morning sun. The way her face softened when she looked at her son, the same way it had been the day she’d made Sirius godfather.

A broken laugh escaped his throat. It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t madness, not entirely. Just… grief with no shape. “I should be dead too,” he whispered, his guilt screaming louder than the sea.

He wanted it. He deserved it. The Dementors were finally there, hovering just beyond the bars, silent and ravenous. Their chill bled through the stone, through his skin, through the marrow of his grief.

In the black, he imagined Harry, not dead, but alive. Safe somewhere. For a moment, there was warmth. Then it withered. The shadows pressed in, hungrier than before.

Sirius Black closed his eyes. And let the darkness in. He screamed until his voice cracked. And then he screamed again.

Chapter Text

Seven years later

Harry woke to the soft rattle of the radiator pipes coming to life; their usual morning song of clanks and hisses meant breakfast would be ready in about fifteen minutes. Pale grey light filtered through the narrow window above his bed, casting long shadows across the dormitory. He blinked slowly, rubbing sleep from his eyes. No dreams this time. Just the usual foggy kind of sleep that made it hard to tell if it was Monday or Thursday. He reached for his glasses on the bedside table and slid them on with a practiced motion. The air was cool, and his toes curled instinctively when they touched the worn floorboards. He sat up and pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders, eyes scanning the room out of habit.

Six beds, lined up with military precision - numbered, not named. A faded rug by the washbasin, threadbare in the centre. Posters on the far wall, curling at the corners, cartoon animals and a chart that said Brush, Wash, Fold, Tuck in cheerful letters that nobody paid much attention to anymore. Someone, probably one of the older boys, had slapped a poster of Millwall Football Club over one of the trains, its blue-and-white colours faded but defiant. The other boys were still asleep. One of them, Benji probably, snored with a kind of musical wheeze that rose and fell like a leaky accordion.

Harry leaned over the side of his bed and reached underneath, pulling out the shoebox he kept hidden from everyone else. It was his real treasure, not because of what was inside, but because it was his, and that mattered.

He set it gently on the blanket beside him and lifted the lid.

There was the little grey cardigan, folded neatly. The broomstick buttons still made him smile; it was a funny shape for something so tiny. The baby blanket sat beside it, soft and worn and smelling faintly of something safe. And of course, the pendant. The stag still looked proud and strange in the morning light, standing in a field of lilies. He touched it in the box, fingers brushing the cool silver. Somehow, it made him feel safe, like he belonged to something, as though it tied him to something he couldn’t name.

He didn’t take the box out very often. Only in early mornings like this, when no one was watching. It wasn’t much. But it was enough to remind him that before he had been Harry Palmer of St. Jude’s, Dormitory Three, Bed Number Five, second from the back, he had been someone else.

He tucked everything carefully back in place and slid the box beneath the bed again.

Outside the dormitory, the orphanage was already stirring. Somewhere down the hall, the older girls were arguing over bathroom time. The pipes groaned overhead as someone flushed. The smell of toast, slightly burnt - always burnt, drifted up from the kitchen.

St. Jude’s, at least in the eyes of an eight-year-old, was large in the way only old buildings can be. Its walls held a kind of tired dignity: high ceilings, creaky staircases, long echoing halls with peeling paint and uneven flooring. There were four dormitories in total, two for boys, two for girls. One communal dining hall. A playroom with mismatched board games missing half the pieces. An office where Matron Grindle lived and ruled. And a garden round the back with more weeds than flowers, though the cabbages were doing their best.

It wasn’t warm. Or cold. Not cruel. But not loving either. Just… there.

He shuffled to the washbasin, careful not to trip over Benji’s shoes, and splashed his face. The water was sharp, waking. He looked up, and there he was again, the boy in the mirror.

Same green eyes. Same stupid hair. Same scar. He stared for a long time. The mirror didn’t blink.

“Did they hate me?” he whispered.

The question caught in his throat, hot and heavy. His eyes stung, but he blinked hard and looked down. “Why didn’t you want me?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper now. “Was I too loud? Too weird? Did I cry too much?”

He swallowed, throat tight. No one had ever come for him. Not a cousin. Not a friend of the family. Not even a stranger with a kind smile.

He pulled his jumper on. It smelled faintly of laundry soap and old wood, then glanced one last time at the cracked mirror. “Still here,” he murmured, and stepped into the corridor. The lino was cold under his feet. The hallway was quiet, full of sleeping breath and dust and the feeling of things left unsaid.

Harry padded softly down the back stairwell, trailing his hand along the flaking wall. Paint peeled here and there in long curls, and someone, probably Jacob, had scratched a lopsided smiley face near the second landing.

The stairs creaked in their usual spots, no matter how light-footed he tried to be. Not that it mattered much. Mrs. Melling, the cook, had the ears of a fox and the temper of a kettle - quick to boil, quick to cool. She’d been there forever. So had Matron Grindle, who ran the place like a quiet storm; never shouting, never fussing, just watching and waiting. You never quite knew what she was thinking. That was worse, somehow.

Other staff came and went. Mr. Penn, who used to make the littlest ones cry just by raising an eyebrow. Miss Clarke, who handed out hugs like sweets and cried on her last day. Then there was Mr. Haskins, mean-eyed and petty, who always found reasons to keep boys back from outings and once slapped Theo for spilling ink on a form. Miss Jarvey had fingernails like talons and liked to yank ears when no one was watching. Mr. Cole smoked behind the bins and called the children “gutter pups” when he thought no one could hear. And Mrs. Rice, who ran bath nights like a prison warden, snapping towels and scolding in cold, clipped tones.

Only Miss Clarke had been missed when she left. Others weren’t.

Although Madame Leroux had stayed.

She’d been there longer than Harry could remember. Slender and always dressed like she might be called to a proper tea party at a moment’s notice even if she was just wiping glue off tabletops. Her voice was soft, her accent curling like ribbon around her words.

Harry liked her. Most of the kids did. She never spoke down to them. And she always noticed the quiet ones.

He was halfway down the final flight when he saw her at the foot of the stairs, sorting through a stack of old reading books. Her chestnut hair was pinned neatly, as always, and she was humming under her breath some tune in French Harry didn’t know the name of but had heard enough to hum along.

She glanced up as he stepped off the final stair. “Ah, bon matin, Henri.”

He grinned. “Bonjour, Madame.”

“Sleep well?” she asked, still stacking books.

Harry shrugged. “Pas vraiment.” Not really.

She paused, looking at him closely, then smiled; a real one, not the sort adults usually gave when they didn’t want you to know the truth. “You pick up my language like a little sponge, mon garçon. I did not expect such a clever ear.”

Harry looked slightly embarrassed, then smirked. “I like the way it sounds.”

“Today, we draw. With colours. Lots of them. I expect something cheerful, yes?”

“I’ll draw a dragon eating Toby’s maths book,” Harry said solemnly. “Very cheerful.”

Madame Leroux chuckled. “Très bien. But no fire this time, hm?”

“No promises,” he said with an easy grin, and slipped past her towards the kitchen.

As he went, he caught the soft melody of her humming again, rising faintly behind him like a lullaby in reverse, not sending you to sleep, but waking you up gently to the day ahead.

He didn’t say it out loud, but he liked when she was around. She made the place feel… less grey. Even if only for a little while.

By the time Harry padded into the kitchen, the usual din was already underway - clinking spoons, the scrape of chairs, the hiss of the old kettle on its third boil.

Mrs. Melling stood guard at the tea trolley, apron dusted with flour and chin lifted like a general surveying the battlefield.

“Morning, Madam General,” Harry said with a crooked grin as he slipped into his seat.

“Cut the charm, Palmer,” she said without turning. “One more smart remark and it’s toast crusts for you.”

“How can you? I’ve got the face of an angel,” he said, widening his eyes in mock innocence as he took the bowl with both hands, just as it landed in front of him with a practiced clatter.

Down the bench sat Callum, chin propped on one hand, prodding his eggs like they’d wronged him. Ameer, already halfway through his first slice of toast, waved a buttered knife in lazy greeting. Theo Moffat had a spoon in one hand and jam on his nose, chewing like he hadn’t eaten in a week.

“You’re late,” Callum muttered, not looking up.

“I had to wrestle my jumper off the bedpost. It won.”

Ameer snorted. “He talks to his clothes now.”

“Only when they start the fight,” Harry said, grabbing a slice of toast and swiping it through the edge of his porridge like it was soup. “Saves time.”

They ate in a loose huddle of half-wakefulness, the kind where elbows bumped and milk was passed without asking.

Harry glanced around the kitchen. The long table was scarred and nicked with age; initials carved into its legs by boys long gone. The windows rattled when the wind picked up, and one of the bulbs overhead flickered whenever someone ran the dishwasher. It wasn’t home. But it wasn’t hell either.

There was never too much of anything at St. Jude’s - just enough. Meals were plain but warm, seconds weren’t always guaranteed, and meat usually meant something minced or tinned. Clothes came from donation bins, stitched over and worn soft from too many washings. Shoes rarely fit quite right. Toys were communal and often broken, books came without covers, and birthdays were marked with a candle in whatever pudding was already on the menu. It was a place built more for survival than comfort and Harry had learned, like all the others, not to expect anything more.

He caught sight of two of the older boys, Jacob and Niall, sitting farther down the table. They looked up briefly, met his gaze, and smirked. Nothing today. But maybe later.

The older boys didn’t hit hard. Just enough to remind you they could. Quick shoves in the stairwell, a trip in the corridor, cold water poured on your pillow while you were brushing your teeth. Always quiet. Always when the staff weren’t looking.

Harry had tried telling the Matron once, years ago now, and things had only got worse. Matron Grindle said she’d “have a word,” and maybe she had. But the next day, his shoes were gone and his spelling book was found torn behind the bins. After that, he’d learnt. You kept your head down. You didn’t ask for help. Not unless you wanted things to get worse.

Sometimes, when he lay awake at night, he wondered if the older boys weren’t really cruel, maybe they were just... repeating what had been done to them. Like passing along a bad story, again and again, until someone forgot to stop. Maybe they were scared once, too, and this was how they made sure no one ever made them feel small again.

But then, why couldn’t they stop?

He didn’t think the grown-ups were bad, but he wasn’t sure they were good either. Some of the staff knew. Of course they knew. Mr Ellery just muttered “boys will be boys” and turned up the volume on his little radio, never lifting his eyes. And Miss Potts, who wore too much perfume and never let you touch the biscuits, only “noticed” what happened right under her chair. Anything else, and she simply didn’t.

Harry didn’t hold it against anyone. Not really. This was just how things worked here. You figured out the rules: how to duck, when to stay quiet, where to sit. You learnt not to cry unless you were bleeding, and even then, only a little. What good would crying do, anyway?

Callum didn’t take it as well. He sat stiffly, spoon untouched, eyes heavy in that way Harry had started to recognize.

Callum had once told him, in a whisper, after lights out, that his mum used to hum while folding socks. And his dad made up bedtime stories about a prince who could speak to horses. Then they’d died. No one took him in.

Now he was here, and every time someone shouted, or the toast burned, or someone pushed him too hard, a flicker of something passed over his face. Like a bruise that never healed.

Harry didn’t remember anyone humming for him. Or folding socks. Or tucking him in with made-up stories. The hole in his memory was too big. Too quiet. So, he didn’t miss anything. And maybe that made it easier.

Callum caught him looking and offered a flat, tired smile. Harry smiled back. Just enough.

Then Theo tried to stack three slices of toast on top of his mug and the moment passed. “Bet I can get five,” he declared proudly.

“I bet you can get jam in your eyebrows again,” Ameer muttered.

Harry took another bite of toast, leaning back in his seat and letting the noise blur around him.

This was St. Jude’s. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… there. A holding space. A between place. And that was enough for Harry.

The hallway outside Matron Grindle’s office was cold this morning, not from weather, but from the way the light hit the old tiled floor. The sun streamed in weakly through the windows, dust hanging in the air like a question that wouldn’t settle. Harry sat quietly on the wooden bench, feet swinging a few inches off the ground, hands shoved deep in the sleeves of his jumper.

Matron Grindle had called him up for an “incident.”

It happened last Sunday, during garden duty. The older boys were supposed to rake leaves while the younger ones helped Mrs. Melling clear out the tool shed. It was Jonah, a wiry, wide-eyed nine-year-old with too much curiosity and too little caution who found the old box of matches tucked behind the gardening gloves.

“Watch this!” Jonah had grinned, crouched near the compost heap with a dried leaf pinched between his fingers. A few other boys gathered around, egging him on.

Harry had been on the other side of the garden, trying to unstick a half-rotten tomato from the fence, when he smelled it, the sharp acidic tang of sulphur and something burning. He turned just in time to see the flame catch. The dry leaves hissed, flared and the whole corner of the heap went up in a whoosh of orange.

For a moment, no one moved. Then came the screaming. Jonah fell backwards, too stunned to cry, as the fire licked closer to his trouser leg. The other boys scattered.

Harry didn’t think.

“Stop!” he shouted, flinging his hand forward.

The air buckled. That was the only way to describe it, like someone had punched the sky.

The fire shrank back with a snap, curling in on itself before vanishing entirely, as if pulled into a vacuum. Not a wisp of smoke left behind. Just the scorched edge of Jonah’s cuff and a blackened ring in the soil.

Silence followed. Not just from the boys. From everything. Then Ameer, pale-faced and gripping his rake like a weapon, whispered, “You did that.”

He’d laughed. Brushed it off. Said it was probably wind or luck or both. But even he didn’t believe it.

And the others didn’t buy it either. You could see it in their eyes - wide, darting, uncertain. They didn’t run, didn’t shout. But they edged away from him a little that afternoon. Whispers started, quiet words passed under breath over dinner or while brushing teeth.

It wasn’t the first time something strange had happened with him. Not by a long shot.

There was the time last winter when a crack had bloomed across the front window of the dormitory during a shouting match between two of the older boys, just as Harry had flinched and covered his ears. Or the time Madame Leroux’s tea kettle had begun to whistle without the stove being lit, right after Harry had whispered that he was cold. The time the cupboard door slammed shut behind an older boy the moment he’d raised a hand at Callum. Not long after he’d been pushed from the top of the toolshed by the same boy, he fell, arms flailing and somehow, landed like a feather on the ground.

And no matter how much he joked or shrugged or looked the other way, a small part of him always knew.

There was something wrong with him. Or something different.

And this wasn’t the first time he’d been called to the office for one of these strange incidents. He never had any explanations, and Matron Grindle, for all her precision, had been at a loss. There were no rules in the staff handbook for “accidental fire disappearing acts.” She always relented in the end, sometimes with a warning, sometimes with silence. And then life would go on, as normal as it could be for Harry.

The door to the office was ajar, just enough to hear the clink of teacups and the rustle of papers. A tall man in a checked jacket was leaning forward in his chair, speaking in hushed tones. Across from him sat a girl about ten; thin, with a long fringe and bright, nervous eyes. Her shoes were polished. That usually meant adoption.

Harry didn’t know her well. Her name was Celia, he thought. She’d been here about a year, soft-spoken, didn’t cry much. She smiled at everyone but never quite looked them in the eye. She looked up now as if she could feel him watching, and Harry offered a faint, awkward wave. She didn’t wave back, just twisted her fingers in her lap.

Harry exhaled through his nose and stared down the corridor, where the strip lights buzzed faintly overhead. He wasn’t jealous. Not exactly. Just… wondered. If someone would ever walk through those doors and look at him like that, like he was wanted.

He didn’t get his hopes up. Didn’t really remember ever having them.

Yesterday had been his birthday; or the day the orphanage called his birthday. November First, chosen because it was the day he had been left there. They made a little fuss each year: a card from Matron Grindle signed in her neat, perfunctory hand, a sweet bun at breakfast, one hour of board games after supper. A small song, a shared joke, and then it was over. Like Christmas. Like everything else.

After the board games, he’d found Madame Leroux tidying up books in the library. He didn’t mean to ask. It just… slipped out.

“Do you think they knew me?” he had asked, very quietly, fingers brushing the edge of the shelf.

Madame Leroux had turned, blinking behind her glasses. Her soft chestnut hair was tied up in its usual scarf, and she smelled faintly of ink and nutmeg.

“Who, mon cœur?” she asked gently.

“My parents,” he said. “Before they left me. Do you think they… ever looked at me? Held me?”

The words had come out too fast, all at once, and it was too late to pretend he hadn’t asked.

There had been a long silence. Then, Madame Leroux knelt beside him, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. “I do not know what happened Henri. But I do not think they wanted to lose you, mon petit.”

He had nodded like he believed her. Like her words had made something better.

But now, sitting in the hallway alone, the weight of that question came back, the one that crept into the quiet moments when no one was looking. Why had no one come for him? Not ever?

He rubbed the fabric of his jumper between two fingers and stared at the crack in the linoleum under his feet. The office door creaked open. Celia stepped out, her eyes wide and glassy, holding a brown satchel in one hand. The man followed, beaming down at her. She didn’t look back.

Matron Grindle stood in the doorway. “Palmer.”

Harry stood quickly.

She didn’t smile. “Inside.”

As he passed her, he glanced once down the hall, past the scuffed walls and flickering lightbulb.

Someone had been chosen. But not him.

Chapter Text

Summer, 1990

The room smelled of old plaster and furniture polish, cut with a faint tinge of burnt toast drifting up from the kitchens below. Dust motes spun in the early morning light, drifting through the high, barred window that overlooked the narrow service lane behind.

Harry lay still on his bed in the corner of Dormitory Three, sheets tangled around his legs and breath shallow against the fading echo of a nightmare.

It always ended the same.

A woman’s voice, crying, desperate; calling out to someone unseen. A blinding green light. And then, silence, obliterating and absolute. Like the world had been torn apart from the inside.

He stared up at the cracked ceiling, letting the weight of the nightmare seep away, inch by inch. He was used to it now. Almost.

The nightmares had started right after Madame Leroux died. A stroke they said, sudden, quiet, just like the way she used to slip out of rooms, soft-footed and smiling. It was only six months ago and St. Jude’s had never felt colder. Madame Leroux had been the only thing warm here; not just kind, but gentle, like sunshine sneaking through shuttered windows. She had smelled of nutmeg and ink, and spoken to him like he mattered. After she was gone, the dreams began: the screaming, the flash of green, the crushing silence. Sometimes he wondered, was it her voice crying out in the dark? But it didn’t sound like her. It sounded like something much older. And deeper.

The room was quiet. Some of the other boys still slept in their beds, a low symphony of snores, sniffles and restless turns beneath thin wool blankets.

Harry sat up and swung his legs over the edge. The wooden floor was cold beneath his feet, the varnish long worn away in the centre where generations of children had paced before him. He reached for his glasses on the nightstand and slid them on, the world sharpening into shape.

St. Jude’s Home for Children wasn’t a cruel place. It wasn’t Dickensian, with locked closets and beatings, as some of the older stories would have one believe. It was simply... dispassionate. A place run like clockwork. Functional and efficient, a kind of holding place for lives between lives. The staff were mostly too tired to be kind. Busy, overworked and underpaid; they were just distant to everything around them.

The children, in turn, became experts in the small business of survival: falling in and out of fast friendships, learning which adults meant business, and which corners of the building had the loosest floorboards or the warmest radiators in winter.

St Jude’s was a quiet, forgettable place for forgotten children.

He talked when he had to. Laughed, joked, even teased, especially with the few boys he was close with. But he didn’t get attached. Not really. Not in the way that left marks. Anyone who got too close had a habit of disappearing - adopted, transferred, or just gone. People always left, he’d learned that early. Even Madame Leroux, the one adult he’d trusted blindly, was no more. So he kept his heart tucked away, like the old shoebox under his bed. Hidden. Better that way. Safer. Attachments made you hope, and hope never paid off.

Harry padded towards the cracked mirror fixed above the washbasin in the corner, careful not to trip over Benji’s school shoes, always left in the middle of the floor. He studied himself with the dispassion of someone long used to being unremarkable.

Pale skin, from years spent mostly indoors. Bright green eyes. Perpetually tousled black hair that defied combs, scissors and reason. The only unusual thing about his appearance, apart from how often he wore clothes two sizes too big, was the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead, almost too faint to notice.

No one at St. Jude’s had ever asked about it. Harry didn’t have an answer, anyway.

He lingered in front of the mirror for a moment, then reached under the bed and drew out a battered shoebox, the one thing he never let out of sight. Not because anyone wanted it, but because it was his.

Inside were the remnants of a life he couldn’t remember.

A baby blanket, frayed and soft. A tiny grey cardigan, hand-knit, with buttons shaped like broomstick which made Harry wonder with good humour whether his parents had really been too much into cleaning.

And lastly, the pendant.

Silver. A finely wrought stag standing proud in a field of lilies, its chain too short for him to wear.

Harry picked it up, as he always did when the nightmares left their mark. He clutched it tightly, letting its coolness soothe the panic in his chest. It had become a habit. Ritual, almost. On nights when sleep was no escape, this small, strange thing calmed him in a way nothing else did.

Today felt different, though. Something in the air. A prickle at the back of his neck.

With a sudden impulse, Harry lifted the pendant and slipped the chain over his head. It resisted at first, the clasp catching on his collarbone and then…

It grew.

Not dramatically. Just a subtle ripple, as though the metal itself sighed and adjusted. The chain lengthened in an instant, settling around his neck like it had always belonged there.

Harry froze, fingers still clutching the pendant.

The room was quiet. No fanfare. No thunder. Just the soft breath of sleeping boys and the distant clatter of pots in the kitchen. His mouth dropped open slightly.

“Okay,” he whispered. “That’s new.”

He looked down at the pendant, resting just above his heart. The stag gleamed faintly in the light.

Another strange thing had happened to him, that added to the growing list.

There was the time he’d leapt clean over the back garden wall when a dog chased him, a jump no ten-year-old should’ve made. Or the time Mrs. Melling found every cupboard door in the pantry open after Harry had been scolded for taking a second helping. Or the day Miss Grindle’s prized fern had withered overnight after she scolded him for “laziness unbecoming of a St. Jude’s boy.”

Small things. Unexplainable. Sometimes laughable. Sometimes not. Things that if noticed too closely would warrant him being sent away to somewhere far less friendly.

He touched the pendant again.

It fit.

Somehow, that fact alone calmed him more than any words could.

He glanced back at the room.

Peeling posters lined the walls - of cartoon trains, a corkboard with chore lists and birthdays, cartoon animals mid-jump, a faded chart that read Brush, Wash, Fold, Tuck in cheerful block letters, and a worn Millwall F.C. fixture sheet, stuck up years ago by some older boy and never taken down. Harry had started liking football because of it, especially after the orphanage had taken them all on a fan day to the stadium. The noise, the colours, the chanting; it had stuck with him. Since then, Millwall had become his team. His one club. Just like the others picked theirs.

He turned towards the window as the first beams of proper sunlight broke over the rooftops. The world was waking.

By the time Harry made it down the creaky stairwell and padded into the rear kitchen, breakfast was already underway.

Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, glinting off mismatched silverware and chipped mugs. The air was filled with the soft clatter of spoons and sleepy murmurs from the long table where a handful of children sat, shoulders slouched and hair sticking out at odd angles.

Mrs. Melling, in her usual floral apron, bustled about with her ladle and tea trolley, hollering over her shoulder like a drill sergeant in slippers. “Sit down proper, mouths closed while chewing, and God help the next one who spills milk.”

Harry slid into his seat halfway down the table and offered his most angelic smile. “Mornin’, Madam General.”

Mrs. Melling didn’t even look at him. “One more cheeky word, Palmer, and you’ll be peeling potatoes for lunch.”

He grinned. “Worth it.”

Across the table, Callum had his chin nearly in his porridge. “You’re late.”

“Dreamed I was being chased by flying carrots,” Harry said casually, grabbing a slice of toast. “They were winning.”

“Bet they wanted revenge,” Ameer joined in, all used to Harry’s outlandish remarks by now.

Thomas leaned close to Harry. “Is it true you can make things float?”

Theo Moffat had been adopted last year; a tall, sharp-nosed boy with a knack for climbing fences and stealing second helpings without getting caught. Harry still thought about him sometimes, especially when he caught sight of the empty bed by the radiator. In his place now sat little Thomas, barely six, who’d been dropped off just days after Madame Leroux died. Quiet at first, all wide eyes and clumsy hands, he’d slowly started gravitating towards Harry and the others, trailing after them in the garden, copying Callum’s jokes, and sitting just a little closer to Harry at breakfast each morning.

Harry blinked, mouth half-full. “Who told you that?”

“Jessa said you made her crayon box fly when Toby tried to nick it.”

Harry made a face. “I tripped. Elbow hit the table. Must’ve flipped it.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes. “It flew up and hit Toby in the nose.”

“That was just gravity,” Harry said with a wink. “Probably.”

Ameer snorted into his cup.

Mrs. Melling arrived with a bowl of porridge and placed it in front of Harry with her usual muttering. “You lot and your imaginations. Flying crayons now.”

Harry stirred the porridge absentmindedly, his fingers brushing the warm silver pendant under his shirt. He glanced towards the far end of the table, where Toby Griggs was stacking toast slices like bricks, sizing up the room.

Harry’s eyes narrowed.

When Toby made a move towards Ameer, Harry spoke without looking up. “Touch his toast, and I swear I’ll freeze your shoes again.”

“You never proved that was you,” Toby snapped.

“Didn’t have to.” Harry spooned porridge into his mouth. “You limped for two days.”

Thomas giggled quietly.

The chatter rose around them, spoons clinking, milk being passed, Ameer mumbling a story about a dog he’d seen the other day. It was the kind of morning that felt almost like home, if such a thing existed here.

The worn lino floors outside Matron Grindle’s office always squeaked in a way that made sneaking impossible.

Harry stood at attention, arms at his sides, eyes fixed on a patch of peeling wallpaper that looked vaguely like a rabbit with a moustache. He could feel the weight of the pendant under his shirt. It was warm, as if sensing his nerves.

Behind the desk sat Matron Grindle. Not tall, not loud, but formidable in the way ancient statues were. Her grey hair was wound into a tight bun, not a strand out of place. Her wire-rimmed spectacles glinted in the morning light as she flipped through a thin, dog-eared folder marked Palmer, H. in precise handwriting.

“Well,” she said without looking up, “you’ve managed a whole week without setting something on fire.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Progress.”

She peered at him over the top of her glasses. “We had a shattered teapot on Tuesday.”

“It slipped,” Harry offered.

Matron Grindle’s lips flattened. It might have been the ghost of a grimace. Or indigestion.

She set the folder down with a tap of her fingers, precise and sharp. “You’ve been with us nearly nine years, Palmer. That’s longer than most.”

Harry shifted on the worn carpet. “Guess I’m durable.”

“No,” Grindle said, gaze steady behind her spectacles. “You’re tolerated. This is not a place for sentiment. It is a home. Temporary for most. Functional for all. You understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You're not unlikable, Mr. Palmer. But you are... persistent.”

Harry blinked. “I think that’s good?”

Grindle didn’t smile. “It’s an observation.”

There was a silence then, not heavy, but watchful. The kind that settled between two people who knew each other well enough to skip pretence.

She looked at him carefully, as if seeing the edges of something he hadn’t grown into yet. “Any more incidents?”

“No, ma’am.”

“No voices, dreams, visions?”

Harry paused. “Just normal stuff.”

Grindle closed the file and regarded him for a long moment. Her voice, when it came again, was lower. “You’ve been different since Madame Leroux passed.”

That landed like a stone. Harry kept his face blank, but his hands had gone still at his sides. Six months ago. He hadn’t believed it at first. Hadn’t let himself.

“She looked after you,” Grindle continued, matter-of-fact. “She had a softness for strays.”

Harry’s mouth thinned. He didn’t look up. He hadn’t cried when they told him. Not then. Not in front of anyone. But it had felt like a window shutting somewhere, a warm one. The only warm one in this whole place. He went quiet for a moment, then steadied himself, pulled his face into something unreadable, and turned back to Grindle as if nothing had broken at all.

Matron Grindle stood, smoothing the front of her starch-white blouse. “Very well. Garden duty this afternoon. Mrs. Melling needs help turning the compost. I expect you to keep the others in line.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry replied. “I’ll try not to accidentally knock over the cabbage bin.”

She didn’t answer, only nodded towards the door.

Harry turned to leave, but before his hand touched the knob, she said softly, “The other children look up to you. That is not something to waste.”

Harry stopped. “I won’t.”

“See that you don’t.”

He exited quietly, shutting the door behind him with care. The hallway was empty, save for a soft draft curling in from the broken window at the end. With hands in his pockets and thoughts churning, Harry Palmer made his way to the rear garden, where the cabbage bin awaited its fate.

The garden behind St. Jude’s wasn’t much of a garden; mostly dry, patchy grass and stubborn nettles trying to reclaim the corners. A cracked concrete path wound towards a weathered toolshed, and a row of raised vegetable beds stretched along the back wall, their soil more gravel than earth.

Mrs. Melling had assigned four boys to compost duty, her florid cheeks already pink from chasing a trio of toddlers away from her laundry line.

Callum crouched at the edge of the bed, carefully trimming dead leaves off a sad-looking cabbage. Ameer knelt beside him, tying back tomato stalks with bits of fraying twine. Thomas poked around near the compost heap, periodically gagging at the smell.

And Harry stood over the open lid of the garden bin, elbow-deep in the top layer of kitchen scraps, stirring with an old broom handle. The sun burned hot on his back, sweat sticking his shirt to his skin.

“I swear,” Thomas said, waving away a fly. “If I find one more banana peel in here…”

“Don’t moan, Tommy,” Callum muttered. “At least you’re not wrist-deep in rot like Harry.”

“I’d swap if I could,” Harry said, grinning. “This stuff builds character though. Probably toxic, too.”

Ameer snorted. “That explains your face, then.”

Harry flicked a bit of mushy lettuce at him. They all ducked, laughing. And that’s when the gate creaked open.

Toby.

Fourteen, built like he’d been carved from rugby bruises and cheap cereal, and flanked by two of the older boys - Jacob and Niall, both with lazy eyes and mean smiles.

Harry had grown to hate bullies.

He hadn’t always. There was a time he’d just run, keep his head down, stay quiet, wait for it to pass. That was how you survived at first. You ducked, disappeared, made yourself smaller than the hurt. But you can only be cornered so many times before something shifts.

He knew what it felt like, the sting of gravel under your palms, the heat behind your eyes when the laughter wasn’t yours. Being the smallest. The quiet one. Easy to trip, easy to shove. The kind of pain that didn’t leave bruises you could point to.

He hadn’t forgotten. And he’d stopped trying to. Somewhere along the way, shrinking started to feel worse than standing your ground. So now, he met cruelty with steel. Even when the odds were against him. Especially then.

If they wanted a fight, they’d get one. Bloody lip, black eye, didn’t matter. Better to swing back and lose than stand still and take it.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he won. A knee landed right, or a fist didn’t miss, and someone else ended up on the ground. That part never felt as good as he thought it would. There was always a moment afterward, when the shouting faded and his fists unclenched, that a small voice inside asked, Did you have to hit that hard?

But he’d learned not to listen too closely. Not if he wanted to keep going.

Then came the voice, sharp, mocking, and all too familiar. “Afternoon, composters,” Toby sneered.

The words cut through Harry’s thoughts like a snapped twig. Whatever softness had crept into his chest shrank back, tucked behind his ribs. His shoulders straightened on instinct. Right. Back to it, then. Callum froze.

“Leave off, Toby,” Harry said, stepping forward. “We’re working.”

“Oh, I can see that. Especially little Callum here. Ever think you’d grow up shovelling cow crap, runt?”

Callum stood up, fists clenched.

“Toby, don’t,” Ameer muttered.

“You think because Melling likes you, you can strut around with your little gang?” Toby hissed, stepping closer. “You’re all nutcases. Especially you, Palmer.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I’m not scared of you.”

“No?” Toby raised a brow. “Let’s test that.”

Before anyone could blink, Toby shoved Callum hard, sending him tumbling into the compost bin with a grunt. Thomas and Ameer lunged to help, but Jacob blocked them.

Harry moved fast, too fast, shoving Toby back.

“Touch him again and I’ll…”

Wham.

Toby grabbed an old rusted trowel from the nearby table and slammed the flat edge against the side of Harry’s head.

Pain exploded. Harry staggered, vision swimming. His glasses flew off, landing somewhere in the dust. He hit the ground, dirt in his mouth, blood warm down his temple.

Something inside snapped. Not like a twig. Like a fuse.

The kitchen behind them shuddered. Then roared.

There was a deafening boom, and a column of fire surged up from the far window of the back kitchen. Glass shattered, flames licking outward. The toolshed caught immediately, dry wood and old oil cans.

Someone screamed. Children ran. Mrs. Melling shrieked from the doorway.

Harry lay there, blinking up at the sky as panic unfolded around him. Smoke churned into the air. Sirens wailed in the distance.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t.

The entire block was cordoned off. Blue tape fluttered in the breeze. London Fire Brigade vans sat with their lights flashing, men and women in yellow jackets moving with practised urgency. An ambulance idled nearby. Two boys from the older group sat on the curb with minor burns being bandaged. One of them, Niall, looked pale but fine.

Harry stood to the side, a blanket around his shoulders. Someone had tried to wipe the blood from his hair, but it still crusted near his ear.

Matron Grindle stood across the yard, arms folded, lips pursed as she spoke with a tall man in a crisp white shirt, likely the fire chief. Her eyes flicked to Harry once. Just once.

No one had seen what he’d done. No one could have. The official word was a gas leak, that the stove had been faulty, the kitchen door had jammed, and the explosion had spread to the shed.

But Harry knew.

He felt it in his chest, in his hands, in the pendant now warm against his skin like a second heartbeat. He sat on the bottom step of the orphanage and stared at his shoes.

What am I?

The question echoed louder than the sirens. It hadn’t been the first time. But until now, it had always been harmless. No real danger. But this? This was an explosion. This was real. This was too much.

Ameer had a bandage on his leg. Thomas had lost his sketchpad in the fire. Even Callum had a scrape across his cheek and kept wincing every time he moved. And it had been him.

His fault.

He gripped the blanket tighter, trying to vanish into it.

Matron Grindle approached. Her heels clicked against the stone. She looked down at him with her usual unreadable expression.

“We were lucky,” she said, voice flat. “With help from the Corporation’s insurance payout we can repair immediately. No lasting damage.”

Harry didn’t respond.

“Do you know anything about how it started?”

He shook his head.

She held his gaze. For a long moment, something passed between them. Suspicion? Maybe. Or understanding.

Then she simply said, “You’re to sleep in the east dormitory until repairs are done.”

Harry nodded. Quiet.

She walked away without another word.

He stayed on the steps as the sun dipped low, watching the flicker of lights on the fire engine, listening to the muttered questions and the distant crackle of broken glass. Behind his eyes, a green light flashed. A woman’s scream. An explosion.

Harry Palmer buried his face in his hands and wished like he had never before, just for once, that he knew who he really was.

Chapter Text

Nine years.

Nine years of damp stone, shrieking wind, and silence so loud it scraped against the skull.

Sirius Black sat hunched in the corner of Cell Ninety-Three, a thin blanket draped over his shoulders like a shroud. He was gaunt, starved of light and laughter, with a beard that curled unevenly and hair hanging in dull tangles to his shoulders. His cheekbones jutted like blades under the pale stretch of his skin. His grey eyes, once bright and sharp, now stared out lifelessly, dull with exhaustion and something deeper, like the light had long since gone out. He was skeletal, held together more by stubbornness than flesh. But it wasn’t just Azkaban that had hollowed him out. The rot had started much earlier.

He had learned to loathe the word “pure” before he’d learned what it meant.

At his home, everything had been dark - the drapes, the portraits, the spells woven into the very walls. It was a museum of hate dressed up in velvet and silver. The Black family motto was etched above the mantelpiece in flowing script: Toujours Pur. Always Pure. He remembered reading it as a child and asking what it meant. His mother had explained it with pride. His brother Regulus had repeated it with reverence.

Sirius had spat it back with defiance the moment he understood.

He was sixteen when he left that house for good, a trunk and a burn mark on the family tapestry was all he had to show for it. Disowned, cast out, name scorched from the wall like a stain. His mother had screamed curses after him, his father had called him a traitor. Regulus hadn’t said anything at all.

But James had opened his door, and never closed it.

The Potters had taken him in without hesitation. For the first time, Sirius had tasted a home that didn’t sneer. A place where laughter wasn’t a weapon and love wasn’t conditional. Fleamont and Euphemia gave him a room, a place at the table, and a quiet kind of affection that made him feel awkward at first, and then fiercely loyal.

At Hogwarts, he had carved out something new: James, Remus, and that rat Peter. The Marauders. His brothers in mischief and in life. He wore their loyalty like armour, threw himself into laughter and chaos because it made the darkness quieter.

But even when the war had begun, and he’d joined the Order to fight it, the whispers had followed him.

“A Black. Let’s hope he doesn’t turn out like the rest.”

“He’s dangerous, that one.”

“His cousin’s a Death Eater, isn’t she?”

He gritted his teeth and pushed on. Fought harder. Louder. He was reckless, sure. Arrogant, sometimes. But he was loyal to Dumbledore, to the cause, and more than anything, to James and Lily. They were his family. Not by blood, but by every other measure that mattered.

And then... he failed them.

The worst part? Some of the old whispers had turned into nods. We always knew there was something off about him, they’d say.

He didn’t mind the prison. He deserved it. But not for the reason they thought.

His remorse was so deep it gnawed at him more than the cold ever could. He should have died that night, with James, with Lily, with Harry. Instead, he lived. Lived to watch everything fall apart. To remember the moment he ruined everything. He had begged for death, in the early days. Whispered to the stone walls, to the sea, to whatever God might still be listening. But no one came. So he stayed. Alone with the weight of it all.

But still, there was something there. Not quite sane. Not quite mad.

A flicker. A scrap of identity not yet devoured.

And part of that survival, strange as it seemed, was due to a man named Elliot Hirsch, an Auror posted to the North Wing about five years ago.

Hirsch was young, sharp, and unlike most of the others, didn’t flinch at the name Black. Sirius guessed he came from a Muggle family, the trainers with robes, the offhand mutterings about Arsenal matches, little clues that set him apart. He’d treated Sirius not with kindness, perhaps, but with a cool, steady professionalism. And when Sirius had asked, on a particularly empty day, if he could borrow the newspaper Hirsch was reading, just for the crossword, I swear; the man had snorted, refused twice, then relented on the third try.

It had become a quiet routine. Hirsch brought in a copy of the Daily Telegraph, folded it neatly on his desk, and when his shift ended, left it on the stone ledge beside Sirius’ cell.

The puzzle filled only a corner of his day, but it was something. A scrap of order. A flicker of the man who once stayed up late arguing with James over riddles and logic puzzles, or who snuck Lily’s Sunday paper just to beat her to the Sudoku.

Routine. Routine helped. Small things. Things to anchor himself. It was nothing. And it was everything.

And in those moments, he felt like Sirius again, unburdened, untouched by guilt or remorse. Not the prisoner. Not the ghost. Just a man with a pencil, a puzzle, and a past he hadn’t quite let go. Just a man trying to remember how to think.

This morning, Sirius sat cross-legged on the cold floor, muttering to himself while chewing the worn end of a graphite pencil. He looked like a man solving a puzzle. But if anyone had watched, they'd have seen someone barely holding a pencil, barely whispering syllables to a page that tilted in his lap, words disjointed, grip uncertain, voice fraying.

“Fourteen across. Twelve letters. ‘One who deceptively adopts another identity.’”

He scratched his head. “That’s a bit pointed.” He tried to grin, but it didn’t stick.

“Impersonator?” he muttered. “Or charlatan? No, that’s only nine…”

He stared at the page. “Pretender? Identity thief? Smiling Judas? Wormtail?” he muttered, each word landing heavier than the last. “So many bloody ways to call a traitor, and none of them ugly enough.”

He moved on.

“Two down. Four letters. Noble element discovered in 1898, often found in signs.”

He squinted. “Noble gas… bloody lot of noble things, aren’t there? Just not noble people.” He sniffed, blinked. “Helium? No, too long. Argon... Neon! That’s it, clever bastard.”

His hand hovered, then scrawled the word. The lines curved too wide, the letters tilted, like they no longer remembered how to stand upright.

His eyes flicked to the far corner of the cell, where nothing waited. Still, he muttered, “You’d have breezed through these, wouldn’t you, Regulus? Even the noble gases. Comes with the territory, I suppose… being from the Ancient and Most Noble House. So noble we considered Muggle hunting a family pastime. Mother’s little masterpiece. Polished manners, perfect pedigree, and just enough backbone to follow orders. The perfect fanatic!”

He shook his head, as if trying to clear it. But the cold crept deeper, like the North Sea had seeped into his veins and set his blood alight with frost. He dragged his eyes back to the crossword, clinging to it like a rope in the dark - letters, clues, anything to anchor him to the now.

“Right. Nine down. Seven letters. ‘Arrives in pandemonium with sirens in tow.’” He scratched at the page. He frowned. “Bit dramatic for the Telegraph, isn’t it?”

“Ambuscade? No, that’s an ambush, not a bloody siren show. Ambulatory? Sounds like something a Healer says before telling you you’ve lost a leg…”

He tapped the pencil against his lip, glaring at the clue like it had personally insulted him. “Ambu… something. Blast it.” The answer hovered, close enough to tease but not to grasp. Out of reach. Like everything else.

He sighed, rubbed his temple, and flipped the page over, hoping another look might jog his memory.

That’s when he saw the photograph.

A blur of white. Emergency vehicles. Smoke curling from the edge of a brick building. Children gathered in front of a broken wooden fence. A cluster of boys with bandaged limbs and soot-streaked faces surrounded a kneeling paramedic.

Sirius squinted. There. An ambulance.

“Ambulance!” he laughed aloud, triumphant. “Stupid Muggle hint. They gave away the bleeding answer in the photo!”

He scrawled the word into the crossword, pencil trembling in his grip, letters barely legible, almost spectral. “Might as well’ve hung a banner: ‘Oi, idiot, this way.’”

Still chuckling, he let his eyes drift back to the photograph, this time, properly.

And then he stopped. Stopped breathing. Stopped blinking.

The pencil slid from his fingers and rolled across the floor.

A boy.

Half-hidden behind another child. Thin, sharp-jawed, with unruly black hair that stuck out at every angle, untamed and familiar. Sirius leaned forward, breath suddenly shallow.

“James?”

He chuckled, a dry, broken sound. “Bloody Azkaban… hallucinating now, am I?”

But his laughter didn’t reach his eyes. His hand trembled as he unfolded the paper further and pressed it to the floor.

He stared at the photo again. It couldn’t be. The boy’s face was turned slightly in the picture, a captured moment, and Sirius saw them. Eyes. Green. Vivid, clear as glass. Not hazel like James’. But unmistakably Lily’s green.

His breath hitched.

“No…”

His hands trembled as he lifted the paper closer. The boy’s nose was James’. The jawline, too. The hair. The untidiness. The shoulders. And the way he stood, not awkward, but braced, like someone always expecting a blow. There was defiance in it. A challenge.

“James?” he whispered, then frowned. “No. Not James.”

And those eyes. He leaned back, heart racing. “Lily.”

And suddenly, Sirius wasn't seeing the photograph anymore. He was seeing a memory. James, tossing baby Harry in the air. Lily, laughing behind them. That same messy hair. Those same cheekbones. And the eyes, green like fresh leaves after rain.

He stared harder. And then the scream built quietly inside his chest.

“Harry.”

It burst from him, raw and disbelieving. “Harry.”

He gripped the newspaper, scanning every inch of the photograph again. There was no name. Just the scene: Southwark Fire Response - St. Jude’s Home for Children. A children’s home. In London.

He rocked forward, memories crashing over him like waves and his heart began to pound, sudden and wild. “You were dead. I saw you…”

No, he hadn’t seen.

He hadn’t been the first to arrive. When he had reached the edge of Godric’s Hollow, the house was already broken, gutted by fire, the roof gone, walls half-collapsed. Smoke still curled from the ruins, thick and sour. People were there - Ministry robes, neighbours, someone sobbing loudly.

And then he saw Hagrid.

The half-giant was kneeling in the rubble, cradling James’s lifeless body like a broken doll, bawling great heaving sobs that rattled through the air. Lily lay nearby, badly burnt, her red hair bright against the scorched floorboards, her eyes wide open but unseeing. And there, wrapped in Hagrid’s coat, was a small bundle. Still. Charred. Too quiet.

Sirius couldn’t breathe.

His legs had buckled before he could reach them. His wand had slipped from his fingers, forgotten. He had stayed back in the shadows, unseen, as his world collapsed in on itself, not with a roar, but a slow, sickening crack, like bones breaking under weight. He had turned away before anyone could call his name. He hadn’t wanted to be seen. Not with the guilt that already clawed its way up his throat.

Only one thought had pulsed through the wreckage of his mind, fierce and blinding: Peter must pay.

He’d believed Harry was dead. But this boy… this boy is Harry.

Sirius choked on a laugh that cracked midway through and turned into something else. Grief. Disbelief. Joy. Pain. He pressed a shaking hand to the boy’s image. “Prongs, Lily… you brilliant, beautiful fools.”

His voice dropped to a whisper, as if afraid to scare the photograph away. “You found a way.”

A portkey, maybe. A charm. Blood magic. It didn’t matter. Lily had always been the clever one. If anyone could find a loophole, it was her. And James knew how to make even the impossible work.

And they had.

Sirius pressed his forehead to the newspaper, the stone beneath cold and wet. The Dementors couldn’t take this. This was joy far too sharp and sudden. Eyes closed, he breathed in the faded ink. As if the scent might somehow carry a piece of Harry across the sea.

“You’re alive,” he murmured. “You’re alive.”

In the stillness of Cell Ninety-Three, Sirius Black smiled, truly smiled, for the first time in nine years. Not because of madness. But because hope had finally returned.

Chapter Text

The thought of running now, of leaping through the bars, tearing across the shore, and flying straight to Harry clawed at Sirius' chest with every breath.

He had waited nine years.

But Azkaban had, with cruelty, carved something quiet into him. Not just the madness. Something colder. Sharper. The headstrong twenty-one-year-old who’d once ridden his flying motorbike like a comet across the sky would have bolted the moment he’d seen that photo.

But the man he was now... sat. Waited. Watched. Planned. Because he knew now what he hadn’t before: he could not afford another mistake.

And so, three days after the newspaper had fallen into his lap like a prophecy, Sirius Black closed his eyes in Cell Ninety-Three and let the man slip away. In his place, a great black dog rose to its feet.

The change came with a rush of bone and fur, practiced. This form, this mangy half-starved beast with haunted eyes, had been his salvation. The dementors couldn’t read the thoughts of animals. Couldn't drain the soul of a dog. The Animagus within him had become more than a trick, it had become a shield.

He crept to the bars. Paws first, ribs next. Bones scraped iron. The gap was narrow, but he was narrower. Nine years of prison had hollowed him out. The dog slithered through. He dropped to the stone outside his cell, one paw after another. No chains. No alarms. Just silence. The halls of Azkaban were built of stone and screams. Sirius padded past both.

But the wall was coming. The wall of them.

Dementors. So many that they became a pressure in the air, a pulse of rot and despair. They clustered at the perimeter like flies on meat. The black fog of their presence oozed through the cracks of the prison.

And Sirius had to go through them.

The moment he stepped into their radius, the world imploded. It hit like a curse. Lily screaming. James falling. Harry, gone. Blood. Fire. Silence.

So many faces. Marlene, Benjy, Dorcas, Edgar. The war hadn’t ended, it had just gone quiet, and left the dead behind.

He staggered in the dark, the dog panting with grief. For one awful second, he faltered. The pain spiked, blinding and white. Then… something within him pushed back.

Not yet. Not now.

The animal instincts surged. Fangs bared. The dog bolted. Teeth clenched around the memory of Harry, alive, Merlin, alive; and it carried him past the cold. Past the dead.

And then… salt. The waves of the open sea crashed against him like a baptism. He didn’t stop. Didn’t shift. Just ran straight into the freezing waters, paws slapping against the black tide. Every stroke burned, but it was pain that made him feel real again.

Freedom lay east. And so, he swam.

He collapsed on a rocky shore just before dawn, coughing salt and gasping like a man reborn.

It was a tiny coastal village. Fishing boats bobbing lazily in the grey surf, the sleepy scent of brine and oil hanging in the air. Sirius dragged himself up the shingle, wheezing. He could feel the ribs under his skin, poking through like blades. He staggered to the alley behind an old pub and stole a half-sack of potatoes from the back step. A crust of bread from an open window. A fish skeleton, barely picked clean.

The dog devoured it all.

He wanted to lie there and just breathe. To feel the earth under his paws and remember that he was free. But there was no time.

Harry.

The name pounded in his head with every heartbeat. Still a child. Alone.

He could be in danger. Could be cold. Could be fed only one meal a day by strangers. Could be spending birthdays without candles. Could be told his parents were drunks, or lunatics, or worse, not told anything at all. And Sirius had to get to him.

As the first light broke over the grey cliffs, a shadow slipped down the coastal road, unseen by the few villagers already rising.

A dog. Black as midnight. Lean and limping, but moving with purpose. Onward to London.

BLACK BREAKS FREE: MADMAN VANISHES FROM AZKABAN
By Rita Skeeter, Senior Correspondent

In a shocking breach of magical security, Sirius Black, convicted mass murderer and a staunch ally of You-Know-Who, has escaped from Azkaban.

Yes, you read correctly. The impenetrable wizarding prison; fortress of fear, guardian of the realm has failed. Black, 30, slipped through the bars like smoke in the night. The first in living memory to breach the fortress prison guarded by the dreaded Dementors.

How? No one knows.

The Ministry of Magic, in a hastily convened press briefing early this morning, confirmed that Cell Ninety-Three, Black’s solitary confinement unit was found empty during the midnight shift change. No alarms were triggered, no enchantments breached. The cell door was intact. But inside, only a shredded blanket on an empty bed, damp straw and a half-gnawed granite pencil remained as though Black had spent his last waking moments in a frenzy of madness.

“His departure was... impossible. And yet he’s gone. We have launched a full-scale internal investigation,” said incoming Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge, who at the time of Black’s imprisonment was an official in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and had declared him “as twisted as they come and twice as dangerous.”

It is worth mentioning again that no one has ever escaped Azkaban before, not even the darkest wizards of the last war. Sirius Black, however, appears to have made history once again.

Widely known for his role in the deaths of Peter Pettigrew and thirty-eight Muggles with a single devastating curse, Sirius Black was also long suspected of betraying the Potters to You-Know-Who, or of delivering the fatal blow himself. That betrayal culminated in the deaths of James and Lily Potter, along with their infant son, Harry, in Godric’s Hollow.

This reporter has consulted several experts, some more credible than others, and the theories are as wild as they are worrying.

One anonymous cursebreaker from Knockturn Alley suggested Black may have discovered a forgotten ley line beneath Azkaban, allowing him to shift space and time through raw intent. Another theory involves a highly experimental form of wandless transfiguration, possibly taught to him by dementors in exchange for his sanity.

Others whisper that he made a deal with Death itself, or worse, that he never really left, but cast a living illusion to escape while the real Black still lurks in the prison’s walls.

The Department of Mysteries declined to comment.

More grounded officials speculate that he had inside help and that has prompted a thorough revision of security protocols in Azkaban. But as always, the truth lies somewhere between caution and chaos.

Intriguingly, several internal sources have revealed that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been quietly operating under severe manpower shortages. Both the Improper Use of Magic Office and the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes are rumoured to have dispatched large contingents of staff to Canada to assist with magical logistics at the Quidditch World Cup. Could that ill-timed deployment have stretched resources too thin, creating the very lapse in security that allowed Black to vanish? The Ministry, as expected, has offered no comment.

What could he possibly want now? Theories abound. Revenge. Madness. Chaos.

But here’s one particularly chilling possibility: he may be hunting Neville Longbottom, the Boy Who Lived.

After all, Bellatrix Lestrange, Black’s deranged cousin and fellow Death Eater, was captured at the Longbottom Manor the previous night before Black’s arrest. Coincidence? I think not.

And now, with Black on the loose, panic simmers beneath the surface of the wizarding world. Is this merely the escape of a deranged madman, or the first tremor of something far darker? Ministry insiders, speaking under strict anonymity, fear that Black’s flight may be more than coincidence. A message to those still lurking in the shadows. A rallying cry. For though You-Know-Who fell nearly a decade ago, many of his followers never truly vanished. They went to ground, slithered into hiding but were not defeated. Isolated attacks have continued in the years since: unexplained disappearances, cursed Muggle villages. And now, some whisper: has the first stone been cast?

With Sirius Black free, the man once believed to be You-Know-Who’s right hand, some fear ruin. Could this be the beginning of a darker chapter? Is the wizarding world on the brink of a resurgence in Dark activity, one to rival the horrors of the previous decade?

It is also feared that Black might attempt to orchestrate a mass breakout of his fellow Death Eaters. With tensions rising and whispers growing louder, one thing is certain: Britain’s witches and wizards would do well to watch the shadows once more.

The Muggle Prime Minister has also been briefed, a rare move, indicating just how serious the Ministry considers the threat. Emergency protocols are in place across wizarding and non-wizarding sectors. Aurors have been dispatched across the country, and magical transportation hubs are on high alert. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement requests that all sightings be reported immediately but warns that Black is extremely dangerous and should not be approached.

Sirius Black is described as gaunt, pale, with sunken eyes, long, tangled black hair, and a haunted expression. He is presumed dangerous, unpredictable, and possibly mentally unstable after nearly a decade under Dementor influence.

The Ministry urges extreme caution. Should you spot anyone suspicious, especially resembling Black, do not engage. Apparate to safety and contact the Department of Magical Law Enforcement immediately.

And stay vigilant. Because one truth remains: Sirius Black is not done yet.

Hogwarts – Headmaster’s Office

The sun broke through the spires of Hogwarts, sending fractured light through the tall, arched windows of the Headmaster’s office. Dust swirled in the amber glow, settling on shelves lined with peculiar and wondrous trinkets - memory vials, brass telescopes, and clocks that tracked not just time, but planets and destinies.

The fire in the hearth burned low, its glow stretching long shadows across the floor and over rows of arcane instruments and ancient books. The portraits of former headmasters slept in their frames, except for Phineas Black, who snored obnoxiously from behind a velvet curtain.

Behind the wide, sweeping desk sat Alastor Moody, a sight to behold even in rest. One leg, wooden now, thick-grained and battered, jutted at an awkward angle beside an umbrella stand bristling with old canes and forgotten walking sticks. He’d lost the real one fighting the dark forces, but had never once complained.

His cloak, once regulation-black, had faded to the shade of dead ash, its hem stitched in a dozen mismatched patches. Above it all, that unnatural blue eye whirred slowly in its socket, a magical replacement after a slicing hex that nearly took his life and left a scar like molten glass down the side of his face. The eye spun constantly, surveying corners even when his back was turned.

His remaining eye, dark and worn, flicked down the pages of the Daily Prophet.  One headline caught his eye especially, tucked away on page six: Halo or Heresy: How Much Do We Really Know About the Potters?

Moody stared at it for a beat, his jaw tightening. Then, with slow-burning contempt, as if the very line had crawled off the page to insult him personally, he threw the paper down on the desk.

He snorted. “Mad as a bloody hatstand. And somehow still allowed a quill.”

The fire flared green.

Albus Dumbledore stepped from the Floo with a rustle of deep blue robes threaded with silver constellations. His beard had grown longer, his hair finer, but his eyes, though older, still held a kindling spark, like moonlight behind ancient glass.

“Alastor,” he greeted softly.

“Morning,” Moody replied.

Dumbledore moved behind the desk and sat with the quiet poise of a man carrying centuries in his shoulders. A glass paperweight shifted slightly under his sleeve, and one of the clocks began to chime.

“So. It’s true,” he said at last.

“Aye. True and ugly,” Moody growled. “Not a trace left in the cell. No spell signatures, no wards disturbed. Only that shiver Dementors leave behind when something’s slipped past them.”

“The Prophet is already making noise,” Dumbledore observed, glancing at the discarded paper.

“Noise and nonsense. Ley lines? Bargains with death? Next they’ll say he sprouted wings and flew through a tear in reality...”

Moody tapped the Prophet where it lay on the desk. “Skeeter’s already caught wind of it, by the way," he added darkly. "The staffing shortages. Whole branches of the Department stretched thin… Improper Use, Accidents and Catastrophes… all scattered to the winds for the bloody Quidditch World Cup. With half the staff sent to Canada, the rest have spent the last fortnight scrambling to keep up… pulling heaven and earth to monitor magical incidents here. And now this fiasco with Sirius. The Heads of the Departments are spitting fire."

Dumbledore’s brow furrowed. " I take it the decision to send them was not reached collectively?"

Moody shook his head. "No. Bagnold overrode the lot. Claimed it was a diplomatic necessity. Goodwill gesture to the Dominion’s Magical Affairs Office, she said. Truth is, she was trying to curry favour… buy herself another term in the chair. But now? Now that it’s blown up in her face, she’s stepping down before the rest of the Ministry starts baying for blood."

Dumbledore gave a weary sigh. "Ah... the perils of power. It demands vision, but rewards survival. Most who wield it mistake caution for cowardice or ambition for purpose."

He picked up a quill, turning it between his fingers absently. "Power tempts us to control, to steer the course of the world. But the world doesn’t wish to be steered, Alastor. It shifts under our feet. And when it does, we often realise too late that we were never guiding it at all… only clinging to it while it turned."

His hand stilled. "I’ve made that mistake more than once."

From his perch above, Fawkes let out a low, rumbling trill, neither sad nor cheerful, but something in between, like the echo of an old song remembered.

Moody glanced towards the phoenix, then back at Dumbledore, voice low. “Aye, but you’ve carried the weight better than most.”

He leaned forward slightly. “You think Sirius had help?”

“No. But I suspect we underestimated him… again.”

“Some say he’s going after Neville.” Moody’s voice was gruff, wary.

Dumbledore paused, his gaze drifting to a delicate silver instrument on the corner of his desk. It ticked softly, gears whispering beneath its surface until, with a sudden hiss, a hidden valve released a curl of white smoke that twisted upward like a question left unanswered.

“I doubt it,” he said finally. “But doubt is not certainty. Place a squad of Aurors outside the Longbottom residence. Discreetly.”

“Already done.”

Another silence fell, broken only by the ticking of the spinning brass contraptions and the distant echo of Fawkes shifting on his perch.

Moody’s gaze sharpened. “And Hogwarts?”

“I’ve strengthened the perimeter charms. But I don’t believe Sirius is coming here.”

Moody stood, stretching his leg with a creak. “Then where?”

Dumbledore stared into the hearth, flames dancing low. He did not answer. A flicker of emotion crossed his face; not fear, but something quieter. Regret, perhaps. Memory.

“You saw page six?” Moody growled.

Dumbledore, with his hands steepled beneath his chin, gave a soft sigh. “Regretfully, yes.”

Moody snorted. “She’s been at this for years. One would think the Potters were devil-worshipping anarchists who sacrificed their own child to gain immortality. Or what was it last spring? That James Potter staged his own death and is secretly holed up in Monaco, running a broom-racing racket?”

Dumbledore arched an eyebrow. “Don’t forget the theory where Lily was a half-banshee temptress who lured You-Know-Who into the house herself.”

Moody barked a grim laugh, devoid of humour. “Right. Or that Harry was the Dark Lord all along, some cursed prodigy who murdered his own parents when they tried to stop him. Bloody woman’s made a career of slandering ghosts.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “It is often the case, I’m afraid. The good that men do is buried with them. Once the dead are silent, anyone with ink and a platform can shape their story.”

Moody shifted his weight, then dropped back into the chair across from the desk with a grunt. He leaned back, scowling. “But why them? Why the Potters? They were barely in the public eye before the war. Never courted attention.”

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed slightly, his voice quiet but edged with steel. “The death of the Potters remains an enigma for many. We can guess, even know, in parts. But the wider world never truly learned what happened that night. And where there is silence, there is hunger. A yearning for answers.”

He exhaled slowly, gaze settling on the discarded newspaper. “Which gives her all the room she needs to write more of this... filth,” he added, measuring the word with deliberate care, as though even speaking it left a foul taste. “She’s always had a flair for personal vendettas, Rita. And I daresay she carries a particular thorn in her side where the Potters are concerned. Another axe to grind, though she’d likely call it a quill to sharpen.”

Dumbledore’s gaze drifted towards the window. “Still, if I had to guess where it all began... decades ago, when Fleamont Potter outbid the Skeeter family for the silver mines in County Clare. A very lucrative deal, and one they’ve never quite managed to forget.”

Moody stared. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I were.”

Moody shook his head. “Petty, vindictive, and dangerous with a quill. A poisonous combination.”

“She’s clever,” Dumbledore said softly, “and cleverness untethered from truth is a sharp-edged thing.”

Moody tilted his head slightly. “Albus… what do you really think happened that night? At Godric’s Hollow?”

Dumbledore was silent for a long moment. His gaze drifted once more to the fire, though his mind was far away.

“You were there too, Alastor. That morning. You remember what it felt like.”

“I do,” Moody said with a nod. “Never seen anything like it. It felt… eerie. And so still.”

“The stillness,” Dumbledore murmured. “It wasn’t silence. It was the world itself… holding its breath. The air tasted strange. The earth… recoiled. As if magic had been torn open there… split and scorched like flesh. I felt it humming in the bones of the house. Something ancient had stirred.”

He paused, his eyes falling to the papers on his desk, but he wasn’t reading them. Just staring through. He only looked up again when Moody spoke. “Is that why you laid down the containment charms? Sealed the place?”

Dumbledore gave a quiet nod.

Moody gave a thoughtful sigh. “They were both brilliant, James and Lily. But that… whatever that was… what spell could’ve done it?”

“Lily was extraordinary,” Dumbledore said, grief threading softly through the words. “And James had brilliance in his bones. But even they could not have wrought that alone. That wasn’t a spell. It was… an awakening. A magic that doesn’t come from training, but something older. Primal. I believe they were catalysts. But what answered them… what stood between them and the Dark…”

“What was it then?”

Dumbledore’s voice dropped, reverent. “Magic older than lineage. Older than wands. It rose… responded. I think in that moment, James and Lily became more than spellcasters. They became a threshold. Between what destroys, and what refuses to be destroyed.”

A long silence followed. Weighty. Almost sacred.

“Magic woke that night,” Dumbledore said at last. “And it remembered how to protect.”

Moody frowned. “But they died.”

“Yes. And that,” Dumbledore said softly, “is the mystery. Why it happened. Why something so extraordinary failed to save them.”

He looked away again. “There are kinds of magic that do not come when called. They do not bend to books or bloodlines. They emerge when needed… and vanish again, like breath on glass. My best guess? It vanished when its purpose was fulfilled. Perhaps it did not rise to save them… but to serve something deeper.”

Moody blinked. A chill seemed to pass through him at those words. He gave a dry grunt of acknowledgement, rose to his feet, and turned towards the door.

“With Sirius out of Azkaban,” he muttered, “Skeeter’ll be sniffing for scandals like a niffler in a vault. Especially anything to do with the Potters…”

His hand was on the doorknob when he paused. “Speaking of which… I’ll brief the Department again.” He glanced back, expression unreadable. “You think he’s still the same man?”

Dumbledore’s voice was so soft it almost didn’t reach him. “I think… Sirius Black has lost too much to be anyone he used to be.”

The door clicked shut behind Moody. And in the stillness, Dumbledore looked again to the fire and wondered what lay behind the eyes of the man he had once trusted beyond reason.

Chapter Text

The sky above London was a washed-out grey, clouds sagging low over the city like damp wool. Rain had fallen the night before, and the air still smelled of wet concrete and diesel. Sirius Black huddled beneath the tattered folds of a stolen coat, crouched behind the half-toppled fence across from St. Jude’s Home for Children.

His breath caught in his throat.

There, just beyond the iron gates, framed against the pale brick of the orphanage’s rear garden; a boy knelt in the dirt, scrubbing at weeds with gloved hands far too big for him. Dark, unruly hair. Too-thin frame. Chin lifted in challenge even when the task was mundane. Every line of him screamed James, and when he turned just so…

Lily’s eyes.

Sirius’s knees nearly buckled. He reached for the rusted fence post, his grip tight enough to whiten his already-pale knuckles. Joy bloomed in his chest, sharp and hot, immediately followed by the cold fist of grief. He’s alive.

For a heartbeat, the world blurred. Sirius took one step forward, as if pulled by magnetic force, to call out, to run and seize Harry into his arms, to beg for forgiveness and tell the boy everything.

But he stopped. What would the boy see?

A gaunt man in rags. Hair dark and tangled, streaked with grey like smoke through coal. Hollowed cheeks. Madness flickering behind sunken eyes. His godson would scream and run, and Sirius wasn’t sure he’d blame him.

Not like this.

He staggered back into the shadows of the alley, heart hammering, chest heaving with an emotion he couldn’t name.

But however he wished to stay hidden, to be cautious, he couldn’t walk away. Not yet. He had to be sure. He had to touch him, to know the boy was real and not another cruel trick of his mind, not some warped hallucination left behind by Azkaban and its foulest guards. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and let the change come. His bones shifted, limbs contorting and reshaping until, where the man had been, now stood a shaggy black dog with matted fur and a limp in its right leg. Padfoot crept out of the alley’s mouth, keeping low to the ground, until he was crouched just beyond the orphanage fence.

Harry looked up at the sound, a faint panting, soft paws against the wet concrete. His eyes met the dog’s through the bars, curious but not afraid.

Padfoot froze.

The boy’s gaze narrowed, but instead of backing away, he reached slowly into his coat pocket. Out came a crumpled bit of napkin, and wrapped inside, two broken biscuits.

“You hungry, mate?” Harry said softly, glancing over his shoulder to make sure none of the staff were watching. “I nicked these from breakfast. Don’t tell the General.”

The dog gave a low whine, stepping forward as Harry pushed the biscuits through a gap in the bars. Fingers brushed fur. Sirius shuddered.

Harry smiled, small and real. “You’re not so scary.”

The dog licked his fingers.

“Good,” Harry whispered, voice conspiratorial. “You look like you’ve had a rough day too.” Then, after another glance towards the building, he added, “This’ll be our secret, yeah?”

Padfoot lay down on his belly, tail thumping once against the grass. He stayed there long after the biscuits were gone, long after Harry had gone back to his weeding, just to be near, to stretch out the moment. And then, at last, Sirius Black did something he hadn’t done for most of his adult life. He ran. Not away. Towards something. A plan. A hope.

The next three nights were a blur of concrete, filth, and hunger.

He slept beneath the dockyards near Wapping, curled in a dog’s body, pressed tight between rusting shipping containers and broken pallets. He devoured rats, fish bones from bins, bread crawling with mould. He stole a wool blanket off a clothesline and wrapped himself like a corpse preparing for burial.

But each morning, he returned to the alley behind St. Jude’s. Padfoot waited just long enough to be sure Harry was alone, then trotted over, tail wagging with familiar joy.
Harry, crouched by the bins or perched on the crumbling wall beside the toolshed, would grin when he saw the black dog. “You again?” he’d say, and slip whatever scraps he’d pocketed from breakfast into waiting jaws.

They shared a quiet moment, the boy and the dog. Harry never asked for anything. But Sirius ached to give him everything.

Somehow, in those stolen minutes, something inside him began to stir, something he'd thought long dead. He was still broken, still hollowed out by guilt and grief and the ruin of everything he’d once loved. But the boy was real. Alive. Warm. And with every twitch of Harry’s smile, every soft touch of his hand between Padfoot’s ears, Sirius felt the faintest echo of humanity return to him. Not whole. Not yet. But no longer a ghost.

And each night, as he slipped back into the shadows, the desperation grew deeper. He had found his godson. But he still didn’t know how to give him the home he deserved.

It was on the fourth night, rain misting the city in a fog of steel, that he found a discarded copy of The Daily Prophet behind the Leaky Cauldron. He sat cross-legged in the dark, fingers trembling as he leafed through it under a broken lamppost.

His thumb brushed the edge of a wrinkled article: Bagnold Retires; Fudge Sworn in as Minister. Good riddance, she was the one who denied him a trial, he thought, then flinched, the bitterness hadn’t faded, but it no longer tasted like justice. Just ash.

Sirius read about himself like a ghost reads his obituary.

The headlines screamed his name in bold ink: Black Escapes! Wizarding Britain on High Alert. Theories swirled. Warnings spread. His face stared out from the page, printed in grainy black-and-white.

Words like manhunt, madman, vow of vengeance. Theories of dark magic, secret tunnels under Azkaban, of flying on storms or unholy pacts with dementors. Then, tucked between columns of fearmongering and political chest-thumping, he saw a small article on Neville Longbottom. The headline hinted he might be hunting the Boy Who Lived, the one who had vanquished the Dark Lord. He’d seen the photograph before; Neville cradled in Augusta’s arms at the gates of St. Mungo’s.

Neville. Frank and Alice’s son. Voldemort had gone to the Longbottoms, and something there had undone him.

Sirius’s grip on the paper slackened. But then… who had gone to Godric’s Hollow?

He hadn’t known, not really. That night, when he found the wreckage, when he heard what had happened, he hadn’t stopped to ask how. Just who. And the who had been Peter.

Peter, who’d known everything. The switch. The plan. The new hiding place. Peter, who had smiled and nodded and clutched the pram with those shaking hands. He’d sold them out. Of that, Sirius had been certain.

But now, for the first time, a darker thought stirred. Had Peter done it himself? Carried out the attack?

Sirius almost snorted aloud. No. That snivelling coward, he had always been the smallest shadow in their group. Clever in a rat’s way, maybe, but nothing compared to James. Or Lily. He didn’t have the nerve, the force, the presence. Just not enough. Not to face them.

So then… he’d brought others. Death Eaters, a whole squad of them. Maybe even Voldemort himself had planned to go, until he changed course. Until he went to the Longbottoms.

And someone else had gone to Godric’s Hollow instead. To kill his friends. To burn it all to the ground.

Sirius’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, the weight of guilt and the unbearable ache of losing James and Lily pressing down on him like a storm he could never outrun. But Harry was alive. And he would protect him, whatever the cost.

Not for atonement. Nothing could cleanse the blood on his hands.

But this… this would be the beginning of penance. A single, flickering spark of salvation in the long, dark night. And if he had to crawl through fire and shadow to do it, then so be it.

He needed shelter. And one name rose unbidden in his mind: Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

The old family home. The place he had sworn never to return to. But it was unplottable, cloaked in ancient Black family magic. If the Ministry hadn’t found it within the first week, they wouldn’t find it now.

Two days later, Sirius stood across Grimmauld Square, shrouded beneath the shade of an old chestnut tree. He watched the empty space between two townhouses, where No. 12 should have stood. Muggles passed without a glance.

No patrols. No Aurors. No watchers. No signs of intrusion.

Still hidden. Still waiting.

He circled the square cautiously, keeping to the shadows. The word reconnaissance drifted through his mind, a relic of war. He checked angles, watched foot traffic, noted the patterns of local movement like a soldier reading the terrain.

Satisfied no eyes were on him, Sirius stepped forward.

The building revealed itself like a reluctant secret. The ancient door rose from nothingness, black as pitch. The serpent knocker leered at him.

He touched the handle. The wards flared. Recognised him. And relented. The door creaked open. The air inside smelled of dust, decay, and old hate. Sirius slipped in, sealed the door behind him, and stood in the silence of his inheritance.

“Home,” he rasped, to no one at all.

The house did not welcome him.

Dust danced in the shaft of moonlight slicing in through the grime-caked windows in the front entrance hall. The silence was thick, deeper than abandonment. This was a house waiting to be dead.

He paused. No barked insults from his mother. No muttered slurs about blood-traitors or half-breeds.

“Kreacher?” he called, voice low and uncertain.

No answer. Not even the creak of old bones or the whisper of resentful muttering. He waited a beat longer, eyes scanning the dim, dust-heavy corridor.

Kreacher was the Black family’s house-elf - a gnarled, sour creature who had served the household for decades. Like all house-elves, he was bound by ancient magic to obey the family he served, though Kreacher did so with the enthusiasm of a rotting corpse dragging its own feet. Loyal not to Sirius, but to the old blood, to Mother’s pure-blood sermons, to Father’s disdainful silences, to the dark artifacts entombed behind every door.

He was the last relic of everything Sirius had tried to run from.

He waited a long moment, then exhaled sharply. “Good. Maybe you finally croaked, you miserable little wart.”

Still, he crept quietly through the corridor, treading old wood and faded carpets like memories. The wallpaper was still peeling at the corners. An umbrella stand made from a troll’s leg still squatted grotesquely in the entry. A decapitated house elf head had fallen from the wall and now lay on the stairs like a grim ornament.

But it was quiet. Empty. Still his.

Sirius made his way up the winding staircase, every step moaning under his weight. He passed doors locked by habit and rooms he’d once been forbidden from entering - his father’s study, his mother’s parlour, the drawing room with the charmed tapestry of the Black family tree. He stopped before one old door in the topmost landing, its paint scratched and scorched from years of passive-aggressive rebellion.

His room. Inside, it was a time capsule of fury and defiance.

Posters of Muggle bands - The Who, Queen, Led Zeppelin were still pinned haphazardly across the ceiling, their colours faded, edges curling with age. They hadn’t budged in over a decade, held fast by a Permanent Sticking Charm Sirius had cast with far more care than he'd ever applied to his homework. Between them were glossy shots of Muggle motorcycles and girls in bikinis, bold choices for a boy raised in Grimmauld Place, and ones that had nearly given Kreacher a stroke. A Gryffindor banner hung lopsided, half-burned, its edges blackened where his mother’s curses had struck. Scribbled messages lined the walls in permanent ink, declarations of rebellion: Better a blood traitor than a Black, No fate but what we make, Not your pawn.

He closed the door softly behind him.

Drawers yielded forgotten knickknacks. A broken Snitch. A pair of cracked Chudley Cannons goggles. A small wooden carving of a wolf, a gift from Remus, before fifth year. He clutched it for a long while, then set it gently on the nightstand.

Beneath a loose floorboard he found letters. A bundle tied with dragonhide string, some frayed, all worn. The handwriting on one caught his eye.

Peter.

He stared at the untidy loops and cautious wording for several heartbeats. Then, almost reflexively, he lit a fire in the corner brazier and fed the parchment to the flame.

He watched the flames curl and blacken the parchment until it crumbled to ash, and whispered, “Burn in hell, Wormtail.”

Later, he entered the old study, the war room of Arcturus Black, his grandfather.

It was cavernous, lined wall to wall with glass cases, scroll racks, and tomes that whispered even when shut. The air smelled of ink and steel. Dark wood panelling gleamed with spells laid decades ago to repel dust. A portrait of Arcturus himself loomed over the hearth, empty now, the frame scorched and cracked at the corners.

Sirius paused before the tall cabinet by the desk. He remembered being nine, sitting on the rug while his grandfather pontificated on bloodlines and the need for strength. Not cruelty, not like Walburga, but order. Vision.

There had been a time, once, when Sirius had admired him. He shook the memory away and pried open the cabinet. There, nestled in velvet slots, were six wands; some ancient, some more modern, each tagged with etched brass plates.

He tried the most promising one, ashwood with an antler handle, but the magic felt dull and uncertain in his grip. Another fizzed with sparks. One backfired, throwing him backward into the desk with a violent snap.

The fourth wand, dark walnut with a silver serpent coiled around the hilt, hummed the moment his fingers closed around it. It pulsed once in his hand, warm and sharp, like a breath drawn in surprise.

Sirius blinked, heart skipping.

“Arcturus,” he murmured. “You old bastard. Still handing out favours from beyond the grave, are you?”

The wand thrummed again in response, as if in dry amusement. He holstered it, reverently, inside the inner lining of his stolen jacket.

It was already evening by the time Sirius had found the wand.

The old silver-handled piece of craftsmanship still hummed faintly with magic, a whisper of Arcturus Black lingering in the polished grain. It had accepted him, reluctantly perhaps, but it was enough. The moment it sparked in his grip, he’d let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

He made his way back to the second-floor bathroom. The cracked mirror barely reflected him, but what he saw there startled him nonetheless - a gaunt figure, all bone and shadow, sunken eyes rimmed with haunted hollows. No boyish smirk. No fire. Just something wild and brittle, clinging to the edges of humanity.

“I look like death’s overworked cousin,” he muttered, attempting a grin. It didn’t take.

He transfigured the tattered robes into something passable: a threadbare grey sweater, dark slacks, sturdy boots. He cut away the wild mane of matted hair, trimmed his beard to something less cave-dweller. With a few charms, he dulled the sharpness of his cheekbones, added weight to his face, softened the haunted cast of his features.

By the time he was finished, Sirius looked… normal. A bit worn, perhaps. A little grey around the edges. But he could pass for any middle-class Londoner who’d taken a wrong turn in life and was clawing his way back.

Except for one small, pressing problem. He had no money.

None. Not even a sickle. Grimmauld Place held treasures - silver goblets, cursed heirlooms, rare tomes; but pawning any of it would risk exposure. The wizarding world was still hunting him, and showing up with a trinket at Borgin and Burkes could unravel everything.

Gringotts was out of the question. Even if the goblins valued discretion, the Ministry wouldn’t have left the bank unguarded. He’d never make it through the entrance, let alone to his family’s vault. Or the vault his uncle Alphard left him. Polyjuice might work against secrecy sensors, but he had no way of obtaining it. And showing up as a dog? That would raise more alarms than it avoided. Who lets a stray into a bank?

“Brilliant, Black,” he muttered, pacing the dusty corridor. “You’ve got a wand, a haunted house, and a godson who doesn’t even know your name. But not so much as a coin for a sandwich.”

By twilight, hunger clawed at him enough to force action.

Sirius crept into the streets again, this time with more caution. He made his way past soot-stained terraces, old brick lanes, and corner pubs leaking the scent of beer and chips. At the back of a modest Italian restaurant, he found bins just emptied. A plastic bag held a few rolls, some scorched vegetables, and a slice of something vaguely resembling shepherd’s pie.

He crouched behind a stack of crates and ate quickly, wolfishly. The food was cold and greasy, but it was food. As he chewed, his eyes drifted across the alley to a laundrette’s fogged back window. A television inside flickered in the gloom; grainy, black and white, with a news ticker crawling along the bottom. His own face stared back at him from the screen, gaunt and wild-eyed. Beneath the photo, the words ARMED AND DANGEROUS pulsed in bold lettering.

Sirius froze. His stomach clenched tighter than any hunger pang. So, even here, in the Muggle world, he was a ghost with a bounty on his head. There was no safety. No refuge. Only the gnawing pressure of eyes that might be watching, the threat of wands or weapons at every turn. He wrapped the rest of the food in a napkin and vanished into the shadows, his pace quicker now, breath tight. Every time he stepped outside that wretched house, it was a gamble. A risk not just of capture, but of losing what little of himself remained.

Back in Grimmauld Place, the house creaked around him like an old animal too tired to bare its teeth. He climbed the stairs, dropped onto the musty mattress in his childhood room, and stared up at the cracked ceiling.

He had Harry’s face etched into memory now. It had cost him nine years and the world, but he’d found him.

Sleep, when it came, was ragged and full of ghosts.

Chapter Text

Morning in Southwark was a patchwork of noise and soot, the sky smudged grey like a half-erased blackboard. Sirius stepped out of Grimmauld Place in the skin of James Blake, the threadbare grey sweater patched at the elbows, hair neatly trimmed, the angles of his face altered just enough to avoid recognition. A down-on-his-luck man with roguish charm in his eyes, the kind you might offer tea or a warning depending on the time of day.

He had put a great deal of thought into the name, spent most of the night before pacing in his room, working through it over and over in his head. He’d once heard that the best lies were those that nestled just in the shadow of truth. James, it let him carry a piece of his best friend, his brother, with him. A small, aching tribute. James and Lily, deserved far more than this, but this… this was something. The least he could give.

Still, the guilt clung to him. Borrowing James’s name to go and see James’s son, when he had been part of the long, terrible string of choices that led to all of it, it burned with a sharpness no Azkaban cell ever could. But that fire gave him courage. It steadied his steps, even now, as he walked into a world where his name was hunted and his face haunted every Auror board from here to Scotland. The risk was staggering, but the slight shift in jawline, the trimmed hair, the fuller cheeks, the fresher eyes… it would have to be enough. His face had graced Muggle television too, after all; grainy wanted posters turned into primetime bulletins. He couldn’t afford to be recognised, not even by a passing glance.

And Blake, a clever little twist on Black. He couldn’t help but let out a breath of a laugh, wondering how his fanatical family would react to that. Their name, diluted and disguised, carried out into the Muggle world to reach a half-blood boy they'd have scorned, a boy he would die to give a family to. He hoped it stung them in whatever draped-in-delusion purgatory they’d earned. That thought gave him more comfort than he liked to admit.

The streets bustled gently with the rhythm of early London. Milk floats hummed. A paperboy cursed a faulty bicycle. And Sirius, for the first time in nine years, walked among people without shackles biting his wrists.

His destination stood just beyond the rust-licked rail lines and overgrown lots - St. Jude’s Home for Children, its iron gates yawning wide. Smoke-stained walls bore the recent memory of fire. Scaffolding rose awkwardly from the rear, half-assembled. Shattered glass glittered faintly in the morning sun.

A cluster of neighbourhood folk had gathered by the railings, a handful of pensioners and mothers with prams watching as men in overalls carried timber through the back gate. Sirius ambled over, hands in pockets, eyes casually scanning for that familiar mess of black hair. No sign of Harry yet.

He flashed a lopsided grin at a woman adjusting her shopping bags.

“Bit of a mess, this place,” he said affably.

“Caught fire last week, poor things,” she replied, peering at him over her spectacles. “Some accident with the gas line, they said. Kids were lucky no one got proper hurt.”

Sirius nodded solemnly, the words snagging against memory. “They taking help, then?”

“Always do. Not got the money, you see. Government’s as tight as a miser’s knickers. They said they’ll take volunteers for the rebuilding… if you don’t mind a bit of dirt and grunt.”

He met Matron Grindle in the entrance hall, her sharp heels echoed off cracked tiles. Tall, iron-backed, with a clipboard that looked as if it could win a duel. Her brows climbed as she sized him up.

“You’re here about the notice?”

“Yes, ma’am. James Blake,” he said, offering a hand and a careful smile. “Sailor by trade. Or was. Ship went down in the North Sea… company dropped me when I came home.”

She took his hand but didn’t shake it. Her eyes narrowed, head tilting slightly. “You look familiar.”

Sirius felt the muscles in his face tighten. Careful now. He let out a light laugh, all warmth and weathered charm. “Probably passed me in a pub once, ma’am. Or maybe I’ve just got one of those faces… used to joke I had the look of trouble.”

Grindle’s gaze lingered a beat longer than was comfortable. Then she sniffed, unimpressed. “Hmph.”

“You have experience with manual work? Carpentry, electricals, plumbing?”

Sirius hesitated just enough to be human. “Some. Mostly maintenance aboard ship… patching things, tightening bolts. Bit of everything, really.”

“We’ve had worse.”

She turned on her heel, motioning for him to follow through the side corridor and into what remained of the rear garden. The rows of the old cabbage patch were already giving way to nettles and stubborn weeds, creeping in as if to reclaim the ground. The toolshed had collapsed inward, scorched beams jutting like broken ribs. One wall of the kitchen bore deep cracks and fire-blackened stone, evidence of where the blaze had begun, before it leapt outward and consumed the yard.

“You’ll report to Mr. Ellery, he’s managing repairs,” she said. “You get breakfast with the staff in the kitchen… nothing fancy. You break it, you fix it. You cause trouble, you leave.”

“Understood.” He offered a crisp nod. “Happy to help, ma’am.”

Her lips twitched, almost a smile, but it vanished before it reached her eyes. “Good. We start early.”

The first time he saw Harry up close, as Sirius not Padfoot; the boy was bent over a shovel near the garden beds, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark fringe stuck to his forehead with sweat. He was joking about slugs with a wiry kid named Callum while Thomas and Ameer tried stacking bricks like dominoes.

Sirius couldn’t speak at first. The lump in his throat was too thick, too sudden.

But he kept showing up. Every day, he worked. Hammered loose panels back in place. Repainted a door. Lugged timber. Whenever no one looked, he used quick charms to fix what he couldn’t mend with tools. Always quiet. Always careful.

And each morning, on his walk to the orphanage, he’d swipe a croissant here, a paper bag of jam rolls there, small thefts from cafes and bakeries. A vow repeated under his breath each time: I’ll pay it all back. Every crumb.

He started slipping the food to the boys during breaks.

“Bit of luck,” he’d say with a wink, handing over jam tarts wrapped in old napkins. “Bakery down the road gave me extra.”

“Do they always do that?” Thomas asked, doubtful.

“When you smile just right.” He grinned.

Harry, still guarded, hung back the first few days. Watching. Listening. But James Blake had kind eyes, a clever tongue, and never asked too many questions. And one day, when Callum scraped his knee and Blake conjured a cloth from seemingly nowhere, Harry squinted at him and said,

“You’re not just some sailor, are you?”

Sirius blinked. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re way too good at disappearing and finding sweets.”

He laughed. “Guilty as charged. I used to work in the kitchens on a ferry. Learned how to vanish with biscuits when the chef wasn’t looking.”

A beat passed, then Harry stuck out a hand, smudged with dirt. “I’m Harry. Harry Palmer.”

Sirius took it gently, a warmth blooming in his chest. “James Blake. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Palmer.”

Bit by bit, Harry began to linger after chores. They talked. About nothing and everything. Football. Books. Bullies. The way the matron counted spoons like they were gold bars.

And Sirius? He soaked in every word. Every glance. Every laugh. He saw James in the curve of Harry’s grin. Lily in the glint of challenge in his eyes. But mostly, he saw the child that could’ve been lost forever, and wasn’t.

Evenings returned him to the shadows of Grimmauld Place. He’d sit on his bed, covered in plaster dust, and whisper into the dark.

“Lily, Prongs… He’s still here.”

The guilt never went away. But it dulled, for a moment, each time Harry smiled.

The sky had turned a tired grey, and the last of the hammering had long faded behind the old garden wall. James Blake and Harry Palmer sat side by side beneath the crooked sycamore, a half-eaten meat pie between them and sawdust still clinging to their sleeves. The rebuilding effort had slowed, supplies were low again, and even Matron Grindle seemed resigned to wait for the council’s next excuse.

Harry was quiet. Too quiet.

He picked at a loose curl of bark near the tree’s roots, his face blank but for the tension in his jaw.

Sirius watched from the corner of his eye. The boy had that look again, the one Sirius had come to recognize over the past couple of weeks. The one that usually came before a joke that landed just off the mark, or when he deflected too quickly with a shrug.

But today, the shield stayed down.

Sirius nudged him gently with an elbow. “Penny for your thoughts, lad?”

Harry didn’t look at him. “Do you think some people… are just born wrong?”

Sirius didn’t answer. Not at once.

Harry continued, quietly, his fingers worrying the frayed edge of his sleeve. “Things happen around me. Always have. Lightbulbs popping, lights flickering, I once jumped onto the roof during hide and seek when Toby shoved me. I didn’t even mean to.” Harry pulled at a loose thread in his cuff. “Mrs. Melling calls them accidents, but they’re not. I know they’re not. It’s like... it’s like I feel something twist inside me and then it just happens.”

A bitter edge crept into his voice. “Maybe that’s why they left me. Maybe they knew.”

Sirius stared straight ahead, jaw clenched. Every word cut clean through him. He wanted to speak desperately. To tell the boy the truth. That his parents hadn’t left. That they had died for him. That his name wasn’t Harry Palmer. That he was Harry Potter, and that Sirius had held him the day he was born.

But he couldn’t. Not yet.

He’ll run, Sirius thought. He’ll bolt, and I’ll lose him all over again.

So instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and said in a low voice, “I think the world is full of people who don’t understand the things they’re afraid of. And when they don’t understand something… they call it broken. Or wrong.” He met the boy’s eyes, aching at the familiar green that stared back at him. “But what if the truth is, you’re just… different? And special? And the world hasn’t caught up to you yet?”

Harry didn’t reply.

Sirius leaned back against the tree, stretching his legs out. “I’ve met a lot of people, seen a lot of strange things. And if you ask me? Some of the best people I ever knew could light up a room… or blow it up… without meaning to.”

At that, Harry flinched. Just a flicker. But Sirius caught it, the sudden stillness in his shoulders, the pinch of guilt behind his eyes.

Harry swallowed hard, voice flat and quiet. “Sometimes I think I did it. The fire. Not on purpose… I was just… angry. Scared. And then everything went wrong.”

Sirius’s heart twisted. He kept his voice calm, careful. “You were upset. Things happen. Emotions have weight, more than people realise.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry muttered. “But I… felt something. In my chest. And then... it was like the whole world tipped.”

Sirius leaned back against the tree, letting the silence stretch. The breeze tugged at the leaves overhead, casting flickering shadows across the boy’s face.

“You know,” Sirius said finally, “some things are bigger than us. And some things… aren’t ours to control. But that doesn’t make us monsters. It makes us human.”

Harry’s fingers dug into the hem of his jumper. “Matron Grindle said accidents don’t happen without someone causing them.”

Sirius snorted gently. “Grindle’s never dropped a glass without blaming the table. Listen, Harry… guilt’s a heavy coat, and it doesn’t fit on small shoulders. Whatever happened, you didn’t ask for it. You didn’t choose it.”

Harry didn’t look convinced. But his breathing slowed.

“You’re not broken,” Sirius repeated, softer now. “You’re becoming something extraordinary. And sometimes, growing hurts.”

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then, Harry murmured, “You sound like you know what it’s like.”

Sirius smiled faintly. “Let’s just say… I’ve scorched a few walls in my time.”

A beat.

“Accidentally?”

Sirius tilted his head. “Mostly.”

And that earned a real laugh - thin, but true.

There was a pause, then Harry said, with a faint scoff, “Maybe I am a nutcase. Wouldn’t be the first time someone said it.”

He didn’t look at Sirius as he said it. Just kept picking at the frayed hem of his jumper, pretending it didn’t matter. Sirius didn’t answer right away. Part of him wanted to reach over, to tell the boy he wasn’t crazy, he wasn’t alone, he wasn’t forgotten. But the words tangled in his throat. Because how do you tell a child he’s magic when the world that made him so also tore his family apart?

Instead, Sirius kept his voice easy. “Nah. If you were a nutcase, I’d be running in the other direction by now.”

Harry snorted. “Maybe you’re just too slow.”

Sirius grinned. “Could be. Or maybe I’ve got a soft spot for weirdos with quick mouths.”

That brought the faintest ghost of a smile again to Harry’s lips. He rolled his eyes, and the edge in his posture softened.

They sat in silence for a bit longer, listening to the sounds of the evening, the distant traffic, the wind stirring the dry leaves, the murmur of boys still playing near the front of the building.

Sirius leaned back, arms draped behind him, watching the sky fade towards a dull London grey. And in his head, the thought circled like a storm cloud: He thinks no one wanted him. That he’s too strange to keep. That the reason is him.

Merlin, I want to tell him he’s wrong. I’ve been watching over him like a damned ghost, living in shadows because losing him once nearly killed me. That I’d burn the world to keep him safe now.

But instead, he stayed quiet. Because he’d lost Harry once by rushing in. He wouldn’t do it again.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since the fire. The soot had been scrubbed from the garden tiles, the twisted shell of the old shed hauled away in a noisy skip, and the kitchen had been boarded up behind a blue tarpaulin while the rebuilding began.

But the guilt hadn’t washed off so easily.

Harry still heard the sirens sometimes, in his dreams. He still remembered the smell of burning wood, the flash of orange against the sky, the sting of gravel under his knees. Most nights, he woke with a gasp and his fingers curled tight around the cool pendant at his neck.

He hadn’t meant to do anything. Not really. Not like that.

One moment, Toby had shoved Callum to the ground, and Harry had jumped up, trying to stop him. Then, wham, a trowel swung out of nowhere, cracking against his forehead. Blood blurred his vision, and with it came a rush of red-hot fury. He’d been angry and reckless. And then came the boom. Heat. Smoke. Screams. The world tipped sideways and everything went white.

They said it was a gas leak.

Even Matron Grindle had muttered something about faulty pipes and budget constraints. But the way she looked at Harry sometimes, just a flicker, when she thought he wasn’t watching, it made his stomach twist. Like she knew. Or half-knew. But she didn’t say anything, couldn’t prove anything, and Harry didn’t ask.

Callum and the others hadn’t blamed him. In fact, they didn’t seem to suspect him at all. Most were too caught up in their own stories of the fire: the sirens, the firemen, the reporters. Everyone liked having a story. Especially the younger ones.

But Harry didn’t talk about it. He didn’t want to. And so he slipped further into the quiet parts of himself.

The first time he noticed the new man was a Tuesday.

He was tall and wiry, with neatly trimmed black hair, faded slightly at the edges, and a short beard. A faint, bored smile played on his face, making him look both tired and faintly amused. He wore a worn grey sweater, dark slacks, and scuffed canvas work boots, carrying with him the faint scent of sawdust and mint. Just another grown-up, Harry had thought at first. Probably one of those do-gooders who volunteered when funding fell through.

But something was…off. Not bad off. Just odd.

For one, the man - “James Blake,” as the others called him, never used the right tools for the job, and yet the repairs came together faster than they should’ve. He’d glance at a broken hinge, murmur under his breath, and when Harry peeked back later, the door swung straight again. On another day, a pile of bricks that had been unmoved for weeks suddenly seemed to restack themselves while Blake worked with his back turned.

It made Harry’s spine itch.

He didn’t say anything. Not to Callum, not to Ameer or Thomas. But he watched. And every time something peculiar happened, Blake would glance Harry’s way a beat too late, wearing that sheepish, caught-with-his-hand-in-the-cookie-jar look, like he knew exactly what had happened and wasn’t quite sure if it was his fault or Harry’s.

What unnerved him most was not the oddness itself, but that Blake never looked startled. He never had a plan, exactly, but he never seemed rattled either, like he’d long made peace with the strange and simply moved through it.

It wasn’t until the end of the week that they spoke properly.

One moment stood out, when Callum tripped and scraped his knee. Blake had conjured a cloth from thin air; Harry hadn’t even seen where it came from. That had made him pause. Really look. And when Blake grinned like he'd been caught pinching biscuits, something in Harry relaxed.

He stuck out his hand, smudged and cautious. “I’m Harry. Harry Palmer.”

Blake took it gently, with a lopsided smile that was both weary and kind. “James Blake. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Palmer.”

It wasn’t anything special, just a name, a handshake, a quiet moment in the middle of scraped knees and splintered wood. But somehow, it felt like something steady. Like someone might actually see him. And for then, that was enough.

The next morning, Blake had brought a half-stale packet of biscuits and handed them out to the younger kids without comment. When one of the toddlers began crying because hers had fallen in the dirt, he offered her his own, crouched down and distracted her with a story about a haunted house and a badly behaved rabbit.

Harry had watched it all from behind the newly built fence, arms folded, eyes narrowed.

Later, while raking dry leaves in the corner of the garden, Blake sidled up beside him and asked, “You always this quiet, or just when grown-ups talk?”

Harry scowled. “Depends on the grown-up.”

Blake laughed. “Fair enough. I’ve known a few worth ignoring.”

Harry hesitated, then said, “You’re not from around here.”

“Nope. South coast.”

“You don’t build much, do you?”

Blake’s eyebrows rose. “That obvious, huh?”

Harry gave a crooked smile. “You nailed a plank to the wrong side of the frame yesterday.”

“Well, someone was distracting me, watching like a hawk.”

“I wasn’t watching.”

“I never said it was you.”

They both looked at each other, then away.

“Sorry about the kitchen,” Harry mumbled suddenly.

Blake tilted his head. “You didn’t light the match, did you?”

Harry didn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought,” Blake said gently. “Sometimes the world just cracks open. Doesn’t always need a reason.”

Harry stared at the rake in his hands.

After a long silence, he asked, “You ever feel like... things break around you? Like, not because you want them to. They just do?”

There was a pause. Then Blake said, “All the time.”

And somehow, Harry believed him.

Over the next week, something like friendship began to form.

They didn’t talk about big things. Just odd things. Like how Mrs. Melling always made porridge too salty on Tuesdays. Or how the new fence was definitely slanted. Or how seagulls were the worst birds ever discovered.

Harry still held back, but he began to wait for Blake each morning. Sometimes they’d share a biscuit before the others arrived. Sometimes Blake would show him how to fix something simple, like replacing the worn handle on the spade. Sometimes they’d just rake leaves in companionable silence.

But in Harry’s mind, the puzzle was growing. The questions were stacking up. The dreams were sharper now, too - green light, crying, fire. Every time he woke up clutching his chest, the pendant cool against his palm.

He didn’t tell Blake about those. Not yet.

But he thought maybe he could. One day.

At first, Harry hadn’t meant to say anything.

He hadn’t sat under the crooked sycamore, picking at the splintered bark, with some grand plan to open up. It wasn’t like him. Most days, he kept things tucked in tight; sharp edges dulled behind jokes or shrugs or long silences no one bothered to fill.

But that day, something slipped. Maybe it was the hush that settled when the hammering stopped. Maybe it was the grey stretch of sky, or the way Blake sat beside him without crowding, without fuss.

Or maybe it was just that Blake didn’t ask, not with words, anyway. He just waited, like he had time. And Harry, to his own surprise, spoke.

He told him the truth. About the odd things that happened, flickering lights, glass that cracked without warning, a roof that he jumped to when gravity should’ve won. How the explosion had started with him, with the sharp crack of something breaking loose inside. About how it all made him feel like he was walking around with some jagged, invisible thing inside him, something no one else could see but he knew was there.

And about the question that sometimes woke him in the middle of the night and sat heavy on his chest until morning: What if that was why they left me? What if they knew?

He expected laughter. Or awkwardness. Or a clumsy assurance that it was nothing, that he was just imagining things; the way most adults did when they wanted to move on.

But Blake didn’t say any of that.

He just stilled, quiet and watchful, like someone listening at the edge of a forest for something rare. And when he finally spoke, it wasn’t to fix or dismiss. He answered without pretending he had all the answers.

It was a kind of truth - the soft, uncomfortable kind. “You’re not broken,” he said. “You’re becoming something extraordinary.”

Harry didn’t believe him. Not really. But he didn’t scoff it away either.

And that was new.

Because Blake didn’t look scared. Or sorry. Or even surprised. He looked like someone who’d seen stranger things than a boy who made glass shatter when he was angry. Someone who wouldn’t flinch.

He didn’t know if he trusted Blake. Not fully at least. But something in him, some quiet, stubborn bit that usually stayed curled up and out of reach felt a little less alone. And that part believed Blake might be telling the truth.

That maybe he wasn’t something to be left behind.

It didn’t take away the ache. It didn’t fill the years of questions or the quiet sting of never being chosen. But it left a mark, quiet and careful, like the warmth left on your sleeve after someone brushes your hand.

And Harry, who had learned not to hold on too tightly to moments, tucked this one away. A strange man with an easy smile had looked him in the eye and said he wasn’t broken. And for the first time in a very long time, Harry let himself wonder:

What if he was right?

The corridor outside Matron Grindle’s office smelled faintly of furniture polish and old radiators, a scent Harry had long ago learned to associate with waiting. It was the last day of the repairs, and the Matron was inside, finishing up her final meeting with James Blake.

He stood by the window, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his patched trousers, watching the sunbeam slanting through the glass. Somewhere beyond the walls, the younger boys were racing around the garden, their laughter faint but clear. But Harry’s thoughts were elsewhere.

Who was this man?

He hadn’t asked. Not really. Not beyond the name and the sailor story, and even that felt like a page torn from someone else’s book. Blake was too good at slipping past things, past questions, past doubts, past the guarded look in Harry’s eyes. And Blake never pressed, never pried.

But he stayed. That was the strange part.

Because people didn’t stay for Harry. People came and went; sometimes with awkward sympathy, more often with the practiced distance of professionals doing their job. And sometimes fate took them away like Madame Leroux. But Blake… Blake had made time. Brought him sweets. Laughed at his dry jokes. Sat with him under trees and listened to the weirdest parts of his head without flinching.

And it made Harry wonder, not for the first time, why.

Maybe… maybe he was a long-lost uncle. Someone who’d heard about him late and came to check in. Or an old friend of his parents. Whoever they were.

For a brief second, a flash, quick and unbidden, the thought crossed his mind: What if he was my dad?

But no. That was stupid.

They looked nothing alike. Harry had studied Blake’s face carefully when he thought the man wasn’t looking. Sharp lines, grey-streaked hair, a roguish smile that once exuded elegance but looked worn down by years. There was nothing there of Harry’s nose, his eyes, the untameable mess of hair that no comb ever stood a chance against.

Besides, a man like that; kind, steady and real wouldn’t have just left.

He couldn’t be.

The door creaked open behind him, and Harry turned just as Blake stepped out, brushing a hand over his beard like he’d only just remembered it was there. He looked a little tired, but not in a bad way; more like someone finishing a long day and carrying the weight of something private.

“Well,” Blake said, clapping his hands once, soft but decisive. “Looks like that’s the end of my grand career in plastering and splinter-removal.”

Harry gave a cheeky grin. “You’ll be sorely missed. The tools are probably crying already.”

Blake gave a short, rough-edged laugh then crouched a little, enough to be eye-level. “I asked your Matron if I could come by now and then. To visit. She agreed. Said I wasn’t a complete menace.”

Harry’s smirk faltered, but his nod was genuine. “Yeah. Alright. That’d be cool.”

For a moment, they stood there, silence stretching comfortably between them. Then, as Blake straightened, his eyes caught on the chain around Harry’s neck, the pendant had shifted slightly from under his collar, glinting faintly in the afternoon sun.

His expression changed. Just for a second.

“Prongs,” he murmured.

Harry blinked. “What?”

Blake jerked back to the moment, blinking rapidly. “Nothing,” he said with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just… mumbling to myself. Old sailor habit. Talk to the waves, they say.”

He turned with a chuckle and gave Harry a parting wink. “Stay out of trouble, Mr. Palmer.”

“I make no promises.”

And just like that, he was gone, boots echoing down the corridor and through the front door, swallowed by the brightness beyond.

Harry stared after him for a long moment, fingers brushing the pendant now resting against his chest.

Prongs.

The word meant nothing. But the way he’d said it… it felt like it did.

Chapter Text

The last few weeks had passed in a quiet blur for Sirius Black.

By day, he haunted the brick-lined walls of St. Jude’s, scraping together repairs and stealing fragments of a life he thought lost forever. Hammering old fence posts beside Harry. Sneaking fresh bread from the bakery bins and slipping them to the boys during breaks. Laughing at their jokes, playing along like any other slightly odd handyman. Becoming, for the first time in a long time, part of something that didn’t feel like penance.

By night, he returned to the one corner of Grimmauld Place that didn’t scream. His old bedroom, still dim and suffocating beneath ancient velvet drapes. It had become something of a refuge. Not a home, not quite, but the closest thing he had. He hadn’t dared to explore much further than the study he’d crept into to find a wand, the old sanctuary of Arcturus Black. Kreacher, miraculously, had yet to appear. Sirius didn’t know whether to be relieved or suspicious.

He left the house each morning through the back alley with his wand hidden up his sleeve, his face subtly altered, just enough to pass unnoticed, as much as he could manage without Polyjuice Potion. In the Muggle world, where photographs of his haunted face were still plastered as that of a mass murderer on the run, it was a necessary precaution. He moved like a ghost with borrowed skin, carving out a rhythm.

His face with the slight transfigurations looked the part: a lean, weathered tradesman with tired eyes and the ghost of charm in his smile, the kind that made people warm to him before they thought better of it. There was a grace in how he moved, even after almost a decade in Azkaban, something polished beneath the rough edges, like a blade gone dull but not broken.

But beneath the veneer of quiet joy, something gnawed at him.

Harry didn’t belong there. Not truly. Not forever.

St. Jude’s was no Victorian horror story. Grindle ran a tight ship and Melling was fair in her own brusque way, but Sirius saw it for what it was: a liminal space, a polite holding pen. A place where boys grew up learning to expect very little and be grateful for scraps.

And Harry… Harry wasn’t meant for corners and grey skies and rationed warmth.

Sirius thought of how the boy carried himself. Not with sadness, exactly, but with a kind of practiced solitude. With shoulders just a little too squared for ten. With smiles that didn’t quite reach the eyes unless you caught him off guard.

He remembered that feeling.

He remembered dinners at Number Twelve with stiff-backed silence, the expectation to be better, and the constant ache of being not quite enough. Not pure enough, not obedient enough, not a Black enough Black.

James and his parents had changed that. Had given him a place, a couch to crash on, a place where laughter echoed off the walls and sugar was never properly stocked because Sirius and James raided it during tea. They’d given him family. And then Lily came along, and somehow, without ever meaning to, he belonged again; not just to James, but to both of them. A brother. Sometimes a wayward son. And when they gave him Harry… it felt like the world had trusted him with something good, something whole.

And Sirius had failed them all.

He owed them this. A home for their boy. Safety. Someone to see him, really see him, and never let him feel like an accident of fate again.

But good intentions weren’t enough. He couldn’t just swoop in with a Confundus Charm and a forged birth certificate and whisk Harry away. He didn’t even have two knuts to rub together. What life could he offer right now beyond fish bones and hiding?

As these thoughts churned, Sirius wandered through Southwark’s quieter lanes after bidding goodbye to Harry, the final day of repairs at St. Jude’s behind them. He’d promised to visit now and then, and Harry had smiled, that soft, hesitant way he did when he was trying not to hope too much.

The quiet that followed felt heavier than it should have. As if the little slice of peace he’d found these past few weeks was slipping from his grasp. That brief, borrowed bliss now hung behind him like pages of a book closing before the story was done.

And just as they were parting, Sirius had noticed it for the first time: a small silver pendant at Harry’s neck, nearly lost beneath the collar of his shirt, a stag in a field of lilies. The breath had caught in his throat. Prongs, he’d whispered, before he could stop himself.

Harry had looked up, curious. “What?”

Sirius had wanted to tell him. Merlin, he’d ached to. But the words hadn’t come, too sharp, too tender, too full of everything he didn’t know how to say. That the boy standing before him had no idea how deeply the past lived within him. He’d mumbled something, nothing, and walked away with the guilt weighing heavy. Not because he didn’t want Harry to know, but because he didn’t know how to explain a truth that big.

He passed a bookshop.

The display window was cluttered, each shelf a patchwork of forgotten tomes and bestsellers. There were children’s comics, an old stack of Beano, paperbacks with knights and dragons, thick political doorstoppers, and at the centre, propped like a crown jewel, a garish horror novel with a howling wolf silhouetted against a blood-red moon.

Sirius chuckled.

“Moony.”

That damned cover. Remus would’ve scoffed at it, muttering about how werewolves didn’t howl at the moon like that, and how inaccurate Muggle fiction was; and Sirius would’ve teased him for being jealous of the toned muscles.

His grin softened.

Moony. Remus Lupin.

The quiet one. The rational one. The reluctant architect of every brilliant Marauder plan. Sirius and James had always brought the chaos, the spark; but it was Moony who’d lay out the plans like a military strategist, right down to escape routes and detour patterns. Always with a weary warning: “If you two actually try this, I will disown you.”

They always did. And he never did.

Sirius remembered one prank in particular - a scheme involving a Slytherin banner, a dozen miniature goats, and a liberal use of Permanent Sticking Charms. Remus had designed it as a theoretical exercise. Sirius and James had made it real. The following Tuesday, Slughorn’s office had smelled like a petting zoo.

Merlin, he missed him.

Remus had always seen things clearly, seen him clearly, even when Sirius didn’t know who he was anymore.

Sirius had promised himself that he wouldn't rush, wouldn’t tear through Harry’s life like he had through everything else. This time, he’d get it right. For Harry. For James. For the Marauders.

And suddenly, the path forward gleamed like a breadcrumb trail in his mind.

Moony would know what to do.

He turned away from the shop window, the shadow of a smile flickering across his lips. It was time to find Remus Lupin.

The flat was still there.

Dilapidated and grey, with its second-floor window patched by cardboard and paint flaking from the lintel but still standing, much like the man who lived in it. Sirius had found it after two days of careful tracking, sticking to alleys and brick shadows, spending most of his time padded in paw and fur. It stood wedged between a laundrette and a pawn shop in a tired corner of the suburbs, the kind of place that had stopped pretending to be welcoming long ago.

He hadn’t even been sure Remus would still live there. The last time Sirius had visited this street was a lifetime ago, when they were boys, and Remus had still tried to pretend his threadbare flat wasn’t a curse or a cage. Back when they’d sprawl on the moth-eaten couch and make grand plans over cheap takeaway, their laughter making the cracked plaster feel like home.

Now the curtains were drawn tight, and the second-floor lights never came on.

But someone was watching the place. Sirius had spotted them from across the road. A woman with a Ministry-standard coat, sipping coffee too slowly, pretending to read a newspaper. She hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. And a man in a blue beanie who had circled the block twice on foot, then once more in a car. Ministry operatives, predictable as clockwork, and about as subtle as a Howler…

So… They were watching Remus. Not enough to arrest him. Not enough to act. But enough to suspect.

A bitter laugh rose in Sirius’s throat before he could stop it. Even Remus, loyal to a fault, especially to Dumbledore, was still caught in the Ministry’s net. A werewolf. A former associate of the ‘notorious Sirius Black.’ That alone was damning, wasn’t it?

It twisted something sharp inside him. So… Dumbledore was watching too.

The same Dumbledore who always saw too much, who unravelled truths others missed, who understood everyone, except this. Except Sirius. Except what really happened to James and Lily. Except Remus, the one person who might still call him a friend.

The great Albus Dumbledore, wise beyond reckoning, who spoke of justice and mercy, who saw truths hidden in silence, hadn’t once stopped to ask how Sirius Black had ended up in Azkaban without a trial. Hadn’t asked why.

Maybe he’d seen what he wanted to see. A Black. A reckless one at that. Sirius could almost hear the whispers: Too clever for his own good. Always a bit too wild. Born into darkness, and bound to slip eventually. Maybe the fall had been inevitable.

But no, that wasn’t fair. Not completely.

Dumbledore had cared. Sirius had felt it. Had trusted it. Just as they all had, in the Headmaster's office when they were seventeen and full of foolish hopes. But somewhere along the way, trust had turned into silence. And Sirius had spent nine years inside stone and salt, wondering when that shift had happened.

When the hope in him had died just enough that he forgot how to scream.

He leaned against the alley wall, the brick cool against his back. A cat hissed from under a dumpster nearby, but he didn’t move.

Did Remus believe he was guilty?

The question had festered for years, but now, watching the boarded window, it turned rancid in his gut. Moony, the careful one, the worrier, the quiet anchor between his and James’s chaos, had always known when they were lying. He had a talent for truth.

So if Remus hadn’t tried to contact him... never visited him in prison… didn’t that say everything? Did he think Sirius had handed over their best friends? Watched them and their child die?

The thought made Sirius’s knuckles clench.

James would’ve known. James would’ve fought for him. He would’ve seen the truth before the blood dried. Hell, James would’ve taken one look at Peter’s trembling face that morning in Cricklewood and known who the traitor was. But Remus… Remus had always been haunted by the doubt he carried.

And now Sirius didn’t know if he had the strength to face that doubt on his friend’s face.

Still, he thought, dragging in a cold breath, he’s the only one who can help.

If there was a way to get Harry out; properly and safely, no hasty magic or half-baked schemes, Remus was the key. He could approach the goblins, access the Black vaults without raising alarm. And when Harry turned eleven, Remus could become his guardian in the magical world, something Sirius, a hunted fugitive, could never be. Remus had always known how to navigate systems with quiet patience and disarming honesty. Sirius was fire and instinct. Remus was calm resolve: anchored, thoughtful and unshakably deliberate.

But how to reach him?

The Aurors were stationed out front. Any direct approach would spook them, and worse, might expose Remus to deeper suspicion. If Sirius was seen, Remus might never get a moment's peace again.

No. It would have to be clever. He'd need to leave a sign. A message. Something only Remus would understand. And even then… Would he respond? Would he believe?

Would he care?

Sirius’s throat tightened. The doubt had a bitter taste. A betrayal made all the worse because it wasn’t from enemies, but from the ones he’d once called family. He turned away from the flat, melting into shadow as the streetlamp flickered behind him.

One step at a time. First the message. Then the wait. And after that… he’d face whatever came next.

Even if it meant learning just how alone he really was.

It was barely past dawn when Sirius tore through his room like a man possessed.

Drawers were yanked open, old trunks upended, dust swirling in the shafts of morning light that slipped through the cracked curtains. He muttered under his breath, half to himself, half to the room as if the cracked plaster might suddenly remember where he’d left it.

“Come on… come on, I know you’re here somewhere…”

He wasn’t even sure what had sparked the memory, just a flicker in the back of his mind the night before. A half-formed plan, a scrap of nostalgia tangled up in the scent of old wood and worn parchment. But now it had taken hold like a hook behind his ribs, and he wouldn’t rest until he found it.

Then, at last…

A triumphant grunt. He pulled a battered, sun-faded book from beneath a pile of old school robes and socks that hadn’t seen daylight since the war. The spine cracked as he opened it, the cover nearly falling off in his hands.

Sirius stared at the title, and for the first time in a long while, he laughed. A proper, shoulders-shaking laugh, quiet and breathless and full of something dangerously close to warmth.

“Oh, Moony,” he murmured, brushing a bit of lint from the front. “This old thing.”

He sat down cross-legged on the floor, still chuckling, and turned to the first page. There, in a space where a childish hand had once scrawled ‘Property of Remus J. Lupin, age 9’ in faded ink, Sirius pulled out a quill.

He hesitated for only a moment.

Then he began to write.

When he was done, he wrapped the book in brown paper, twine, and a quickly-scrawled fake return address: Mr. J. Blake, Department of Lost and Found, Obscure Curiosities Division.

There was only one post office he could think of, a small, sleepy one tucked in the corner of a forgotten wizarding village just outside London. He’d used it once as a safehouse route during the war. If he timed it right, he might sneak in during a lull.

An hour later, disillusioned, he crouched behind the hedgerow of Ottery Fold Post Office. True to memory, it was a squat stone building with moss creeping over the tiled roof and a single sleepy clerk inside who looked to be engaged in a battle of wills with a crossword puzzle.

Sirius waited.

Ten minutes later, the man muttered something about tea and wandered out the front door.

That was his chance.

Sirius slipped in through the back, a tiny bell jingling above the door as he entered the dusty workroom. Dozens of owls blinked at him from their perches, heads swivelling in eerie unison.

He found a medium-sized tawny - alert, dignified, the type Remus wouldn’t dream of scaring off with a broomstick and held out the parcel.

“Special delivery,” Sirius whispered. “Old friend. Suburbs. Bit rough, quite bookish. Answers to Moony.”

The owl extended one clawed foot towards the price board nailed to the wall.

Sirius blinked.

“Oh come on.”

It tapped the board again. Two Knuts. Standard rate. No exceptions.

He patted his pockets in vain. Nothing but lint, a half-melted peppermint, and a broken stub of graphite.

“Look,” Sirius said, gesturing hopelessly. “He’s a very nice man. Loves owls. Exceptionally polite. Bakes, probably. Bit grumpy once a month but who isn’t?”

The owl narrowed its eyes.

“Alright, alright.” Sirius rummaged around the desk, found an old receipt, flipped it over and scribbled:

“Receiver: Please pay this owl two Knuts upon delivery. Or he’ll peck my eyes out. Regards, a mutual friend.”

He tucked it beneath the twine, gave the owl an encouraging nudge, and stepped back.

The bird gave him a long, withering stare. Then, with a rustle of feathers, it launched into the sky.

Sirius stood in the quiet of the empty post office, watching the shape grow smaller in the grey morning sky. Something twisted in his chest, a familiar feeling, equal parts dread and hope.

“Fly straight, you stubborn little brute,” he muttered. “And pray he still gives enough of a damn to read it.”

Then he turned and walked out into the morning light. Back to shadows. Back to waiting.

Back to Grimmauld Place.

Chapter Text

The morning had barely crept past eleven, the clouds over the suburbs hung low and colourless, the sort of overcast that pressed against the windows like damp wool. Inside a narrow, peeling second-floor flat, wedged above a laundrette that always smelled faintly of bleach and despair, a lean, tired-looking man sat hunched over a chipped mug of tea. His robes were threadbare and patched at the elbows. Brown hair, shot through with early grey, curled slightly at his collar. His face lined with shadows that didn’t come from age alone. A long scar ran beneath his jaw, mostly hidden beneath stubble, and his eyes amber and thoughtful, although a little tired, flicked over the Daily Prophet spread across his knees.

Remus Lupin shifted in his seat, the steam from his tea curling up like ghost-breath, and let out a long, silent sigh. It was his day off; something he was supposed to be grateful for, but ever since scraping his way back into employment, idle days felt like old ghosts pressing in. Before this, all he’d had were days off. And with them, the relentless noise of his own thoughts.

The Daily Prophet lay open across his knees, the headline still screamed about Sirius Black, but it had dulled with repetition.

“HUNT FOR BLACK: AURORS WIDEN SEARCH TO OUTLYING COASTS”

The subheadings were vague. Old quotes recycled. Someone had spotted a grim-faced figure near a pub in Orkney. Another swore he’d seen him stealing from a fishmonger in Bristol. Nothing concrete. And that terrified Remus more than the worst headline ever could. He rubbed his temples and folded the paper aside, just as a sharp tap sounded against his window.

He froze. Tap. Tap. Peck.

A tawny owl, medium-sized, dignified in its posture, yet with a comically imperious glint in its eye was glaring at him from the sill, pecking insistently at the glass. Remus opened the window with caution. The owl hopped in, fluffed its feathers, and stuck out its leg with all the theatrical disdain of a bureaucrat delivering a late fee.

There was a parcel. And attached to the twine, in handwriting Remus hadn’t seen in nearly a decade, was a tag that read:

Receiver: Please pay this owl two Knuts upon delivery. Or he’ll peck my eyes out.
Regards, a mutual friend.

For a moment, he simply stared.

No. It couldn’t be.

But the curl of the “R”, the slanted flick on the “f” in “friend”, those were familiar. Too familiar.

Wordlessly, Remus reached into the small ceramic dish by the mantel where he kept loose change and dropped two Knuts into the owl’s waiting claws. The bird gave a satisfied coo, turned, and vanished out the window with a whoosh of feathers.

Remus stood motionless. The flat was silent save for the hum of the laundrette below. He sat. Slowly. As though afraid to disturb something fragile.

Then, with trembling fingers, he untied the twine and peeled the brown wrapping paper away. Inside lay an old, worn book - The Hairy Boggart and the Moon. A ridiculous children’s adventure, all lurid illustrations and nonsense rhymes. Sirius had always insisted it was Remus’s “tragic love story,” and used to fake sob whenever the boggart turned into a kettle. Remus hadn’t thought of it in years. And on the inside of the cover, scrawled in that same unmistakable hand, was a message:

“Moony. Come to the place where the moonlight path touches the wild edge. Two o’clock. Alone. Please.”

Remus read it once. Twice. Then he sat back as if the air had been punched out of his lungs.

The words blurred as memories surged forward, thick and uninvited, moonlit nights under James’ Invisibility Cloak, laughter echoing between the trees, Sirius grinning like a lunatic as he tugged them towards some hare-brained adventure that ended in detentions or explosions, often both.

And that phrase.

Where the moonlight path touches the wild edge.

It wasn’t just a cryptic turn of phrase. It was the place, the spot they’d always met on full moons once the transformations were behind them. Where the path from the Shrieking Shack spilled into the edge of the forest and the undergrowth thinned just enough to run. A clearing barely sheltered by trees, more field than wood, where starlight pooled in silvery patches and the scent of damp moss clung to their fur.

James had been the one to name it. Of course he had. He’d taken to calling it “the moonlight path” during that ridiculous term when he’d decided he was a poet, spouting sonnets to anyone who’d listen, and several who wouldn’t; after Lily had laughed at one of his Transfiguration essays. The “wild edge” bit came later, some overwrought line he’d scribbled into a margin, and never lived down.

Sirius had mocked him for it relentlessly, and yet… they’d all started using it. Jokingly at first. But then it stuck. Because that was what it had been: the moonlight path and the wild edge. A place where monsters turned into boys, and boys turned into myths.

Remus’s fingers tightened around the note.

And then: the silence. The betrayal.

He remembered the hollow ache of the funeral. Lily’s and James’ coffins laid with flowers, white and wilting by the end. The empty hush where a baby’s laughter should have been.
He remembered how the coffin was sealed. How they hadn’t let anyone see Harry. Too much damage, they said. A family laid to rest in silence, while the world spoke only of legends.

And Sirius… that haunting photograph in the Prophet, sitting cross-legged in the ruins, laughter twisting his face as if he'd done something worth celebrating while the crater still smoked.

Thirty-nine people gone. Peter, poor foolish Peter, reduced to ash. And Remus had just… broken.

He had trusted him. That was the part that still ached, even now.

James Potter, with his brilliance and fire, had been the first to grin at the quiet boy with secondhand books and too-old eyes. He'd had a way of pulling people into his orbit, charming, fiercely loyal, always pushing towards the light. Sirius Black came next, storming into Remus’s life like a summer squall, all sharp tongue, reckless energy, and a kind of effortless grace that made people look twice. He carried himself like someone born to rule, but chose instead to laugh at crowns and set fire to expectations. There was something regal in him, in the way he walked, the way he sneered, but it was laced with a disarming nonchalance that made it impossible not to follow.

And Remus, despite every instinct honed by years of caution and shame, had let them in. Had let all of them in. James, Sirius, even Peter with his quiet eagerness and anxious loyalty. They had made space for him, loud, messy, golden boys who never treated him like the thing he feared he was.

And they had made him forget.

Forget that he was a monster. Forget that most people only looked at him with pity, or worse, suspicion. For the first time in his life, he'd had something that felt like family.
And then it shattered.

Remus gripped the edges of the book so tightly his knuckles paled.

You murdering bastard. You let me believe you were my brother.

He had hated Sirius for it. Not with fire, but with something colder. Something bone-deep. Because it hadn’t been a stranger who had turned on them. It had been one of their own. The one who had held their secrets.

The one they had trusted with their lives.

And Remus, the ever-careful one, hadn’t seen it coming. Hadn’t stopped it. Hadn’t kept them safe. He carried that guilt still. The same way he carried his scars. Quietly.

And now, this.

A children’s book, wrapped like a gift, with a note only Sirius could’ve written. The same stupid joke. The same hand that once scrawled passwords onto parchment and notes into the margins of textbooks.

Nine years too late.

The kettle began to whistle from the hob, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not yet. He stared at the book in his hands.

Part of him wanted to burn it. To throw it out the window. To chase the owl down and make it take the cursed thing back.

But another part, quieter, older; the part that remembered four boys tearing through the night under borrowed stars, was trembling. Running wild in a world that belonged only to them. A stag at his side with a rat on his shoulder, a great shaggy dog weaving ahead, all teeth and terror and joy.

It was a memory stitched in moonlight and youth, a time when the world had not yet broken them, when James’s laughter rang like a charm against the dark.

Sirius Black was supposed to be mad. A ghost of a man. A ruin with a wand. But this… this was too human. Too deliberate. Too Sirius.

How could a madman remember that phrase, where the moonlight path touches the wild edge, words born of stolen nights and bad poetry, of James’s hopeless crush and the absurd notion that adventure was a birthright?

That wasn’t madness. That was memory.

He didn’t know why Sirius wanted to see him now. Didn’t know if it was a trick, or a confession, or some mad ploy dreamt up in isolation. But he would go. Not because he wanted reconciliation. But because he deserved the truth.

And if there was even the smallest part of the boy he remembered still buried under everything Sirius had become, then he had to know. Why he did it. Why he turned on them. Why he shattered the only family they ever had.

There was a glint in his eyes now - cold, sharp, resolute, as his hand closed around his wand. If the answers didn’t make sense… if they reeked of lies or cowardice… He would make Sirius bleed. For James. For Lily. For Harry. For all the trust he broke and the lives he burned.

And if vengeance was all that remained to be had… Then he would take that, too.

Remus rolled the book shut with a soft thump and set it aside, his jaw tight.

The flat was quiet, too quiet, and for a moment, he sat still, listening to the hum of pipes behind the walls, the groan of wind slipping through the window cracks. Then he rose, grabbed his coat from the hook, and crossed to the front window.

Outside, the grey light of midday spilled across cracked pavement and stained brick. A man leaned against the wall across the street, pretending to smoke, though he hadn’t lit the cigarette held between his fingers in the past hour. Remus watched him for a moment, then muttered under his breath, “The Ministry’s grown sloppy. They should’ve changed the shift an hour ago.”

He had found himself in an odd sort of partnership with four Ministry Aurors, two at a time in rotating shifts, ever since Sirius’s escape. He’d spotted them the very first day, it was really hard not to, and had since endured their bumbling attempts at covert surveillance with the weary patience of someone long accustomed to being watched.

Subtle, they were not.

 He turned from the window, shaking his head. They were still watching him. As if being poor, quiet, and a werewolf meant he had the time or inclination to harbour a fugitive. If only they knew what had actually arrived by owl.

He moved with measured calm through the flat, tucking his wand into his coat sleeve and drawing his scarf tight around his neck. In the hallway, he paused, looked back once, and sighed. The flat had never been much - peeling paint, the smell of mildew in the corners; but it had been his. A place where no one expected anything.

He left through the back staircase, boots quiet on the worn steps. A moment later, with no crack or flash, he vanished, apparating without sound.

He reappeared on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, near the familiar sloping path that led towards the Shrieking Shack. The forest loomed ahead, darker than he remembered, wilder, older, as though it had been waiting. The air shifted as he stepped closer, turning cool and sharp, like breath drawn through old stone. He pulled his coat tighter as he turned towards the treeline. Beneath the canopy, it was always dusk. Light filtered through the leaves in fractured gold, but it never reached the ground whole.

The trees hadn’t forgotten the screams that once rang out from the Shrieking Shack on full moons. They remembered. You could feel it in the hush between birdcalls, the way branches creaked just a little too slowly. Listening. Watching.

Magic lived here, not tamed but ancient, woven into bark and root and the very veins of the leaves. Every step felt like treading on a secret too old for names.

Remus didn’t move immediately. He lingered in the shadows, eyes sweeping the trail. This wasn’t nostalgia, it was reconnaissance. He hadn’t survived this long by being sentimental.

Sirius had written two o’clock.

Remus had arrived at noon.

He planned to use every second of it to search the ground, mark the blind corners, trace the edges of the grove where they used to meet. It had once been a place of mischief and secrets.

Now, it could be an ambush.

The midday sun was a pale smear behind clouds, casting long, broken shadows through the trunks. Twigs snapped underfoot as Remus moved cautiously between the gnarled roots and fern patches. The path that once led to wild adventures now curled like a warning finger through the woods.

“You’re late.”

The voice cut through the stillness like a snapped wand. Remus halted at once, wand drawn and aimed in the direction of the sound.

From behind a patch of thicket, Sirius Black stepped into view.

He was thinner than Remus remembered, but not skeletal. His black hair, once tousled and free-falling, was now neatly trimmed, streaked through with grey at the temples. A short beard framed his hollow cheeks, and though some of the gauntness had left his face, the years hadn’t been kind. There were shadows in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

He held his wand steady, pointed not at Remus but near - angled, defensive.

Remus didn’t lower his. His voice, when it came, was cool. “You said two. It’s half past noon.”

“I know,” Sirius said easily, a ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “But I expected you to come much earlier. Stake out the place. Sniff out any danger.” He tilted his head mockingly. “You’re slipping, Moony.”

A fire kindled in Remus’s chest, but he smothered it under years of habit. His expression remained carefully neutral, voice edged with ice. “Here to critique my methods now? Or has Azkaban scrambled your sense entirely?”

Sirius’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Then he lowered his wand, not in surrender, but in something closer to an invitation.

The grove hadn’t changed much. The underbrush had thickened over the years, and vines crept up trees once stripped bare by teenage werewolf claws. But the space still held the echo of old magic - full moons, hushed laughter and secrets traded under starlight.

Now they stood apart like duellists - older, roughened, eyes sharpened by loss. A gust of wind stirred the leaves, sending flecks of gold and green swirling between them.

Sirius tucked his wand away, though he never looked away from Remus. “You’re right to be cautious,” he said, quieter now. “You have every reason to hate me.”

Remus didn’t flinch. He simply held his ground, wand still raised. His silence said more than words ever could.

Sirius exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh. “But I didn’t come here to fight.”

There was a long pause. The kind that wasn’t silence, but the steady gathering of everything unsaid between two men who had once been brothers.

“I came,” Sirius added, “to explain.”

Remus’s wand didn’t lower, but his grip on it shifted.

The forest watched. The ghosts of four boys whispered through the leaves.

Sirius’s voice was quiet, steady. “It was Peter.”

Remus didn’t move.

“We switched,” Sirius continued, slowly, as though each word had to claw its way out. “The Fidelius Charm. I convinced James. Everyone thought I’d be the Secret-Keeper, it was the obvious choice. I figured Voldemort’s lot would assume the same. They’d come for me first.”

He drew a shaky breath, eyes flicking to Remus, as if hoping, just this once, that he might understand.

“And I was ready for that. I thought… even if they caught me, even if they tore me apart, the secret would still be safe. Because I wouldn’t know it.”

His voice dropped. “But Peter… he was overlooked. Harmless. No one would suspect him. That was the point. I thought it was clever.”

His hands were at his sides now, empty. Exposed.

Remus’s grip on his wand didn’t falter.

“James and Lily agreed,” Sirius went on. “We kept it secret… from everyone. We wanted to tell you, but you’d already left for Bulgaria.”

There. The crack in his voice. Regret thick as blood.

“And when they died, I knew. I knew it had to be Peter. He vanished. Gone without a trace.”

Sirius’s eyes flared, haunted and furious.

“I found him the next day,” he said, his voice low, cracking at the edges. “He wasn’t hiding. He was running. He knew I’d come for him.”

Remus stilled.

“Cornered him in a Muggle street. Broad daylight. He started yelling before I even raised my wand… screaming that I’d betrayed James and Lily. That I’d killed them. That I was mad.”

Sirius looked away, jaw tightening. “There were people watching. Muggles. And then… then he blew up the street.”

Leaves rustled in the silence. A dry wind slid through the clearing.

“He took out a lot of bystanders,” he continued, the words sour on his tongue. “I got a Slicing Charm off… only managed to hit his bloody finger. Then he vanished down the sewers like the rat he is, hiding behind the smoke and screams.”

Sirius hesitated. “Truth is… I wasn’t planning to bring him in.”

Remus narrowed his eyes. Sirius met them squarely.

“I wanted to kill him, Moony. For James. For Lily. For Harry.” He swallowed. “Maybe I’d have done it, too. Maybe that’s why they never gave me a trial. Maybe they saw the look on my face and figured I didn’t deserve one.”

The wind moaned between the trees. The silence between them was suddenly heavier than it had ever been.

“I went to Azkaban,” He looked up at Remus, hollow-eyed. “Because I knew no one would believe me. Not after what it looked like. Not without Peter. I don’t even know how I stayed sane. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe the guilt was darker than anything they could dredge out of me.”

A breath. “I stayed in that cell. Didn’t fight. Didn’t speak. Just let the remorse eat through me, because it was the only justice that I deserved.”

Remus’s jaw was tight, his breath shallow. Still, he didn’t speak.

Sirius took a step forward. “I swear to you, Moony. On James’s name. On Lily’s grave. I did not betray them.”

A beat. Then another.

Sirius thought, rather hoped that he saw something shift in Remus’s expression. A flicker of old memory. A crack in the fury.

And then Remus said, cold as a draught in a crypt, “So that’s how your master taught you to lie.”

Sirius froze.

Remus’s voice dropped to a growl. “Honeyed words. Convincing eyes. Just enough grief to pass as guilt.”

His wand snapped up. Sirius barely dodged the first curse.

A jet of orange light hissed past his shoulder, striking a tree behind him with a sound like shattering glass. Bark exploded in a sharp crack, and smoke coiled upward from the scorched groove.

“Moony, don’t!”

But another spell was already flying. A twisting arc of blue ripped through the air, singeing the edge of Sirius’s coat as he threw himself behind the gnarled roots of a half-fallen beech.

He crouched, heart hammering, wand clutched in shaking fingers but still not raised.

“Stop it!” he shouted. “I don’t want to hurt you!”

“You already did,” Remus spat, and another hex tore past, barely missing Sirius’s head.

A sizzling jet of purple light split the clearing. Sirius ducked low and scrambled left, casting a Protego that flared weakly and cracked under the next blow.

“You killed them!”

A stone at Sirius’s feet shattered with the impact. He rolled aside, deflected a slicing hex by inches, and stumbled back against a moss-slicked stump. His coat tore at the sleeve. Sparks flared and died in the damp underbrush.

“You think I wanted this?!” Sirius shouted, voice ragged.

Remus advanced like a force of nature, silent between spells, his wand a blur, eyes burning with a fury Sirius hadn’t seen since the War. His spells came sharp, fast, and merciless, weaving through the trees with precision. The clearing lit up with streaks of red and gold and silver. Each curse carved the air like a blade.

Sirius, out of practice, blocked a stunner that would’ve knocked him cold. Another curse blew apart the soil at his feet. He slipped, scrambled upright, deflected again, and again, and all the while his wand stayed defensive, his movements aimed only at surviving.

His eyes found Remus’s, pleading now, desperate.

“Moony, please!”

But Remus didn’t stop. Didn’t even hesitate.

“I trusted you!” he roared. “I defended you when others said all Blacks turned rotten! I told them they were wrong. That you were different.”

A streak of blue light flashed between them. Sirius dove to the side as it sliced through a hanging branch, sending it crashing to the forest floor.

“James and Lily… Merlin, they trusted you more than they trusted themselves. Made you godfather. Gave you everything.” His voice cracked. “And you handed them to Voldemort.”

“I WOULD HAVE DIED FOR THEM. FOR EVERY ONE OF YOU!” Sirius bellowed, his voice raw. “I STILL WOULD!”

Remus cast again, sharp, savage, and Sirius’s shield shattered like glass. The red light struck his shoulder, sending him spinning. His wand flew from his hand with a crack and clattered against a tree root.

He hit the ground hard, rolled, tried to scramble up, but his boot caught in the brush and he fell again.

Remus was on him before he could rise. His wand pressed hard into Sirius’s temple, his breath ragged, chest heaving.

“Give me one reason,” he hissed. “One reason I shouldn’t end this right now.”

He took a step closer, his wand trembling now. “You know I had to attend their funeral? You know how small Harry’s casket was?” The words dropped like lead. “Burned beyond recognition, they said. Closed coffin. They wouldn’t even let me see him one last time. Your godson.”

Sirius looked up, breathing hard. His lip was bleeding. Leaves stuck to his scorched and torn coat. His chest rose and fell with exhaustion, but his eyes burned, clear and desperate.

His voice broke loose like a dam. “Harry is alive, Moony. He’s alive.”

The wand didn’t lower, but something in Remus’s stance shifted, a slight hesitation, the flicker of breath caught in his throat.

“I saw him,” Sirius went on, faster now, the words tumbling out, hoarse and breathless. “Hair just like James… always a mess, the same face, the grin, you remember the way he used to grin… And his eyes…" Sirius’s voice caught, softer now. "Lily’s eyes, Moony. That vivid green… not just the colour, it’s the way she saw right through you. It’s like she’s there, staring out of his face. He’s in London. At an orphanage. But he’s alive. Merlin, Moony, I’ve seen him. I’ve spoken to him.”

Remus’s grip faltered for just a heartbeat. The wand dipped an inch. And Sirius saw it, the crack in the armour, the tiniest fracture of hope.

But before he could take another breath…

CRACK.

The punch came fast and without hesitation. A full-bodied swing that snapped Sirius’s head sideways with a sickening thud. He collapsed back against the earth, his shoulder hitting the gnarled roots of a nearby tree as he gasped, stunned.

White exploded behind his eyes. Blood burst from his nose, thick and fast. He crumpled onto his side with a grunt, one hand scrabbling blindly through leaves and roots until it found the gnarled bark of the tree. He clung to it, dazed, trying to force breath back into his lungs.

Remus stood over him, fist still clenched, knuckles swelling and red. His breathing came in harsh bursts. He stared down at Sirius like he was something foul dragged in from the gutter.

His voice was low, shaking with rage. “How dare you.”

Sirius didn’t answer, still dazed, blinking through the blood and stars.

Remus’s voice rose. “How dare you talk about them. You… You lost the right to say their names the day you betrayed them.”

Sirius’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t speak.

Remus took a half-step forward, fury surging again. “And Harry? You have the gall to say his name? To lie about him? What’s next, Sirius? You’re going to tell me James and Lily are alive too?”

The forest rang with silence after his words, heavy as thunderclouds. Sirius slumped where he’d fallen, half-curled at the base of the tree, blood dripping from his nose, breathing ragged. He coughed, the sound wet and raw, and turned his head weakly to spit red into the leaves. One trembling hand dragged across his face, smearing blood, and he looked up, eyes glassy but clear. His voice was hoarse, barely audible over the pounding silence between them.

“Moony… please.”

Remus flinched. The name cut through him like a jagged stone.

Sirius pushed himself upright, bracing against the tree. His limbs shook, but his eyes never left Remus’s. There was no defiance in them now. Only a desperate, aching urgency.

“If you don’t believe me, I get it. I do. You’ve got every right to hate me. But just… just look for yourself.”

Remus narrowed his eyes.

“Southwark,” Sirius rasped. “There’s an orphanage there. St. Jude’s. Ask for Harry Palmer.”

A pause. Then, more fervently, “Please, Remus. Just go. If you find nothing… if I’m lying, if the boy’s not there… you can hand me over. March me to the bloody Ministry. Or kill me right here. I won’t resist.”

Remus didn’t speak. His grip tightened again on his wand, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

“I swear on them,” Sirius whispered, his voice breaking. “On James. On Lily. If you hadn’t been off in Bulgaria…” he drew a shuddering breath. “Maybe we’d have made the switch with you instead of Peter. We were brothers, Moony.”

Remus’ grip on his wand tightened with barely restrained fury, and the tip flared to life, a sharp, simmering glow that pulsed in time with the anger he fought to contain.

“If you still want to kill me, then do it now,” Sirius said, voice low and resigned. “I’ve got nothing to live for. No proof, no witness to clear my name. Because of that damned switch, the only ones who knew the truth were Lily, James, Peter, and me. Two died for it. The other sold us out. Just… just take care of Harry. Please. He’s alive. And he’s alone.”

Remus’s face was a storm of shadows. His heart thundered with the memory of the boy’s funeral. The press of people offering empty condolences. The silence that followed him home, heavier than anything he’d ever known.

Now Sirius stood before him, bloodied, older, thinner, almost broken and spoke James and Lily’s names like they still meant something.

And part of Remus wanted to believe him. But the rest of him remembered too well the ruined cottage. The crater in the street. The bodies. The betrayal. He didn't lower his wand. But he didn’t raise it again either.

Sirius, breathing hard, watched the indecision flicker across his face. For now, that was all he could ask for.

Remus stared at him for a long moment; his wand lowered a bit with his hand trembling at his side. Then, slowly, he took a step back. His voice, when it came, was quiet, too quiet, edged with a dangerous calm that made Sirius go still.

“Fine,” he said, voice cold and level. “I’ll go. I’ll find this orphanage in Southwark. I’ll check if there’s a boy named Harry Palmer… and if he looks anything like James and Lily.”

His eyes locked on Sirius, flint-hard and unyielding. “But Merlin help you, if you’re lying… if this is some twisted game or a madman’s delusion… I’ll hunt you down myself. And I will kill you.”

Sirius didn’t flinch.

Remus took another slow step back, as if trying to contain something barely leashed. His voice, when it rose again, was rougher, bitter at the edges. “But if you’re telling the truth… if it is real… then be here. Same time tomorrow.”

He hesitated. The wind moved through the trees, cold as the weight behind his words. “But if it’s a lie… if you really are the traitor who destroyed everything we had… don’t come back. Don’t let me see your face again. Because I swear, Sirius, on everyone we lost… I’ll bring Dumbledore, the whole bloody Ministry, and they’ll hand you over to the Dementors.”

A pause. Then, quieter, final. “Consider this the last mercy you’ll ever get from me… for the sake of the boys we used to be.”

He turned, the ragged hem of his coat catching in the wind as he strode away without another word.

Sirius stood rooted to the spot, the trees swaying around him, heart hammering like it wanted to escape his chest.

Maybe this wasn’t the end.

Maybe, if Remus followed the trail, it could be the beginning of something else. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But the beginning of a second chance.

Chapter Text

The trees had long since thinned behind him, but Remus Lupin didn’t stop walking. He barely even noticed the shift from tangled underbrush to the familiar worn dirt path beneath his feet. The forest was still, quiet in that peculiar way August sometimes was, when even the wind seemed reluctant to stir. But Remus didn’t notice that either.

He walked fast, hands shoved in his coat pockets, jaw clenched against the cold churn of his thoughts.

Harry Potter alive?

It sounded mad. Like the ravings of a man too long alone, too long hunted, too long broken.

And Sirius. Sirius, of all people, asking to be trusted?

No. No, it had to be a trick. A lure. Some last scheme from a man who’d always loved drama and chaos a bit too much, even before he’d gone rotten.

But...

The boy Remus had known - the reckless, brilliant, infuriating boy; he had loved James more than life. Had howled in laughter with him, fought for him, bled for him.

Could that boy have really betrayed them all?

He scowled. His fists curled inside his pockets.

He’d mourned them. Lily. James. Harry, just a baby. No goodbye. Just dirt and silence.

And now Sirius said Harry was alive. That it had all been a lie. That Peter had been the traitor?

Remus stopped in the middle of the path, blinking as though waking from a dream.

His breath caught. Not at the thought, but at the view before him.

Massive wrought-iron gates stood tall and unmoving, flanked by winged boars cast in dark metal, glowering over the path. Beyond them, the sloping lawns rolled gently upward, glinting in the soft golden wash of early afternoon sun. The lake shimmered in the distance like a polished coin, and the high towers of the castle itself rose with their usual solemn grace against the sky.

Hogwarts.

His feet had carried him here without thought, following instinct where his mind had failed. And now he was standing outside the only place that had ever truly felt like home.

“Oi! That you, Remus?”

Remus jumped, hand twitching towards his wand, before he turned towards the voice.

The hulking figure of Rubeus Hagrid was trudging up the path from the other side of the gate, a bucket of eels swinging from one hand and a bundle of carrots tucked under one arm. His wild mane of shaggy black hair had streaks of grey now, and his beetle-black eyes crinkled beneath the brim of a patched leather hat. Fang, the boarhound, trotted lazily behind him, tail wagging like a pendulum.

“Hagrid,” Remus said, a little breathlessly, forcing his hand away from his wand. “It’s been a while.”

“Blimey, it is you!” Hagrid beamed, unlocking the gate with a ring of old brass keys that jangled loudly. “Heard yeh were back in the country, but didn’t know yeh were plannin’ a visit.”

“I wasn’t,” Remus said, quickly. “Not really. I just… was visiting Hogsmeade on an errand. Thought I might see the Headmaster.”

“Ah,” Hagrid said, pulling the gate open with a grunt. “Dumbledore’ll be glad ter see yeh. Always asks after you, he does.”

Remus offered a faint smile, stepping past the boar statues and onto the gravel drive.

“Yeh look like yeh’ve seen a ghost.” Hagrid asked, falling into step beside him, the earth shifting slightly with every booted step.

Close enough, Remus thought, though he managed a tired smile.

“I wanted to thank Albus properly,” he said with a shrug. “He’s the one who helped me get the job at Flourish and Blotts.”

Hagrid beamed at that, his beard parting to show a wide grin. “Ah, that’s Dumbledore for yeh. Great man. Always lookin’ out for folks, he is.”

Remus nodded, his gaze drifting past the gates to where the Whomping Willow stood in the distance, still for now. “Yeah,” he said softly. “He always did.”

“I’ll see if I can catch him before supper,” he added, more to himself than Hagrid.

“Tell ‘im I said hullo,” Hagrid called as they parted ways. “And don’t be a stranger, Remus!”

Remus gave a vague wave over his shoulder and kept walking, boots crunching against the gravel. His expression never shifted, but something sharp stirred behind his eyes.

“Oi… Remus,” Hagrid called again, more quietly now. When Remus turned, the gamekeeper’s face was unusually serious beneath the wild thatch of beard and tangled hair.

“Bad business, all this with Black,” Hagrid said, voice low. “Never thought it’d turn out this way. Him betrayin’ James… then breakin’ out after all these years.” He shook his head. “Just… be careful, yeah? Mad as he is, he’ll come for the old lot.”

Remus managed a nod. “I will.”

“Good,” Hagrid said, the heaviness lifting slightly from his face. “Wouldn’t want to lose you too.”

Remus said nothing more. He turned back to the path, shoulders squared and jaw tight.

The spiral staircase groaned faintly underfoot as Remus ascended, each step up towards the Headmaster’s office feeling heavier than the last. When he reached the great oak door at the top, worn smooth by generations of students and secrets, he paused a moment, then knocked twice.

“Enter,” came the calm, familiar voice from within.

The door creaked open, and Remus stepped through the threshold.

It was like walking into a memory.

The tall, arched windows poured golden afternoon light into the circular room, dust swirling lazily in its beams. The same brass telescopes stood aligned like sentinels, silent and watchful. Shelves still bowed under the weight of ancient tomes and gleaming oddities that clicked and whirred of their own accord. A silver contraption in the corner emitted a faint puff of lavender smoke and a sound like a distant bell.

The fire in the hearth cracked softly, its glow casting flickers across the slumbering portraits above. Most were dozing, as always, though Phineas Black cracked an eye and gave Remus a faint sniff of acknowledgment before returning to his nap.

It hadn’t changed. Not in the slightest.

The nostalgia struck him harder than expected.

He remembered sitting in this very office more times than he could count - James beside him, legs swinging restlessly; Sirius leaning back in his chair with a smirk; Peter fidgeting with the hem of his robe. The four of them caught out after curfew or something worse. Dumbledore had always handled them with a peculiar mix of patience and knowing humour, letting their own guilt do the lecturing for him.

But those boys were gone now. One way or another.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, half-moon spectacles perched low on his nose as he closed the leather-bound book in his lap. “Remus,” he said warmly, rising slightly. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“Afternoon, Headmaster,” Remus replied, his voice a touch hoarser than intended.

Dumbledore gestured to the high-backed chair across from him. “Please, have a seat.”

Remus settled in slowly, still half adrift in memory.

“I was in the Hogsmeade,” he said lightly. “Thought I’d walk the old paths. The castle has a way of pulling at you, doesn’t it?”

“It does indeed,” Dumbledore said with a small smile. “Hogwarts leaves its mark.”

There was a brief pause.

“Tea?” the old wizard offered, already reaching for the pot on the sideboard.

Remus gave a soft nod. “Yes, thank you.”

Dumbledore poured with graceful precision, steam curling between them. The scent of bergamot and something floral filled the air.

Remus wrapped his hands around the warm cup, letting the heat settle into his fingers. It gave him something to do, something to focus on, while his mind furiously debated the truth he carried like contraband.

He hadn’t told Dumbledore about Sirius. Not yet. He wasn’t sure he could. He’d said he’d check his story himself, and he meant to. Some sliver of instinct, or madness, still clung to the idea that he owed Sirius that much.

Marauder’s honour.

The words rose unbidden and bitter in his throat. Whatever honour they’d once shared had been buried in Godric’s Hollow.

And yet, somehow, he was here. In this office. Speaking to the one man who might understand what he’d been through. He didn’t know what had brought him to this point. A turn of fate, perhaps. Or guilt, worn thin by nine years of grief.

But for now, he let the stillness linger. Let the heat soak into his hands. Let himself remember who he had been in this room, and wonder what he might become again.

He took a slow sip of the tea. It was strong and fragrant, real tea, not the weak dustings he'd been brewing in his flat. The warmth lingered at the back of his throat, anchoring him.

“I meant to say,” he began after a pause, setting the cup gently on the saucer, “thank you… for helping me get the assistant’s position at Flourish and Blotts. It's not much, but it's honest work. Steady.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “You are more than qualified, Remus. They are fortunate to have someone of your calibre, even if only for the summer.”

Remus smiled faintly, the compliment falling soft but unexpected. “Still, I appreciate it. I know how... complicated things can be.”

Dumbledore nodded, a gentle smile touching his eyes. “For someone whom the world has so often treated unjustly, it’s the very least I could do. You’ve always deserved more than the chances you were given.”

The words hung gently between them. Then Remus leaned forward, as if casually, though his voice had sharpened.

“Any progress, then? On the manhunt?”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes met his, unreadable. “Sirius Black remains at large, I’m afraid. The Ministry is... pursuing all possible leads. Though none have borne fruit.”

Remus made a sound in the back of his throat, noncommittal.

“Are you worried?” Dumbledore asked, tilting his head slightly. “Has he tried to contact you?”

The question came softly, but Remus felt the weight of it settle across his shoulders like a net. He paused just a second too long before answering.

“No,” he said, and forced the lie out evenly. “Nothing. Not a whisper.”

Dumbledore regarded him for a long breath, eyes glinting keenly above his half-moon spectacles. It was the kind of look that felt like being gently but thoroughly peeled apart, quiet, unassuming, and sharp as cut glass. Remus held still, uncertain if the old man had caught the falter in his tone. If he had, nothing in his expression betrayed it.

“There are a couple of lookouts skulking around my street,” Remus said, tone mild but edged. “They’re not exactly discreet.”

Dumbledore gave a quiet sigh, steepling his fingers. “Yes... I’m aware. The Ministry… insisted. I made it clear you had no involvement in Sirius’s actions… that you were to be left in peace… but they’re determined to cover every possibility. Overzealous, as ever.”

Remus shook his head and took another sip of tea before continuing, the words sharp with bitter humour. “If those are the Ministry’s idea of surveillance, then Merlin help them. I could walk out the front and back again in a hat and wig, and they’d be none the wiser. Frankly, I’m more worried about them tripping over their own feet than I am about Sirius. If I can slip past them… and I could, what chance do they have against someone like him?”

Dumbledore didn’t argue. He simply watched the fire for a long moment. Sensing the flicker of hurt beneath Remus’s dry tone, the quiet ache of a man too used to suspicion, he offered a gentler smile.

“Think of them as your security,” Dumbledore said, voice warm with quiet reassurance. “If Sirius is trying to... tie up loose ends.”

Remus turned sharply to him. “Loose ends?”

Dumbledore met his gaze. “James. Lily. Harry. Peter. All gone. You, Remus, are the only one left. If Sirius is acting on some deeper plan... he may see you as a thread that needs cutting.”

Remus scoffed, setting his cup down harder than he meant to. “Then the Ministry’s in worse shape than I thought. Their watchmen couldn’t track a Hippogriff in a broom closet.”

Dumbledore allowed himself the smallest smile at that, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Still. Do be careful.”

Remus nodded, though his jaw was tight. Not because he disagreed, but because the Headmaster’s words had settled in his chest like stones in water. All gone. The phrase echoed, low and steady, tolling like a funeral bell.

Except… perhaps not all.

He still didn’t know what to believe, what truth might have clung to Sirius’s story like moss to old stone. But whatever was buried beneath that wreckage, he meant to uncover it.

Not for Sirius. But for James. For Lily.

And maybe, though he wouldn’t admit it yet, for himself.

The resolve steadied him. But in its wake, something quieter rose. A hollowness he hadn’t expected.

Remus leaned forward, his voice low, roughened more by memory than use. “I just wish…” He trailed off, staring at the fading runes etched into the Headmaster’s desk, lines worn by time and worry. “I wish I’d seen them. One last time. Just… them. Laughing. Bickering. Completely unaware of what was waiting around the corner.”

His voice caught. “Especially Harry.”

Dumbledore said nothing, only watched him with those ageless, sea-bright eyes glinting above his half-moon spectacles.

Remus managed a faint smile. “There was this one time… I think Harry must’ve been barely a year old. Lily had just finished bathing him and was drying his hair with her wand, and James was insisting… absolutely insisting that the boy’s hair had a natural swoop to it that should never be tamed. He kept ruffling it up all over again.” He laughed softly, but it cracked midway. “Harry looked up at me from the carpet, drenched, furious… and tried to hex James with a plastic wand from Zonkos. Sparks shot out his ears instead. He was so proud of himself.”

He finally looked up. Dumbledore hadn’t spoken. But something in his expression had shifted. Perhaps it was only the firelight flickering off the crystal lenses, but for a moment Remus thought, just perhaps, that the old man’s eyes had misted.

A long silence followed.

Dumbledore drew a slow breath and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve made many errors, Remus,” he said, voice low and brittle with regret. “But among the most painful was sending you to Bulgaria… and asking you to stay longer than planned…”

He paused, fingertips pressing lightly together, as if weighing the years between his hands. “There were so many chances I missed,” he said more quietly. “So many choices I convinced myself were necessary. I knew… you’d want to be here for them. For James, Lily, Harry. I knew it… and yet I sent you away. For the greater good, I told myself.”

His eyes drifted across the room, unfocused, towards the tall shelves and quiet drawers as though hunting for something he’d misplaced. “The war was turning. We were losing people. Brave, brilliant people, vanishing in a breath. And for the first time… I found myself wondering what would happen if I were next.”

He said it softly, almost to himself, as though even speaking the doubt aloud chipped at something he’d built to last. “I was arrogant, Remus. We all were, perhaps. The Ministry trusted me. The Order trusted me. And I let myself believe… that I couldn’t fall.”

He shook his head slowly. “But there were cracks. Even then. And that’s why I…” He hesitated, voice faltering for the first time. “That’s why I meant to leave the address for you.”

He gave a wan, weary smile. “Perhaps it was foolish. But I told myself… just in case.”

He didn’t finish the thought right away. The silence stretched, and for a moment it seemed Dumbledore might let it stand in place of words.

Then, quieter still: “If you returned while I was away… if something silenced me before I could explain… I wanted you to find them. To see them.”

He turned towards the arched window, where the sunlight had begun to tilt gold through the glass.

He shook his head slowly, a shadow falling over his lined face. “But it never came to that. So many things we meant to do. So many plans we made and never saw through. And…” His voice faded like smoke. “So many lives lost.”

The office fell silent again, only the soft ticking of enchanted orreries and the slow creak of a sleeping portrait’s chair filling the space between them.

Remus stirred. His brow furrowed as something Dumbledore had said caught in his mind like a splinter.

“Leave me the address,” he echoed, voice low. “But… how would you have done that, Albus?”

Dumbledore turned his gaze to him, curious. “Pardon?”

“You weren’t the Secret Keeper,” Remus pressed gently, though the question came out a touch firmer now. “They were hidden under the Fidelius, weren’t they? That meant no one… not even you… could pass on the address unless you were the Keeper.”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes glinted above the rim of his spectacles, thoughtful now. “Ah. Quite right, Remus. Quite right indeed. But Sirius did leave the address with me… at least, he left it with Alastor.”

Dumbledore stood slowly, the fabric of his robes whispering across the floor as he moved towards a tall cabinet nestled between two overflowing bookcases. He opened it with a tap of his wand, revealing rows of shallow drawers, each neatly labelled in fading ink: Order Correspondence, Old Curriculum, Personal Notes.

He hesitated, scanning the drawers with the faint, distracted smile of a man wading through memories too heavy to hold all at once.

“I’ve kept far too much,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Old habits. A foolish fondness for sentimentality, perhaps.”

He rifled through one drawer, then another, parchment rustling, the occasional soft clink of a forgotten trinket or a cracked frame. Dust rose in lazy spirals, catching the light like ghostly threads. Finally, after several long minutes, his hand stilled.

“Before Sirius went into hiding himself, he handed Alastor a slip of parchment. He didn’t have enough time to visit me and tell me the address… he was too keen to disappear, to vanish before anyone could follow. So he left the parchment instead, so we might know where to find the Potters… and that you might too, once you returned.”

Remus sat straighter, breath catching in his chest.

From beneath a stack of yellowing envelopes and an old Hogwarts badge, Dumbledore withdrew a worn, folded scrap of parchment, the edges curled with age, and a faint, familiar magical hum still clung to the ink.

With a care that bordered on reverence, he closed the drawer, returned to Remus, and placed the note in his outstretched hand.

“I’ve kept it all these years,” Dumbledore said quietly, not just an admission, but a confession. The parchment seemed to carry the weight of everything lost. A relic of the Potters, a thread worn thin by time, guilt, and war. A quiet reminder of the lives he hadn’t been able to save. He had been in Godric’s Hollow not long before the attack, and some days, that memory still haunted him.

Remus took it with slow, deliberate fingers. The moment he touched it, he felt the telltale tingle of the Fidelius charm’s ancient magic, barely clinging on, like the whisper of a life long ended.

Unfolding it, he read the line he’d never seen before.

The Potters are at number seventeen, Maple Walk, Godric’s Hollow.

He stared at it, the words pressing into his vision like the edge of a knife.

He turned it over. No signature. No identifying marks. Just the words.

Just the address.

And the unmistakable inkstroke of a hand he now realized did not belong to Sirius Black.
The loops were too loose. The letters uneven. Messy. Untidy.

Peter Pettigrew’s handwriting.

A strange stillness settled over him. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, as the truth crept in with the hush between heartbeats.

Peter’s hand. Not Sirius’s.

A quiet storm gathered behind his eyes, but he kept his hands steady, folding the parchment calmly in his palm and not shaking with the weight of what it meant. The implications settled like ash in his lungs - soft, suffocating.

Sirius had told the truth.

He forced himself to sit still, to not let his fingers tremble or his face betray the rush of thoughts tearing through his mind. For so long, he had clung to grief like it was the only thing that gave shape to what had happened. Now, that grief was shifting, cracking open to reveal doubt, possibility, and a guilt so sharp it felt like a blade at his throat. The memory of Sirius’ ravaged face returned - hoarse voice, broken eyes, that last plea: I’ve got nothing to live for... No proof… just take care of Harry.

Remus could barely breathe.

Sirius had never had a trial. That fact, buried under years of grief and rage, now slammed into him like a punch to the ribs. The greatest wizard of their age, Albus Dumbledore, had accepted the Ministry’s verdict without question.

No investigation. No questions. Just… acceptance.

Why?

Why would Sirius, James’ closest friend, closer than brothers, suddenly betray him? Why had no one wondered at the absurdity of it? Had it been easier to believe because Sirius was a Black? Because he was reckless, volatile, and a little too clever for his own good?

And Remus. What had he done? Hadn’t he been just as quick to believe?

His fingers tightened around the parchment. He should say something, point out the handwriting, tell Dumbledore that it wasn’t Sirius’s at all. That it was Peter’s. That everything, everything they knew, might be wrong.

But the thought lodged like a stone in his throat.

Dumbledore had kept this parchment for years. Had it in his hands, all this time, and never questioned it. Never looked deeper. Never saw.

Would he listen now?

And worse, what if he did, and still hesitated? What if even the smallest sliver of doubt remained? Sirius wouldn’t survive that. The Dementors would take him, this time for good.

No. Remus couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t let an innocent man, one who had already spent nine years in a living grave, suffer another moment for a crime he hadn’t committed.

Not again. Not if he could help it.

He didn’t notice how long he’d been silent until Dumbledore’s voice, gentle and curious, broke the air.

“Remus?” the old man asked, eyes gleaming faintly above his half-moon spectacles. “Is something the matter?”

Remus blinked, his grip tightening slightly around the parchment. “No. No, nothing,” he said quickly, swallowing down the emotions clawing at his throat. “Just… memories. I was thinking of them. Of all we lost.”

Dumbledore gave a long, knowing look, one that passed too gently over him, as if searching but not quite prying. Then he nodded.

“May I keep this?” Remus asked, lifting the parchment. “It’s… the last thing I’ll ever have that connects me to them. Proof that they existed… That we existed…”

Dumbledore regarded him quietly for a moment, eyes glinting with the kind of ancient sadness only he could wear. Then he nodded, a hand rising in gentle assent.

“Of course,” he said. “I think they would want you to have it.”

Remus tucked the parchment away inside his coat with care, as if it were something fragile that might disintegrate if handled too roughly. He stood, thanking Dumbledore with a faint smile, and made for the door with slow, deliberate steps.

“Don’t let the past bury the man you still are,” Dumbledore murmured, his voice gentle with the weight of too many goodbyes. “I wish you well, Remus.”

Remus paused at the threshold and gave the Headmaster a final, silent nod before stepping out of his office.

By the time he stepped into the fading August light, his thoughts were already racing. He moved quickly through the courtyard; his feet barely touching the ground and didn’t even pause as he passed the watchful eyes of the boar-headed gates. Hagrid gave him a puzzled look from across the courtyard, raising a hand in a half-wave from behind a wheelbarrow of pumpkins.

“Leavin’ already?” the half-giant called, frowning.

“Something came up,” Remus said over his shoulder, voice tight but warm. “Take care, Hagrid.”

Hagrid blinked, a bit bewildered, but nodded. “Alright then… Yeh be careful now!”

Remus nodded once, not turning around.

The moment he passed through the gates, he vanished with a sharp crack, apparating away like a man chased by dragons.

His heart thundered in his chest, parchment still warm in his coat.

Harry Palmer. St. Jude’s Home for Children. Southwark.

London shimmered into place before him. The world spun, but his thoughts were sharper than they’d ever been.

He had a name. He had an address. And for the first time in years, he had a sliver of something too dangerous to name.

Hope.

The late afternoon sun hung low over Southwark, casting long, amber streaks across the rows of squat brick buildings and rusted fences. Remus moved quickly, his coat flapping behind him as he scanned doorways and street signs, pausing only long enough to squint at the tarnished placards nailed to gates and peeling posts.

It had to be close.

His heart hadn’t stopped pounding since he apparated, not from exertion, but from something knotted deep in his chest. Anticipation. Terror. Hope.

The ache in his bruised hand throbbed with every heartbeat, but he barely registered it. All he could think about was that name. Harry Palmer, looping through his mind like a chant, each repetition fanning the fragile flame of expectation that had taken root in his chest.

He rounded the corner at a near-run, breath short,

“Oi! Watch it!”

Remus collided with something solid and went sprawling to the ground in a flurry of limbs and startled cries. His shoulder hit the pavement hard, jarring him, and a trio of boys went tumbling down with him like dominoes.

One of them groaned dramatically, rubbing his elbow. “Bloody hell, Mister, you tryna flatten us or what?”

“I… I’m so sorry,” Remus muttered, already pushing himself up, flustered. “I wasn’t watching where I…”

And then he saw him.

The boy was brushing gravel off his jumper, tousled black hair sticking up wildly in every direction, just like James, defying combs and logic. His brows were knitted in confusion, but when he looked up -

Green eyes.

Startling, vivid, impossible green.

Lily’s eyes.

Remus felt the breath leave his lungs all at once. It was as though the world had gone underwater, sounds dulled, his vision swimming at the edges. That face. So familiar, and yet just different enough with the angles of youth, the soft curve of childhood still clinging to his cheeks.

The boy gave him a half-annoyed, half-curious look, then narrowed his eyes.

“You alright, mister?” he asked. His voice was scratchy in the way of boys who’d just begun to grow into it.

Remus couldn’t speak. He nodded once, dumbly, still staring.

The other boys had picked themselves up and were dusting off their uniforms with exaggerated indignation, already joking at Remus’ expense. One of them muttered, “Bet he’s one of those weird old blokes that collects bottle caps and talks to pigeons.”

But the black-haired boy stayed still, watching Remus with an oddly wary expression; not frightened, but cautious, guarded.

A hand-me-down wariness. Too old for his face.

Remus swallowed, his throat dry.

“Sorry again,” he said quietly, more to him than anyone else.

The boy nodded, and with a shrug, turned and jogged after the others.

Remus stood frozen on the pavement, the sounds of the street returning slowly around him. Laughter. Distant traffic. A bell from a nearby church.

He turned slowly to the iron sign on the low stone wall beside him.

St. Jude’s Home for Children.

He’d found him.

Harry was alive!

Chapter Text

The world was screaming again.

Sirius jolted upright in the darkness of his bedroom, drenched in sweat, lungs heaving like bellows. For one blinding moment, he thought he was back there, back in the icy void of Azkaban, the howling chasm between the stones. The cold still clung to his bones, a phantom weight, and the memory of the Dementor’s rattling breaths lingered at the edge of hearing.

They can't reach you, he reminded himself. Not here. Not anymore.

But the dream had been vivid, more vivid than usual. He remembered bars slick with saltwater, cold enough to blister. And beyond them, a looming shape. A Dementor’s rotten hand curling around iron, its breath like frost and decay pressing into the cell. The chill had sunk into his skin, past his bones, right into the soul. He remembered Harry screaming.

Sirius pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and forced the image away. The dream always changed. Sometimes it was James. Sometimes Lily. Today, it had been Harry.

He threw off the sweat-damp blanket and sat on the edge of his bed, letting his breath steady. Grimmauld Place groaned faintly around him, pipes shifting, air whistling through old gaps in the walls. Still a haunted house, but at least it was a better prison than Azkaban.

He’ll come, Sirius told himself. If he found Harry, he’ll come.

But even as hope clung stubbornly to his chest, doubt slithered in beside it. What if Remus notified the Aurors? What if he hadn’t even checked?

He clenched his jaw, reaching for control. He couldn’t afford to spiral, not now.

He caught his reflection in the cracked vanity mirror across the room; the neatly trimmed beard and hair did little to soften the hollow lines around his eyes. The grey had crept into his hair at the temples, unwelcome and permanent. He looked better than he had in Azkaban, but only just. His nose was still tender from Remus’s punch the day before, mended by magic, but it ached faintly when he breathed too sharply. His heart ached too, in a deeper, quieter way. He hadn’t expected such fury, not from Moony, but he accepted it. He deserved it. Deserved far worse. One mistake, and he had destroyed everything they had.

Still, he scrubbed his face clean, changed into the cleanest clothes he could find, and pulled on his coat. The nerves under his skin thrummed louder now. It was still early, hours before noon, but Sirius knew he wouldn’t be able to sit still.

If Remus had found Harry, he wouldn’t be waiting until noon to say so. He’d come the moment he knew. At least… he would have.

Sirius took one last look at the room; four walls and old shadows, and stepped out, the air heavy with too many yesterdays.

He was either going to get his life back today… or lose the last scrap of it.

He was halfway out the door, boots barely laced and coat slung over his arm, when something collided with him in the dark.

The blow caught him low, just above the knee, sending him staggering back. A grunt tore from his throat, echoed by a rasping one not his own, before both of them went tumbling down the narrow, carpet-worn staircase. They crashed against the banister and hit the landing in a heap of tangled limbs, Sirius’ elbow knocking painfully against the iron balustrade. The other figure scrambled to its feet with astonishing speed and scurried down the next flight.

“What the… Oi!” Sirius barked, already on his feet and in pursuit, half-limping from the fall, heart hammering with fury. Not today. Not when I’m already half-mad with waiting.

He took the steps two at a time, heart thudding not from fear but from the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion of being ambushed by his own bloody house. He caught up at the bottom stair, just past the ancient troll-foot umbrella stand. In the dim grey light cast from the overhead skylight, he lunged, grabbing at the threadbare garment the figure wore, something that stank of mildew, smoke and dust. He slammed the wiry body against the wall, wand drawn, breath ragged. Then the light shifted just enough.

A bulbous nose. Tufts of matted hair. Eyes like wet marbles.

“Kreacher,” Sirius growled, tightening his grip for a beat before letting go with a shove.

The house-elf recoiled like a kicked dog, but his eyes gleamed with hate.

“Filthy traitor returns to darken the noble house again,” Kreacher spat. “Shames the blood, dishonours the Mistress, brings shame to the Blacks… filth, blood-traitor scum…”

Sirius’ fingers twitched on his wand. “Nice to see you too, Kreacher. Still charming as ever.”

Kreacher straightened with a dignity he had no business possessing, muttering louder now, for Sirius to hear. “Should’ve died in Azkaban like the filth he is. Would’ve made Mistress proud… would’ve kept the house clean.”

“Careful,” Sirius warned, voice sharp and low. “You’re two words away from being given clothes.”

Kreacher bared his teeth in something too twisted to be a grin. “Do your worst, Master. Kreacher has served better men. Kreacher remembers when the Blacks weren’t ruled by raving traitors.”

Sirius didn’t move just yet. He flexed his fingers around his wand, debating whether it was worth turning Kreacher into a broomstick and tossing him out the window. Instead, he drew a tight breath through his nose. “Where the hell were you?”

Kreacher blinked slowly. His eyes gleamed with spite, but he said nothing. Just scratched idly at a scab on his elbow and glanced around the corridor like he couldn’t hear the question.

“I called for you,” Sirius pressed. “The day I got back.”

Kreacher gave a slow, theatrical tilt of his head. “Master did not command Kreacher. Master only called.”

Sirius let out a bitter laugh. “Ah. Always good at finding the gaps, aren’t you? Just like the rest of the bloody family. All technicalities and twisted words.”

Kreacher sniffed. “Kreacher follows the old ways. The right ways. The ways Mistress taught him.”

Sirius took a threatening step forward. “And where have you been? What’ve you been up to these past few weeks, skulking about like a bloody rat?”

Kreacher's lip curled, and he remained silent.

“I haven’t seen you once. Not even once. And we have been living in the same damned house.”

Still nothing. Just a sly glance over Sirius’ shoulder. Sirius followed it and caught the shift. That twitch towards the far passage. Towards the west wall. The hairs on Sirius’ neck bristled.

“What exactly are you staring at?” he said, voice low but sharp.

Kreacher’s gaze flicked again to the same spot, and Sirius turned, narrowed eyes landing on the edge of a heavy velvet curtain.

He hadn’t ventured much into that end of the hallway since returning. Hadn’t needed to.

“Stay there,” Sirius ordered curtly.

Kreacher said nothing, just hunched deeper into himself and muttered under his breath.

Sirius approached the draped corner of the wall. The curtain was old, moth-eaten in places, but still thick enough to muffle sound. He reached out and yanked it aside.

There she was, his mother. Walburga Black.

Her portrait towered in its gilded frame, cold and commanding even in sleep. She was painted in deep, forbidding blacks, her high collar stiff like a blade around her neck. Her expression was pinched in mid-scowl; her thin lips curled with imperious contempt. Even now, her eyes fluttered in restless slumber, as if dreaming up new ways to sneer.

Sirius stared at her in disgust.

She had ruled this house like a tyrant. Had made his childhood a slow suffocation of bloodline sermons and pure-blood pride. Had screamed and cursed and struck and lectured until Sirius either obeyed or burned for disobedience.

Now her image hung like rot on the walls. Still poisoning the air.

“You never did know when to shut up,” Sirius muttered to the sleeping portrait. “Even now you’re clinging on like mould.”

He turned back to Kreacher.

“So that’s it? You’ve been lurking in the boiler room and spying on me… on her orders?”

Kreacher lifted his chin with defiant pride. “Mistress wanted to know what the shame of the House was doing. Kreacher obeys.”

“To what end?” Sirius asked darkly. “Planning to slip poison in my tea? Write a letter to the Prophet? Turn me in to the Ministry? Or just mutter about how far the Black bloodline’s fallen?”

Kreacher said nothing. Just stared at Sirius like something scraped off the sole of a boot.

Sirius shook his head, more tired than angry now. “Of course. Of course she’s still pulling strings. Even from behind a canvas.” He looked again at the portrait and sneered. “Plot all you want, Mother. You’re just oil and pigment now. And I’m still here.”

Thinking of canvas brought his mind, unwelcome and stubborn, to another: the blank, scorched square that had once held Arcturus Black in the study.

He used to both love and hate that man, the sharp tongue, colder than the stone hearth his portrait hung above. But now… now he almost wished Arcturus were still there. Just for a moment. At least he was the only one who had been sane; cold and calculating, yes, but never a roving lunatic; he’d known how to get things done, had vision, and not always twisted. Maybe he’d have offered something - advice, insult, a bitter laugh. Anything.

Merlin, he was going soft.

And who else would he turn to?

Cygnus Black, downstairs near the library? Gone off the deep end after being painted, always muttering about poisoned goblets and dragons in the east wing. Pollux Black, hung above the dining hall, had been mad even before his likeness was preserved, convinced in his final years that the goblin rebellions were still raging and that everyone around him was a spy. And Elladora, in the rear parlour, believed everyone who passed was a house-elf, shrieking at visitors to stand still so she could measure their necks for proper trophy mounting.

Sirius gave a humourless snort. “Insanity always ran in the family.”

Then, a name floated up from the darker recesses of memory.

Phineas Nigellus Black.

Sharp as a whip, smug as sin, and insufferably eloquent. Sirius remembered sitting across from his portrait in Dumbledore’s office during one of his many disciplinary hearings, watching the old Headmaster’s painted eyes twitch open mid-snore, only to deliver an aristocratic sneer before drifting off again. A celebrated portrait that, among others, had two very distinct posts, one foot in Hogwarts, the other here in Grimmauld Place.

Sirius froze. If Phineas had seen him…

His head snapped to the left, to the second-floor landing. He sprinted up the staircase, boots pounding hard enough to rattle the sconces. Dust swirled in his wake. He reached the oak-panelled door of the old guest room and yanked his wand free.

“Colloportus,” he muttered, sealing the latch with a sharp twist of his wrist. The lock gave a click like a breath sucked in and held. Then, for good measure, “Imperturbabilis.”

The air shimmered faintly around the doorway - soundproofed, sealed, undisturbed.

Sirius exhaled slowly, resting his forehead against the door.

No warning. No whispers passed on to Hogwarts. Phineas wouldn’t know he'd returned. Not yet.

He turned, his coat whispering behind him like a memory, and descended the stairs with renewed urgency. He turned to Kreacher who was still cowering near the troll’s foot. “Stay out of my way. Don’t leave the house. No contact with anyone outside. In any way.” His voice was flat but firm.

Kreacher blinked up at him, fidgeting with the edge of his filthy rag. The creature’s eyes darted sideways, flickering with calculations as if running through possible loopholes. But after a moment, whatever scheme he was weighing seemed to collapse in on itself.

With exaggerated slowness, Kreacher bent at the waist in a mocking bow. “Master gives orders, Kreacher obeys,” he muttered, voice dripping with venom, “Master always knows best.”

Sirius’s lip curled in disgust. “Don’t test me.”

Kreacher’s bowed again, though it was accompanied with muttered curses and barbed whispers: “Filthy blood-traitor... disgrace to the Noble House... better off in Azkaban where he belonged...”

As Kreacher turned and began shuffling back down the passage towards the boiler room, Sirius aimed a lazy, half-hearted kick at his retreating form, not meant to connect, but just enough to make the elf flinch and run.

Sirius watched him go, jaw tight. He had bigger things to worry about than the delusions of a painting or the grudges of a twisted little elf.

Sirius was still simmering as he stalked out into the greying streets, Kreacher’s muttered barbs echoing in his ears like poison-tipped gnats. Should’ve thrown him down the stairs and locked him to rot in the boiler room. He muttered curses under his breath, kicking a loose bit of gravel into the gutter.

“Why couldn’t he have just died?” he growled quietly. “Would’ve been one bloody mercy in that madhouse…”

He had meant to nick a sandwich, maybe a packet of crisps and one of those sugary lemon drinks the muggles liked. He’d grown oddly fond of them over the past weeks, though the shame of stealing sat heavier with each petty theft. He had no money to his name, just a growing list of imagined debts to the people he could never repay.

But his feet slowed as something shifted in the periphery of his vision, movement that didn’t belong.

Half a block down from Grimmauld, near the old tobacconist’s, three figures loitered awkwardly at the curb-side, squinting at street signs like tourists with no map. Sirius’s eyes narrowed.

Too stiff. Too alert. Too damn clean.

The tall one wore pinstriped trousers and dragonhide boots that flashed every time he stepped. The woman beside him had on a lemon-yellow trench coat buttoned to the chin despite the mild weather, and a ridiculous pillbox hat perched crooked on her head like a wounded duck. The third man carried a newspaper folded under one arm that had ‘The Daily Prophet’ poking out of it clear as day.

Sirius inhaled sharply through his nose, pulling his coat tighter, collar up, head down. He crossed the road with casual haste and slid into the shadowed mouth of an alleyway, disappearing behind a rusted skip as his heart picked up its pace.

How many times would he have to run? How many more close calls before his luck gave out?

He peered out from the alley, watching them circle a few neighbouring streets like bloodhounds with a broken scent. His gut clenched not with fear, but fury. They were getting close.

How the hell?

Had they found Grimmauld Place? No, that couldn’t be. The house was Unplottable, buried in layers of ancestral enchantments and cloaked by wards so old even he didn’t understand half of them. The Black family had been paranoid about secrecy. They hadn’t trusted neighbours, the Ministry, or even each other. And as far as Sirius knew, the house wasn’t on any official registry. The Department of Magical Records might know of the house, might even have whispers of its general location, but the old wards ensured no one could find it unless the head of the household or a resident gave the address outright.

And Sirius had told no one.

It was his now. His name etched in the inheritance ledgers by blood and right. The last Black, technically. And unless one of the old pureblood gossips had let slip that the family had a house in Islington, vague, half-remembered talk over sherry and superiority. It shouldn’t have been more than hearsay.

Still, the Ministry was clearly sniffing. Maybe they’d gotten lucky with a tip. Maybe they were desperate. Maybe both. He pressed deeper into the shadows of the alley and muttered, “Time to stop treating this like a game.”

From now on, even a lazy sandwich run could get him kissed by a Dementor.

The world snapped back into focus with a crack of apparition as Sirius landed on the soft, moss-covered edge of the forest. It was just half past nine, the morning sun slanting golden through the canopy. A faint breeze stirred the leaves overhead, and for a moment, all was still. Then something slammed into him like a charging Hippogriff.

He hit the ground hard, couple of stolen sandwiches and the can of Lilt flying from his hands and tumbling into the underbrush.

“Not twice in one bloody day…” Sirius began to groan, half winded. But before he could reach for his wand or even curse properly, a pair of arms locked around his ribs, tight and trembling.

“I’m sorry… Padfoot, I’m so sorry,” Remus choked out, clinging to him. “I thought… I thought you were the one who betrayed them.”

Sirius stayed still for a heartbeat, breath caught, heart thundering. Then, slowly, stiffly, he lifted his arms and returned the embrace.

Remus’ grip didn’t ease. It was desperate. Bone-deep. Like he was holding onto something that might vanish again.

“I thought I knew,” Remus muttered into his shoulder. “All these years, I was certain.”

“I know,” Sirius said quietly. “I’d have thought the same.”

Remus drew back, his face a mess of old pain and fresh disbelief. “I didn’t even check. I didn’t want to. That’s what I keep coming back to. I just accepted it.”

Sirius held his gaze. “You trusted the people who were meant to know better. Can’t fault you for that.”

“No,” Remus said bitterly. “But I can fault myself for being a coward.”

A silence stretched. The wind moved through the trees.

Then Sirius gave a sharp breath through his nose and winced, the bridge still tender, but grinned nonetheless, real, wide and almost boyish. “You know, if this is your way of saying sorry, I preferred it when you punched me.”

Remus huffed, wiping a hand down his face. “Don’t tempt me. It’s still early.”

“That’s more like the Moony I remember.”

The edges of Remus’ mouth twitched. Just barely. But it was there.

They stood there a moment longer - awkward, raw, the weight of years between them; but something broken had started to mend.

Sirius dusted himself off and glanced around, spotting the limp sandwiches and dented can lying in the underbrush. “Well, there goes breakfast,” he muttered, retrieving both with a dramatic sigh. “You hungry?”

Remus, already lowering himself onto a mossy patch of ground, gave him a flat look. “I’ve been here since seven. Don’t even remember when I last ate.”

Sirius barked a laugh and tossed him a sandwich. “Merlin, Moony, you're still the martyr. Do you wait for birds to start singing before biting into your toast too?”

Remus took a ravenous bite. “You know full well I hate mornings.”

“Right,” Sirius said, popping the can open with a hiss. “I’d forgotten your deep vendetta against daylight.” He took a sip of the now-warm fizzy drink and grimaced. “Still foul. Still weirdly addictive.”

They sat in companionable quiet for a few moments, chewing. The forest hummed around them, distant birds, leaves whispering overhead, the wind carrying the scent of pine and earth.

Sirius leaned back on his elbows. “So... did you speak to Harry?”

Remus nodded, chewing the last bite of crust. “Yesterday afternoon. I found the place. Or rather, I ran into him. Literally.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow.

“Corner of Southwark,” Remus said, brushing his hands on his jacket. “He and a couple of boys were coming back from school. They collided with me. Thought I was a mugger. Swore a bit.”

Sirius grinned wide. “That's my godson.”

“He looked like James,” Remus said softly. “But the eyes. They stopped me cold. Lily's, no question.”

Sirius swallowed hard. “Did he… say anything?”

“Not much. He doesn’t know who I am, obviously. But he was polite. Sharp.”

Remus reached inside his robes, slower now, careful. “And I’ve got something else you might want to see.”

He pulled out the parchment and handed it over.

Sirius took it, eyes narrowing at the familiar creases and worn edges. He unfolded it slowly, almost reverently. His gaze settled on the faded ink, the words he hadn’t seen in over a decade. “This is it,” he said quietly. “Peter wrote it. The address. I gave it to Moody… told him to share it with you and Dumbledore.”

Remus watched him carefully. “Dumbledore kept it. All these years.”

Sirius' hand tightened around the paper. “And never looked at it close enough to see it wasn’t my handwriting? He was supposed to be the one who saw through everything. But he just… filed it away and forgot?”

Remus didn’t answer right away. “Maybe. Or maybe we were all just too willing to believe the worst.”

Sirius didn’t respond. He ran a thumb along the edge of the parchment, jaw clenched.

Remus let the silence stretch, not rushing to fill it. There was weight in what they both held, truth finally surfaced after years buried in grief and mistrust.

“What matters is,” he said at last, voice low, “you were telling the truth. And now… someone believes you.”

Sirius nodded slowly. “Still... feels like I’ve been screaming into a void for almost a decade.”

Remus met his eyes. “Well, now you’re not alone in it.”

That earned the faintest huff of laughter from Sirius. “Well. If it had to be anyone, I’m glad it’s you, Moony.”

Remus raised a brow. “Not like you gave me many choices. Punching you seemed right at that time.”

Sirius smirked. “Your love language has always been violence. Explains your taste in books. The Hairy Bogart and the Moon? A true Remus J. Lupin romance classic.”

Remus gave a dry snort, brushing a bit of moss off his knee. “You know full well I hated that book.”

The humour faded gently, like smoke curling into still air. Remus straightened slightly, the ease in his face giving way to something more focused. The old Marauder instinct kicking in.

He looked up, voice steady. “Right. So… what’s the plan?”

Sirius leaned back on his elbows, gaze flicking up towards the canopy above them, lips pressing into a thoughtful line.

“I don’t have a plan,” he admitted. “Just a rough sketch. We’ll figure out the rest as we go.”

Remus folded his arms, his brow slightly furrowed. “Well, for starters, we can’t linger here much longer.”

“No,” Sirius agreed. “Too exposed. I’m still a fugitive. One glimpse of me, and the Ministry’ll be crawling over this forest by sundown.”

He hesitated, then added, “I was thinking of Grimmauld Place.”

Remus looked up sharply. “You’d go back there?”

“Not willingly. It's the only place I know that’s Unplottable, completely off the books. The Blacks were paranoid about anyone finding it… half the protections on that house are older than I am…” Sirius stood, dusting off his coat. “I’ve been holed up there the past few weeks. Haven’t tested the wards yet. No idea what bringing someone else in might trigger.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, “Could try to swallow you whole, knowing my charming family.”

Remus gave him a wry look. “Comforting… Well, you can’t come to mine,” he continued. “The Ministry’s got eyes on me.”

Sirius’s eyes lit with faint amusement. “I know.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “You know?”

“Made them on your street the day before I sent you the owl,” Sirius said casually. “You really ought to tell them there’s more to a newspaper than the centrefold. I was this close to tapping her on the shoulder and saying, ‘Unless that centrefold owes you money, love, maybe turn the page?’ She stared at it like it had personally betrayed her."

Remus rolled his eyes with a huff of weary resignation; the kind honed over nineteen years of knowing Sirius Black. Granted, nine of those were spent in Azkaban, but apparently incarceration hadn’t dulled his talent for dramatic overreach. “So where then? Can’t be your place, can’t be mine…”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, at the same time, both of them said, “Shrieking Shack.”

“It’s quiet,” Remus said. “Isolated. Everyone thinks it’s haunted.”

Sirius smirked. “Technically, it was… And still got that boarded-up charm.”

They shared a brief, weighted look, one that flickered with memory, pain, and something like understanding. Then Sirius stood, shaking out his limbs.

“I’ll go as Padfoot. Less conspicuous.”

With a fluid movement, he shifted, limbs bending, body twisting, fur unfurling into place. In seconds, a large black dog stood before Remus, tail giving a single flick.

Remus gave a low breath and began walking. The dog padded beside him, silent as a shadow, and the two old friends made their way towards the forgotten house on the hill.

Chapter Text

The wind howled faintly around them, rattling loose slats of wood and moaning through cracked windows, a sound that had earned the place its name. Sirius cast a wary glance over his shoulder, his eyes sweeping the overgrown path behind them as he and Remus slipped through the splintered side door of the Shrieking Shack.

No one followed. No one ever did.

The shack stood at the edge of Hogsmeade like a wartime ghost, paint peeled, roof half-caved, and fences leaning in like old men huddled in secret. Locals still swore it was haunted, that screams echoed through the night. And why wouldn’t they believe it? That was what it had been built for, to muffle the screams of a boy who turned into something monstrous every full moon. A safehouse, if there was such a thing for a cursed child.

The child had been Remus Lupin.

He was five when it happened. Fenrir Greyback, savage, vengeful, and feared even among his own kind; had taken offence to something Remus’ father had said at the Ministry. Lyall Lupin, in a burst of righteous conviction, had declared that werewolves deserved “nothing but death.”

Fenrir Greyback made sure he’d never forget.

The attack came in the dead of night - claws, teeth, snarls ripping through the dark. It wasn’t just revenge; it was a message. Remus survived. Barely. But the bite cursed him with lycanthropy, a sickness he would never shed, a secret that would follow him like a shadow through every corridor of his life.

It had been Dumbledore who made the arrangements, quietly, without fuss. A safe place where he could ride out the full moons without hurting anyone. A tunnel ran from the base of the Whomping Willow straight to the Shack’s cellar, charmed shut to all but a few. Hogwarts had never seen such accommodations before, nor since. But Dumbledore had simply said that every child deserved a chance to learn.

And Remus, eleven and terrified, had believed him.

Sirius stepped over a crooked floorboard, boots crunching faintly on grit. The familiar stench of damp and dust hit him. “Well,” he muttered, “this place hasn’t changed.”

Remus gave a quiet snort. “Hard to improve on ruin.”

They moved together through the dim corridor, light slanting in through a broken window. The air was thick with the scent of rotting timber and old secrets. Cobwebs clung to corners like forgotten memories. Sirius trailed his fingers briefly along the scorched wall; he remembered that burn, and the hex that had caused it. That night James had tried to sneak in with firewhisky and ended up jinxed by a startled Remus.

They climbed the creaking stairs, each step groaning under their weight like the house itself resented company. At the landing, Sirius pushed open a warped door with his shoulder and stepped inside.

Dust stirred in the faint light. Broken furniture leaned drunkenly against walls. The floor was littered with the bones of long-gone chairs, and the remains of an old mattress curled like a moulted skin near the far corner.

They sat opposite each other on the wide floorboards. Sirius leaned back against the wall and exhaled slowly. The dust lifted with every movement, clinging to their clothes, their hair, their memories.

“Merlin,” he said, looking around. “It’s like stepping back through time.”

Remus gave a tired nod. “This feels like a nightmare.”

Sirius looked at him, and the corners of his mouth twitched. “Speak for yourself, mate. I’m still not entirely convinced this isn’t all some mad hallucination courtesy of Azkaban’s finest.”

Remus quirked a brow. “If this is your hallucination, I’d expect more alcohol and less mildew.”

Sirius gave a bark of laughter - short, dry, but real. Then, with a more sober glance around the room, his voice quieted.

“Feels fitting, though, doesn’t it?” he said. “Coming back here. Where it all started.”

He didn’t need to say what ‘it’ was. Their shared past hung in the room like a second presence, stitched into every rafter, every squeaking hinge. Betrayal. Survival. The ghosts of four boys who had once thought nothing could touch them. Only two had made it back.

“Right,” Sirius muttered, more to himself than to Remus, raking a hand through his hair and absently kicking a splintered floorboard. “We’ve got a boy in an orphanage, a wrongly convicted godfather living like a stray, and the Ministry treating the said godfather like he hexed Merlin’s beard off. We need a plan.”

“We need to be meticulous about this,” Remus said, settling cross-legged across from him, arms resting loosely on his knees. “Especially with you being hunted in every corner of the country.”

Sirius gave a crooked grin. “What can I say? Everyone loves me.” Then his expression sobered, eyes flicking to the dust-laced light shafting through the boarded window. “That parchment… the one you showed me… Do you think we could use it? I mean, we hand it over to the Ministry, show them I wasn’t the Secret Keeper… wouldn’t that clear my name?”

Remus exhaled slowly. “I thought about that too,” he said. “But no. I don’t think it’s enough.”

Sirius’s brow furrowed. “What? Why not? It’s Peter’s handwriting! You saw it.”

“I did. But you’re assuming others would,” Remus said gently. “Dumbledore had it for years. He didn’t notice.”

Sirius scoffed. “He’s supposed to be the most brilliant wizard alive.”

“Yes,” Remus said quietly. “And he still assumed the worst.”

A tense silence settled. Sirius sat back, jaw tight, eyes narrowed.

“There’s no legal precedent for Fidelius-related testimonies,” Remus continued. “Especially not without the Secret Keeper to speak. Peter’s dead… as far as the world knows. We’d need more than a note and a sob story.”

Sirius barked a hollow laugh. “So that’s it, then? I stay a fugitive?”

Remus’s eyes met his. “For now. But we’ll find another way.”

Sirius waved a hand sharply. “And what about Harry?”

Remus tilted his head, his gaze thoughtful. “That’s the real question, isn’t it?”

Sirius leaned forward, voice suddenly lower, more urgent. “We can’t leave him in that place, Moony. He deserves a family.”

“I agree.”

"He deserves his godfather. He deserves us. He deserves to know where he comes from… to know the truth about his parents, about their courage, their love."

Remus smiled faintly. “He deserves a chance to be a child.”

“Exactly,” Sirius said, eyes sparking. “But I can’t exactly stroll into the orphanage and kidnap him, can I? What do I even have to offer him? A haunted house full of portraits of raving blood-purist nutters and not two knuts to rub together. Which is why I’ve been thinking… if I can’t clear my name, I’ll just have to start over. Start fresh in the Muggle world.”

Remus arched a brow. “Oh? And who do you become when you’re not Britain’s most wanted?”

Sirius gave a theatrical flourish. “James Blake.”

Remus blinked. “That’s… oddly respectable.”

“I know,” Sirius said proudly. “I used it when I volunteered at St. Jude’s. Has a sort of charm, don’t you think? And ‘James’... well.” His voice softened. “Felt right.”

Remus gave a small nod, the corner of his mouth twitching. “It suits you.”

“Well, James Blake is going to need identification papers, housing, and possibly a fake tooth if I keep running into Ministry scouts,” Sirius said, rolling his shoulder with exaggerated bravado. “Which brings us to money.”

Remus gave him a wary look. “Sirius… please don’t say you’re planning to rob a Muggle bank.”

“I’ll write a letter,” Sirius said quietly, brushing his fingers through the dust on the floor beside him, as though already composing it. “You’ll take it to Gringotts. Keep it discreet.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “There was a goblin who used to handle the Black accounts. Grimnark. Senior advisor to the High Council, last I heard. Practically ran the vault systems in his prime… sharp, discreet, old-school. Didn’t ask questions unless the answer had a price.”

Remus’s brow furrowed slightly. "I've heard of him."

Sirius nodded. “Give him the letter. There’s a vault my uncle Alphard left me… not linked to the main Black accounts. He set it aside when I turned seventeen. Knew the family would cast me out sooner or later.” He hesitated, then added, “It should be enough to get things moving without raising too many questions.” His eyes darkened slightly. “I won’t touch the other vaults. If word gets out… if anyone notices… it puts everything at risk. I’m not taking that chance.”

Remus frowned. “And if the goblins report the withdrawal to the Ministry? Even if it’s Alphard’s vault, your name on any ledger might raise alarms.”

“That’s a risk I’ll have to take,” Sirius said. “But I’m counting on two things, their hatred of the Ministry, and their general contempt for wizards. Add a generous cut, and I reckon they’ll decide it’s not worth the fuss. I’ll offer them a commission… something sizeable. Twenty percent, maybe. Enough to make silence the profitable choice.”

Remus’s brows rose sharply. “Twenty?”

Sirius shrugged, unapologetic. “Offer thirty if they play hard to get. Let’s face it, Moony… goblins care more about profit margins than wizarding politics. Always have.”

Remus hesitated. “Are you sure you can’t just use Grimmauld Place? If it’s about money… you wouldn’t need much. Just enough to sort the paperwork at the orphanage.”

Sirius shook his head at once. “I told you… the wards. I don’t know what might happen if I bring someone in who isn’t a Black. Some of them are blood-based, and the rest... I don’t know what to undo or where to begin. And frankly, I don’t think I’m even qualified to try.”

He looked away, jaw tight. “And even if I could… what would I be bringing him home to? From a bleak orphanage to a house haunted by a family that would’ve spat on his mother’s grave? He doesn’t even know he’s a wizard yet.”

Remus exhaled slowly. “You’re right. It needs to be done carefully. If we dump everything on him at once… magic, his parents, you… who knows how he’d react?”

Sirius gave a crooked grin. “He’s already had a bit of a start. Blew up the kitchen at St. Jude’s last month.”

Remus paused, brow creasing. “That kind of magic isn’t typical. Not for someone his age.”

“I know,” Sirius said grimly. “That’s why we can’t charge in. No speeches, no grand reveals. Just one truth at a time. A softer hand. Slowly. Gently.” He met Remus’s gaze, eyes tired but resolute. “We don’t get a second chance at this, Moony. We do it right, or not at all.”

Remus nodded once, the weight of it settling between them. Then, with quiet purpose, he reached into his coat pocket and drew out his wand. With a small flick, a battered inkpot, a well-worn quill, and a creased roll of parchment appeared, settling with quiet precision.

There was a pause. Then Sirius reached for the quill, the weight of it foreign in his fingers after so long. He dipped it into the ink with care and set the nib to parchment. His voice broke the silence, rough with conviction as he began to write, “It’s all I’ve got, Moony. Gold, name, blood… whatever’s left of it. I’ll spend every last sickle, burn every bridge, if that’s what it takes to bring Harry home.”

The next evening, Sirius was already waiting on the top floor of the Shrieking Shack, perched on the wide windowsill with one leg up, his coat draped around him like a fallen banner and hair caught in the silver slant of moonlight. He looked every inch the scruffy aristocrat who’d misplaced his crown and decided not to care.

“You’re late,” he said when Remus stepped in, voice lilting with mock outrage. “I was about to start gnawing on the floorboards.”

Remus raised an eyebrow as he dusted off his sleeves. “You’ve always had a dramatic relationship with hunger.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve been surviving on pub crisps and petty thievery. It’s tragic.” He continued with a boyish grin. “Now… give me something to live for. News?”

“Good and bad,” Remus said, crossing his legs. “Pick your poison.”

“Good first. I’ve developed a taste for disappointment lately. Best to end on brand.”

Remus nodded. “Alright. I spoke to a few people… Order veterans mostly, and one bloke from the Department of Mysteries who owes me for saving his arse in Surrey. Between them, I’ve got someone who can sort identity papers. The real thing. Birth certificate, work history, references… even National Insurance.”

Sirius let out a low whistle. “Blake’s going legit, is he?”

“If you want to adopt Harry, rent a place, and not get arrested before tea… yes. You’ll need it all.”

“Sounds expensive.”

Remus reached into his coat pocket and unfolded a note. “It is. We’re looking at roughly two thousand pounds for the full identity portfolio. And that’s mates’ rates. The guy’s good… Muggleborn, very discreet.”

Sirius whistled again, softer this time. “And the house?”

“There is a place,” Remus said, eyes gleaming. “Nice. Quiet. Wreinleigh Cottage. Off the A217 near Crockham Hill.”

Sirius blinked. “Crockham Hill…” He tilted his head slightly, as if the name was an itch beneath his skin. “Why does that sound familiar?”

Remus gave a lopsided grin. “Try to remember.”

There was a beat of stillness, then Sirius jolted upright, a slow grin spreading across his face like dawn breaking through fog. “Oh. Oh… bloody brilliant, Moony.”

Remus gave him a look, equal parts fond and exasperated. “Took you long enough.”

“We used it, didn’t we?” Sirius said, eyes alight. “During the war… in ’81.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Technically started using it in ’80, but yeah. Right around the time everything started sliding sideways.”

Sirius gave a short laugh, the sound edged with something distant. “Yeah… back then, we thought Dumbledore was just being paranoid. But the Ministry was combing through Apparition logs, tracking anyone even loosely tied to the Order. Made it harder and harder to move without leaving a trail.”

Remus nodded. “Dumbledore was certain the Ministry had been infiltrated. Crockham Hill was one of the seams… the outer edges of the London enchantment fields fraying just shy of where Tunbridge coverage began. That whole corridor was a dead zone. They couldn’t detect our magic there.”

Sirius smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can’t believe we actually pulled that off. That was bloody clever.”

“We were,” Remus said softly. “Just not clever enough to save everyone.”

Sirius’s jaw tightened. The smile slipped away, vanishing as quickly as it had come. He turned back towards the window, where the trees swayed gently in the dark, leaves whispering secrets to the wind. “It wasn’t just the Ministry,” he said quietly. “We were looking the wrong way, half the time. Thought we had longer.”

Remus didn’t answer right away. The silence between them felt thick, old grief stretched thin with time, but never worn through.

“We did what we could,” he said at last, not unkindly. “But it wasn’t enough.”

Another long pause settled between them, deep and still.

Then Sirius stirred. He cleared his throat and gave a little shake of the shoulders, as if shrugging off the weight. “Right. Back to the point… before we drown in our own bloody memories.”

Remus gave a quiet huff, something like a laugh, or at least its ghost. “Crockham Hill gives you cover. Wreinleigh Cottage is tucked into a stretch of old woodland. No neighbours for a quarter-mile. Quiet. Easy to ward without alerting the Ministry.” He hesitated. “You know Death Eaters still carry out raids sometimes. Just a couple of months ago they hit Northiam.” A flicker of something dark passed through his expression. “So if somehow… anything happens, you’ll be able to defend yourself. Use your wand without worrying about Azkaban.”

Sirius sobered. “Alright, but… the Trace. That’s still a thing, yeah? It’s still going to pick up any magic I do near him, isn’t it?”

Remus shook his head. “Not active yet. The residual charm’s bound to Harry, but it won’t fully kick in until he steps into Hogwarts. Until then, anything you do near him won’t register.”

Relief flickered across Sirius’s face, but it didn’t last long. His brow furrowed as he studied Remus, watching the way his words began to trail off.

“You’re thinking ahead,” Sirius said, quietly. “Trying to find the catch.”

Remus gave a small shrug, not denying it.

Still, Sirius spoke quickly, voice steady. “We’ll figure something out.”

He was shifting into that restless, electric mode, half plotting, half dreaming; as if the future had become something he could finally touch. His hands moved as he spoke, sketching invisible lines through moonlight. “We get the papers sorted, secure the house. Furnish it. Set up the wards. Give the kid a room, a garden, a bloody life. We’ll keep things quiet until school starts, then play it by ear.”

Remus nodded, already pulling another note from his pocket. “You asked for a full breakdown of the six-month setup.” He passed it across. “Furnishings, rent, deposit, utilities, some upfront costs… food, clothing, books, contingency fund. Comes to just under seven thousand pounds.”

Sirius skimmed it, then handed the paper back to him. He stared out the window, lips twitching faintly. “And here I thought the Black fortune was just for cursed artefacts and gold-leaf wine.”

“Don’t worry,” said Remus dryly. “You’ll still have plenty left for cursed artefacts.”

A comfortable silence settled for a moment, moonlight pooling on old floorboards, wind brushing softly through the broken shingles. Below, the trees rustled like an audience in slow applause.

“Wreinleigh Cottage,” Sirius repeated, quieter this time. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

Remus gave a tired smile. “You are. I’m just the disreputable advisor who shows up with the notes and snide commentary.”

“You say that,” said Sirius, grinning now, “but wait till you’re drafted into helping me pick curtains.”

“Not a chance,” said Remus. “If you want Gryffindor-red drapes in every room, you’re doing it without my involvement.”

“Compromise,” Sirius said solemnly. “Red velvet in the drawing room only.”

Remus gave him a look, long, suffering, but not without warmth. Then he sighed, the weight of practicality returning.

“We can apply for the adoption at the Borough Social Welfare Office,” Remus said, tucking the folded breakdown back into his pocket. “Right after we get your papers sorted.”

Sirius looked up. “How much for that?”

Remus gave a noncommittal shrug. “No idea. But let’s keep another grand aside… just in case. If we need to… nudge the process along.”

Sirius gave a low hum. “So, all in, around ten grand?”

“Give or take,” said Remus. “Depending on how charming you are and how allergic they are to paperwork.”

Sirius snorted. “Please. I’ve got cheekbones, a tragic backstory, and a small child. I’ll have the lot of them in tears.”

Remus let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re going to be insufferable once this starts working.”

Sirius smirked. “Moony, I’ve been insufferable the entire time. You’re just finally catching on.” He shifted on the windowsill, boots tapping lightly against the frame, the grin fading into something more thoughtful. “How soon can it all be done? The papers, the place… everything?”

Remus folded his arms, gaze thoughtful. “By the first week of September, if we’re lucky. I’ll be done with the Flourish and Blotts job by then. Gives me time to make arrangements properly.”

“Can’t pull a few strings sooner?”

“I’ve only just landed this job after months of nothing, Sirius. If I resign too quickly… especially now… it’ll raise flags. People might start wondering why a friend of Britain’s most notorious escapee suddenly quits without warning.”

Sirius huffed, a lopsided smirk tugging at his mouth. “Fine. September it is. Never thought I’d have to schedule my grand return to society around your retail hours.”

Remus arched a brow. “Try being unemployed for half your adult life and see how grand anything feels.”

Sirius leaned back, bracing himself on his palms. “Alright, you’ve dangled the carrot. Let’s have the stick. What’s the bad news?”

Remus adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, the motion slow and deliberate. “I went to Gringotts.”

Sirius gave a low whistle. “And?”

“It’s crawling with Ministry people,” Remus said, tone flat. “Auditors, clerks, a couple of grim-faced types from Magical Records. They’re combing through vault logs, recent withdrawals, heirship claims. My guess? They’re sniffing around the Black accounts.”

Sirius’s mouth twisted. “Of course they are. Nothing like a bit of gold to get them interested.”

Remus gave a faint huff. “The goblins aren’t thrilled. I got the distinct impression one of them wanted to bite me. They don’t like wizards. And they don’t like Ministry interference. Never have.” He glanced towards the floor, fingers tapping lightly on his knee. “They’ve got long memories. And every few decades, some Ministry genius floats the idea of ‘bringing Gringotts into better alignment with wizarding governance.’”

Sirius snorted. “Meaning: wrest control and pretend it’s for efficiency.”

“Exactly,” said Remus. “And every time, the goblins push back. They tolerate us because it’s profitable… but they don’t forget the insult.”

Sirius tilted his head. “So how bad is it?”

“Bad enough,” Remus said. “I didn’t stay long. Too many eyes. I’ll wait until the Ministry’s audit parade dies down… then go back. Quietly. Give Grimnark your letter.”

Sirius leaned back with a sigh. “So… we wait.”

Remus nodded. “Just a little longer.”

A gust of wind creaked through the Shack, stirring dust from the beams.

Sirius glanced up. “Think I’ll survive until September?”

Remus’s reply was quiet. “You’ve survived worse.”

Sirius gave a faint laugh. “Yeah. But I wasn’t trying to build something then.”

“You’ll manage,” Remus said. “Just don’t let the curtains be the thing that finishes you.”

That got a proper snort. “Death by drapery. Very on-brand.”

The days blurred into a loop, tight, tense, and shrinking around the edges.

Sirius woke each morning at Grimmauld Place, the air inside thick with damp and silence. He never lingered. By the time the city stirred to life, he was already out the door, coat over his shoulders, hunger scratching at his ribs, mind racing ahead of his footsteps.

He drifted through Muggle London like smoke, slipping in and out of side streets, nicking bites where he could. Half a sandwich left on a pub table. A handful of chips pinched from someone else's plate when backs were turned. The barman never noticed the pint that went missing. He didn’t stay long enough for questions.

Afternoons, he ran.

As Padfoot, he loped through the Forbidden Forest, muscles burning, tongue hanging loose as he tore down half-familiar paths, chasing nothing. The trees offered quiet, not comfort, but stillness. And Sirius needed that. Needed something to keep the madness from catching up.

By evening, he made his way to the Shrieking Shack.

He always went to the top floor, the one with the slanted beams and broken window, where moonlight spilled like silver ink across the dust. He’d wait there as twilight deepened, pacing, or perched on the windowsill, coat pulled tight around him like armour.

He waited the first night. Then the second.

Remus never came.

By the third evening, something twisted sharp in his chest. Sirius didn’t try to reason with it.

Remus should’ve come. He was supposed to. They had a rhythm now, meet at dusk, talk through plans, try to make sense of the broken edges of their lives.

Now, he stood across the street from Remus’s flat, just inside the mouth of a narrow alley, cloaked in shadow beneath a bent fire escape. The building was the same, wedged between a laundrette and a pawn shop with flickering lights, its bricks stained with years of rain and exhaust. It slouched in its row of grey buildings like it had given up on being noticed.

The street was quiet. Still. Too still.

He scanned the street, eyes sharp. There had been lookouts the last time he came here - young, undertrained, jittery types the Ministry liked to pretend were subtle. But tonight, nothing. No casual smoker leaning on the lamppost. No paper-reader on the bench. Just the quiet hum of the sodium lights and the faint rattle of traffic two streets over.

Something was off.

Sirius dropped low and shifted, fur rippling across his skin, bones folding into the lean frame of Padfoot. The world narrowed into scent and shadow. He padded across the road, keeping to the edges where the light didn’t quite reach.

The windows of Remus’s flat were dark.  No flicker of movement behind the glass. No sign of life. He crept up to the front step, ears flicking back, nose twitching. The doormat smelled like wet wool and dusty paper. Still no…

A shift.

There, movement in the alley to the right. Subtle, trained. Not like the usual Ministry watchers.

The lookout stepped forward, wand angled low, face tense with expectation. Padfoot froze. Then, with deliberate slowness, he scratched at the front door, claws ticking softly against the wood; then turned and trotted towards the bins, snuffling around a crushed takeaway box.

The lookout exhaled and stepped back, face easing as he clocked a stray dog nosing for scraps. One more mangy mutt in a city full of them.

Padfoot lingered in the bin just long enough to sell the role, nose in the rubbish, tail flicking once, then slunk back into the alley, shadows swallowing him whole. He didn’t move. Just crouched there, ears pricked, every muscle coiled. A heartbeat too heavy, a breath too loud, and he would’ve been seen.

The watch? Not the clumsy drift of a bored Auror on rotation. This one moved with purpose. Controlled. Sharp. The kind of discipline that didn’t come from guesswork, it came from orders. From training. The kind that made Sirius think of the old war days, Ministry stakeouts, snatch teams who never knocked.

That meant something had changed. Had Remus been caught? Had someone tipped them off? Was this all unravelling before it even began?

He padded further down the alley, deeper into the dark, still crouched in the shape of a dog but thinking; wildly, frantically, like a man. Where was Remus? He should’ve come. He was supposed to come. The first night, Sirius had told himself it was a late shift at Flourish and Blotts. The second night, he’d made excuses just to quiet the ache in his gut. But now…

Now the ache was fear. Real and ragged.

He didn’t shift back until he was two streets away, tucked behind a graffiti-covered wall near a row of overflowing bins. Even then, he staggered as he stood, fingers clenched around nothing.

The plan - Harry, the cottage, everything; it was already straining under the weight of what-ifs. But this felt different. Like the seams weren’t just stretched, they were fraying.

He pressed a hand to the brickwork, rough and damp beneath his palm, and tried to steady his breathing, but his pulse thundered in his ears. The night had teeth now. And for the first time in days, he felt hunted. He stared up at the clouded sky, trying to breathe. But all he could think of was how fast the quiet had turned dangerous, how close he’d come to losing everything again.

Chapter Text

It was the ninth evening since they last met when Remus showed up.

Sirius was already there, disillusioned, crouched low beneath the trees near the Shrieking Shack, his breath fogging faintly in the chill that clung to the twilight. After that close brush outside Remus’s flat, he’d taken to hiding near the Shack after dusk. Not waiting. Hiding.

And that was the worst of it.

He told himself he was being careful. Cautious. Smart. But the truth sat heavier, curling in his chest like rot. He wasn’t helping his friend. He didn’t know where Remus had been, didn’t even try to find out after that night. He just kept his head down. Watched. Waited.

He was afraid. And that shame pressed harder than any chain Azkaban had ever laid on him. If something had happened to Remus, if anyone had hurt him, it would be his fault.
Because of his plan.

So when the familiar figure appeared at last, cutting a quiet path through the trees towards the Shack, Sirius nearly missed it, his eyes bleary, heart too used to disappointment to trust what it saw.

But it was him. Or, he looked like him.

Same height. Same stride. The too-thin frame moving through the underbrush with wary precision. His shoulders were drawn tight, like someone bracing against a wind that wouldn’t stop. He was looking around. Making sure he wasn’t being followed

And that stopped Sirius cold. Because what if it wasn’t him?

He didn’t think it was Polyjuice at first. But then the doubts started spinning: Remus caught. Someone else slipped into his place. A plan hatched behind the veil of increased surveillance. Use Sirius’s only remaining friend to draw him out.

The Ministry wouldn’t go that far. Would they?

But the Death Eaters might.

Remus had warned him. Said some of them were still out there, quiet, careful, slipping through the cracks. Northiam had been hit just months ago. And the Ministry’s manhunt for Sirius Black hadn’t helped; it had stirred the embers, made life harder for the ones still hiding. Maybe they’d decided he was too much trouble. Maybe they’d found a quieter way to be rid of him.

What if they’d hurt Remus to do it? All because of him. What if his hiding for the last week hadn’t kept Remus safe, but left him alone, left him exposed?

The guilt surged, fast and sharp. It made him want to run into the Shack, answers be damned. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. He crouched lower, mouth dry, every instinct screaming.

This wasn’t who he used to be.

Once, he would’ve stormed straight in, reckless and burning. But somewhere between the screaming silence of Azkaban and the long nights watching shadows breathe, the fire had turned to cinders. It was still in him, he could feel the heat, but it flickered low now, starved for air.

So instead, Sirius crept forward, silent and disillusioned, and slipped into the Shack. Up the stairs. Every step felt like stepping in quicksand.

In the room at the top, moonlight slanted through the broken rafters, painting the warped floor in silver-grey lines. Remus was already there. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall. He looked thinner than usual. Exhausted.

Sirius stood just inside the doorway, not daring to drop the charm. The silence pressed in like fog. His heart was beating too loud. Too fast. Remus stirred, just a fraction, but Sirius saw it. A slight tilt of the head. A shift in the nostrils. Sniffing the air. Then…

“Sirius,” Remus said quietly, turning his face towards the doorway. “I know you’re there.”

He didn’t sound afraid. Just exhausted. He paused, eyes scanning the shadows.

“In fourth year, you put Bubotuber pus in Snape’s shampoo bottle. I told you not to. You said, and I quote… ‘If his hair’s going to be greasy, let it be medicinal.’”

There was a long silence.

Remus moved slowly, deliberately, and set his wand down beside him on the floor. Palms open. “Come on. I have a lot to tell.”

Sirius dropped the Disillusionment Charm, but didn’t lower his wand. He stepped into the room, wand raised. His eyes flicked to Remus’s empty hands.

“Alright,” he said slowly. “If it’s really you; One: what did I name that stray cat that used to piss in Filch’s tea caddy?”

Remus blinked. “You didn’t name him. James did. Mrs Whiskerstein.”

Sirius gave a sharp nod. “Two: what happened in the Astronomy Tower the night we nicked the Amortentia?”

Remus sighed. “You drank half the bottle trying to prove it didn’t work, then declared your undying love for your own reflection in a suit of armour.”

Sirius’s mouth twitched. “Still the most flattering relationship I’ve ever had.”

“You cried when your reflection dumped you.”

Sirius waved a hand, dismissive. “Ancient history.”

He took another step forward. Still not convinced. “Alright then. Final test. Sixth-year Defence exam. Go on.”

Remus groaned. “You know I don’t do mornings.”

Sirius just raised an eyebrow.

Remus muttered, “I overslept. Missed the exam entirely.”

Sirius smirked. “And?”

Remus looked away, ears pink. “I showed up twenty minutes late, realised I’d forgotten my trousers when I walked into the classroom… and ran away.”

Sirius was grinning now.

“You and James dragged me to Thistledown’s office,” Remus finished, resigned. “Claimed it was an experimental strategy in ‘tactical distraction.’ He passed all three of us. And gave us detention.”

Sirius let out a short laugh, tight, but real. Still, his wand didn’t drop. Remus made no move to retrieve his own. It lay forgotten beside him on the floor.

Sirius’s eyes scanned his face, studying. Remus looked worn, and shadows pooled under his eyes. There was no flicker of hesitation, no vacant stare. But the thought pressed in anyway, cold and quiet.

He could be Imperiused. It could be someone else’s will coiled tight around his spine, making him tell the truth. His chest ached with the weight of it.

A sudden, ridiculous test came to mind. He narrowed his eyes. “Dance. Do an Irish jig.”

Remus looked at him like he’d suggested eating the floorboards. “Sirius,” he said, voice dry as dust, “I know exactly what you’re doing.” He didn’t blink. “You think I’m under the Imperius Curse, so I’ll just go along and do something ridiculous.”

He gave a look so withering it would’ve made Snape take notes. “Listen very carefully,” he said. “I don’t care if you believe me or not. And you can hex me into oblivion if you like, but Remus Lupin will never… ever… do an Irish jig voluntarily. Not for love. Not for loyalty. Not even to save your paranoid arse.”

Sirius exhaled, the tightness in his chest easing. “Alright,” he lowered his wand, smile tugging wider. “That definitely sounds like you.”

“Bloody hope so.”

Sirius didn’t speak. He just moved, quickly, before the doubt could catch up, and crossed the floor in two strides. Dropping to his knees, he pulled Remus into a fierce, wordless hug.

For a moment, Remus went rigid with surprise. Then his arms came up and wrapped around Sirius’s shoulders, anchoring them both in the battered familiarity of it. It wasn’t elegant, or dignified; it was desperate in the way only old friends could manage. The kind of embrace that held panic at bay. That said you’re here. You’re real. You’re not gone.

Sirius’s voice cracked against Remus’s collar. “I thought I’d lost you, Moony.”

“You didn’t.”

“I was so worried. I didn’t know what to do. I thought…” His breath hitched. “Thought maybe it was because of me.”

Remus let out a quiet huff, almost a laugh, though it was thin and frayed. “Calm down, you great idiot.”

Sirius gave a shaky chuckle and pulled back a little, his hands still gripping Remus’s sleeves. “Never tell anyone I cried.”

Remus gave him a look, dry, amused, faintly exasperated. “I’m saving it for your wedding toast.”

They sat there a moment longer, breathing in sync, the silence no longer heavy.

Eventually, Sirius settled on opposite side of the room, the distance between them stretching easy again. Old, steady, companionable.

He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “Alright. What happened?”

Remus leaned back against the wall, eyes distant.

“The day after we last met,” he said slowly, “I realised something was wrong. I couldn’t see the Aurors anymore.”

Sirius frowned. “The ones who’ve been following you?”

Remus nodded. “They’d been there since the day you escaped. Like a shadow. I got used to them being there.”

He rubbed his jaw, thoughtful. “But suddenly… gone. No trace. No hint. Just vanished. And that scared me more than anything.”

Sirius leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Someone else took over?”

Remus blinked. “What? How do you know?”

“I went to your street. On the third night you didn’t show.” He hesitated, then added, “As Padfoot.”

Remus stared at him, something like disapproval crossing his face. “That was reckless. You shouldn’t have done that.”

Sirius shrugged. “And yet, here I am.”

Remus let out a slow breath and rubbed his temple, fingers digging into the crease between his brows. “That same evening, just before I left for work… I saw him. Or rather… smelled him.” He faltered for a beat. “Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

Sirius tilted his head, wary. “Should I know him?”

Remus nodded. “He’s Moody’s protégé. One of the best they’ve got… quiet, methodical, absurdly sharp. Watches everything. Never rushes, never slips. If he’s on your tail, you won’t even realise it. He’s a shadow.” His mouth curled. “I couldn’t risk it, Sirius. I’d have led him straight to you.”

His mouth twitched into something like a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “So I kept my head down. Played the part. Quiet, damaged, tragic… books in hand, too tired to be dangerous. The war-wrecked werewolf keeping to his corners.”

His eyes flicked up, a trace of something bitter in them. “What do you call it again?”

Sirius said, deadpan. “A martyr.”

Remus gave a dry snort. “Exactly… So that’s who you saw that night.” He glanced over. “You were lucky you were Padfoot. If you’d shown up as yourself… Shacklebolt would've had you stunned, bound, and in a Ministry cell before you reached the front steps.”

Sirius let out a slow breath. “He sounds like a real delight.”

Remus gave a faint smile. “He is. That’s the problem.”

Sirius sobered. “And now? He’s gone?”

Remus shrugged. “I don’t think he’s on me anymore. Not at night, at least. The usual pair were back on shift starting yesterday evening. I spotted them near the pawn shop.”

He rubbed the side of his neck. “I think the Ministry got bored. No leads, no movement. And they'd rather have Shacklebolt doing something that might actually get results.”

“But why the sudden change in the first place?” Sirius asked. “Did one of your contacts tip the Ministry?”

“No,” Remus said quickly. “If they had, they’d have to burn their entire networks. No way.” He paused. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. I don’t know how they got convinced to switch surveillance…”

He stopped mid-sentence. His face changed. Slowly, like dawn hitting frost.

Sirius saw it before he heard it.

“Oh,” Remus said. Quiet. Not surprised, hurt. “Dumbledore.”

Sirius’s expression hardened. “You told him about the lookouts.”

Remus nodded numbly. “And how easy it was to get past them. I thought…”

“You thought he was on your side,” Sirius cut in, voice sharp. “Serves you right for trusting him like that.”

The words landed harder than he meant. Sirius looked away. Remus didn’t respond.

Remus didn’t speak. Not at first. His hands had curled slightly in his lap, knuckles pale. And when his voice came, it was quiet, but cracked at the edges. “He gave me Hogwarts.” A pause. “He found work for me when no one else would. Made it seem like I mattered.”

But there was something else now, beneath the surface. Not anger, something quieter, deeper. A slow, stunned erosion.

“I thought he believed in me,” Remus said. Not a protest. Not even grief. Just… disbelief. Like something sacred had broken in his hands and he couldn’t figure out when.

Sirius didn’t interrupt. Not this time. They sat like that for a moment, two figures carved from dusk, too tired to keep bleeding, too wary to fully rest.

Finally, Sirius exhaled and said, “We need to be careful. From now on.”

Remus looked up. Gave a short, bitter nod. “No more trust, unless it’s earned.”

“And no more saints,” Sirius added.

Remus looked down at his wand, still resting by his side.

“Right,” he said softly. “No more saints.”

Sirius watched him for a moment. The set of his shoulders. The way he wasn’t blinking, like he couldn’t quite trust his eyes anymore. It hurt, more than he expected, to see Remus like that: faith cracked, compass spinning.

So, he did the only thing he knew. He shifted, dragged his heel across the floor, and said, far too cheerfully, “Well. We could always build a tasteful effigy from that sad mattress in the corner. Bit of dramatic flair, ceremonial burning. Cleanse the air. I, too, have some deeply repressed rage.”

Remus blinked. “You’d miss and set yourself on fire.”

Sirius grinned. “Worth it, if I take the beard with me.”

The corner of Remus’s mouth twitched, barely, but it was enough. A fracture in the gloom.

He looked up at last, dry and unimpressed.

“Please grow up before Harry moves in with you.”

“No promises,” Sirius said, smiling crookedly.

Remus rubbed at his temple, then adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, more out of habit than need. A small breath left him, almost a sigh.

“Anyways,” he said, voice sliding back into its usual rhythm, “I went to Gringotts.”

Sirius let out a low whistle. “Brave man.”

“The goblins weren’t exactly thrilled.” Remus said, tone bone-dry. “Didn’t even let me past the front desk at first. The moment they clocked me for what I was… wizard, werewolf, take your pick… the whispers turned to hissing.”

Sirius’s jaw tightened. “Bloody charming, as always.”

Remus nodded. “The auditors were gone, finally… but you could still feel the paranoia hanging in the air. Made them even less welcoming than usual. It took some… persuasion. Eventually, I managed to speak with a subordinate of Grimnark’s… young goblin named Krathik. Sharp little bastard. Said Grimnark’s not even in the country. France, apparently.”

Sirius blinked. “France? What the hell is he doing there? On holiday?”

Remus snorted. “Not quite. There’s a civil strife brewing among the goblins in Strasbourg. Grimnark’s gone to mediate… apparently at the request of some officials at the French Ministry.”

Sirius sat up a little straighter, brow furrowed. “Since when do goblins care about wizarding governments?”

“They don’t,” Remus said evenly. “Not unless it benefits them. From what I gathered, the current magical government in France is on its last legs. Grimnark’s trying to earn favour with whoever’s coming next.”

Sirius let out a low whistle. “Clever old bastard.”

Remus continued grimly. “His clan owns ironworks in Normandy. There’s also a fight brewing over silver mining rights. Who gets what depends entirely on how this mess shakes out.”

Sirius huffed a breath, running a hand through his hair. “So... a goblin campaign. Which means Grimnark won’t be back till winter at the earliest.” He paused, then added with a dry edge, “Provided he survives.”

Remus’s mouth twitched in something not quite amusement. “He’s survived six assassination attempts, a duel with a Swedish trade magus, and a collapsing vault ceiling. My guess? He’s too stubborn to die.” A smirk ghosted across his lips. “Although, I am impressed… someone paid attention in History of Magic. You remembered goblin campaigns always end in winter. And here I thought you only stayed awake in that class to moon over Marlene McKinnon.”

Sirius scoffed. “Please. I was only there for Marlene. But you clearly never had to share a roof with Pollux Black. Memorising goblin rebellions was the only way to survive dinner.”

The humour faded almost as quickly as it came. Sirius’s expression sobered. “Did they read the letter?”

“They did,” Remus said. “And promptly tried to leverage it. Said they might have to inform the Ministry about an escaped convict trying to access his vault.”

“Blackmail,” Sirius growled. “They want to wring me out before they lift a finger.”

“I reminded them about the commission,” Remus said coolly. “Pointed out that if the Ministry got involved, there’d be nothing left to collect. Or worse, the Ministry might seize everything for ‘reparations’ from your alleged… rampage. After some negotiation… and no small amount of sneering… they agreed. Twenty-five percent.

“Cheeky sods,” Sirius muttered. “Alphard would haunt them.”

Remus shrugged. “We got lucky. The Ministry interference helped, I think. Goblins don’t take kindly to wizard oversight… any chance to stick it to them, they’ll take. The vault’s intact. The records are clean. You’ll get access when Grimnark returns.”

Sirius leaned back with a groan, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Fantastic. So we’ve got a name, a plan, a nice little cottage… and no bloody money to pay for it. Until Grimnark returns, my entire fortune’s just sitting there… gathering dust… while I scrounge through bins. We’re being held hostage by goblin geopolitics. Wonderful.”

“On the bright side,” Remus offered, deadpan. “at least we’re not in France.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Yet.”

He had gone quiet; gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the cracked windowpane. His foot tapped in an uneven rhythm against the floorboards, thoughts clearly racing. Remus waited, he’d learnt long ago that Sirius Black didn’t always need prompting. Sure enough, a moment later, Sirius spoke.

“I might be able to dig out a few things from Grimmauld Place,” he said, voice low, almost distracted. “Things my charming ancestors collected. Dark, probably, but valuable. Could be worth something.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “You’re thinking of selling?”

“We need gold,” Sirius said simply. “Fast. I can’t touch the vault yet, and I’m not exactly pulling wages. Someone’s got to fund this great orphan-rescue escapade.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You want me to take them to Knockturn Alley?” Remus asked at last, already knowing the answer.

Sirius gave a rueful grin. “You always did have the least suspicious face.”

Remus exhaled through his nose. “Let me guess. Borgin and Burkes?”

Sirius just nodded, and that was enough.

“Won’t half the things in that house be cursed?”

“Probably more than half,” Sirius said, unbothered. “I’ll go through it tomorrow morning. See what I can move without dragging my soul along for the ride.”

Remus shook his head, lips twitching. “You realise this is completely mad.”

Sirius leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. “So is the rest of my life. Why stop now?”

Remus let out a breath that was almost a chuckle, if Remus Lupin could chuckle, then reached into his coat. He pulled out a wrapped parcel and tossed it lightly across the room. Sirius caught it on reflex.

“You don’t need to steal food anymore,” he said simply.

Sirius looked at the bundle, surprise flickering in his eyes before he took it with quiet gratitude. He didn’t say thank you, but the way his fingers closed around the paper, the way his shoulders eased just slightly, said enough.

“I’ll come for the things tomorrow,” Remus added, adjusting his coat. “Same time.”

Sirius nodded, gaze drifting back towards the dark window. “Right. Tomorrow.”

Remus watched him for a moment longer, the quiet tension in his jaw, the way his thumb ran absently along the edge of the parcel, then turned and slipped out the door, footsteps creaking down the stairwell and vanishing into the silence.

Chapter Text

The morning light struggled through the grime-coated windows of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, casting long, slanted beams that illuminated more dust than floor. Sirius moved from room to room like a man possessed, sleeves rolled past his elbows, wand in one hand, a battered canvas sack in the other. It was cold inside, colder than it should’ve been in late August. The house never liked him much, and today it seemed determined to remind him.

The kitchen was first, heavy velvet curtains that hadn’t been opened in decades, furniture draped in moth-eaten covers, and a cold hearth filled with the ashes of long-dead fires. He wrenched open a cabinet lined in emerald felt and found a stack of opal-handled knives, their blades gleaming far too eagerly. One nicked his palm as he wrapped it in a dishrag and dropped it into the sack.

A glass dome displayed a perfectly preserved hand adorned with silver rings, charmed to gesture; and gesture it did, obscenely, as he passed. Sirius smashed the dome with a brass poker and pried off the rings. They hissed as they dropped into his palm.

“Kreacher is watching,” came a voice from the corner, low, sing-song, and entirely unwelcome.

Sirius didn’t flinch. He turned just enough to see the house-elf hunched behind a pile of broken china, blinking slow and oily.

“Bugger off,” Sirius muttered.

Kreacher sniffed. “Master defiles the Mistress’s house. Steals the treasures. Dismantles the glory of the Noble House of Black...”

“I’m cleaning,” Sirius growled, “and if you so much as twitch near that sack, I’ll stuff you in it.”

Kreacher’s eyes glittered with spite, but he slunk away, muttering filth and betrayal under his breath like a spell.

Sirius scoured the library next. Dusty books with spines like crocodile hide, titles half-eaten away by mould. A tome titled Wards of Old Albion shrieked when he touched it. Another, The Anatomy of Inferi, flipped open on its own and tried to bite. He scorched both with a Stinging Hex and left them smouldering on the desk.

From a narrow drawer beneath the bookshelves, he pulled out a tangle of tarnished medallions, wax-sealed scrolls in Latin, and a golden brooch in the shape of a serpent coiled through an obsidian skull. Pureblood heirlooms, likely cursed six ways to Sunday.

Then he moved to the front parlour; what had once been his mother’s domain, where the heavy velvet drapes were still drawn tight, the chandeliers thick with cobwebs. There was a silver snuffbox shaped like a serpent coiled to strike, its eyes rubied and glinting. He picked it up, and immediately dropped it with a sharp hiss as it bit into his palm. Blood welled from the crescent puncture. He muttered a charm to staunch the bleeding, then kicked the thing into the sack.

“Good morning to you too,” he muttered grimly.

A long-handled letter opener followed, its blade oddly warm to the touch, and a set of opal cufflinks that whined faintly when disturbed. A grandfather clock in the corner struck a time that wasn’t the present, its hands whirling wildly. Sirius stunned it and moved on.

Kreacher reappeared near the hallway arch, arms folded, glaring like a gargoyle.

Sirius glared back. “If you’re hoping to stop me with passive-aggression, you’re a century too late.”

The rear parlour yielded less: a stack of blackened sherry bottles, one of which exploded when he touched the cork; a jewellery box that screamed in his mother’s voice when he opened it; and an ornate silver candelabrum shaped like a serpent, which hissed and spat sparks when he reached for it. He swore, blasted it into silence with a hex, and dumped it into the sack without ceremony.

Upstairs, in what had once been his brother’s bedroom, he found a cracked mirror framed in etched silver. It murmured to him as he walked past, low whispers like claws on glass. “Traitor,” it hissed. “Filth. Disgrace.” He didn’t dignify it with a reply, just tore the thing off the wall and stuffed it into the bag.

In the corridor beyond, one of the old cabinets shrieked as he opened it and expelled a puff of ash that seared across his forearm. He swore under his breath and tried a healing charm, but it fizzled out, the ash clearly cursed. Grimacing, he wrapped a strip of cloth around the burn and moved on.

Then came the drawing room. The Black family crest still loomed over the mantel, darkened with age and grime. Beneath it, the cupboards rattled faintly with unseen spells. He didn’t risk them, not yet, but on the bottom shelf, he found a silver goblet crusted with tarnish and something blacker. It seemed harmless enough, so into the sack it went.

Then, behind a stack of crumbling records and a folded tea cosy embroidered with snakes, his hand brushed against something cold. Not just cool to the touch but cold, as if it had been left outside in midwinter.

He pulled it out slowly: a heavy, ornate locket, marked with an old-fashioned S engraved in curling script. It was beautiful, in a grim sort of way. Sirius frowned, turning it over in his hand. The chain was tangled and resistant, as though it didn’t want to be handled, and the metal had that same unnatural chill that sank into his fingers.

But nothing jumped out at him. No hex, no bite, no whisper. Just a sense of… unease. The kind that settled in your spine and stayed there.

He hesitated only a moment before wrapping it in a bit of torn curtain and tucking it into the sack with the rest.

Satisfied, he turned back to the room, reached for a dusty shelf lined with brittle books and shrunken heads, but paused. The hair on the back of his neck prickled.

He stilled, eyes scanning the room. The hearth was empty, the curtains unmoved, and the air dead with dust and age. Nothing stirred. Yet the feeling remained, like someone breathing down his collarbone. He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Pull yourself together,” he muttered, and bent to check the sack, and blinked.

His brow furrowed. The locket was gone.

Kreacher.

Sirius swore violently and bolted from the room, sack abandoned, boots thudding across the floorboards. He caught the flash of a grimy ear vanishing into the corridor and gave chase, heart pounding with fury and something else, something cold.

“Get back here, you thieving little…!”

He rounded the corner just in time to see Kreacher vanish down the west hallway. And as he passed the tall velvet curtains lining the wall…

They snapped back. The portrait exploded.

“FIIIIILTH!”

Walburga Black’s voice tore through the house like a banshee’s screech. “TRAITOR! DISGRACE! UNGRATEFUL HALF-BREED-LOVING SCUM!”

Sirius flinched but didn’t stop. “Not now, Mother.”

He thundered down the narrow cellar steps, the scent of mildew and rust thick in the air. Pipes creaked above him like old bones. In the corner, huddled in a nest of rags and old soot, was Kreacher.

The elf crouched over a small pile of baubles clutched in his gnarled hands: the locket, yes, but also the serpent brooch, the medallions, even the cursed cufflinks. Things Sirius had already taken. Kreacher had nicked them from the sack.

“Drop them,” Sirius said, voice like iron.

Kreacher didn’t move. His whole frame was trembling, as if caught between two forces pulling him apart. His eyes were wild, not just defiant now, but desperate. He clutched the trinkets as though they were relics, or anchors. Or burdens.

“Drop. Them.”

Kreacher gave a keening little noise, something halfway between a sob and a curse, and loosened his fingers.

Sirius stepped forward and scooped the items back into his arms. He looked down at Kreacher, who had sagged against the wall like a puppet with its strings cut. Hollow-eyed. Shaking.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sirius muttered.

Kreacher didn’t respond. Just whispered something to himself, over and over, a threadbare chant of words Sirius couldn’t catch.

He stared at him, this shrivelled wreck of a creature rocking like a broken clock, and felt something sour rise in his throat.

“Touch anything from that sack again,” Sirius said, low and cold, “and I’ll bind your hands and leave you down here to rot. Don’t test how far I’ll go.”

It didn’t come out with heat. Just fatigue. No bark, no snap, only the flat echo of a man too tired to rage. Kreacher didn’t even flinch. Just rocked gently, muttering to himself like the threat hadn’t registered, or maybe like it had, and didn’t matter anymore.

Sirius watched him a moment longer, then turned and climbed back up the steps, his arms full of cursed heirlooms and something colder than silver trailing behind his ribs.

Walburga was still shrieking. Her voice rose and fell like a storm wind, insults from another life, another world. Sirius stood before the portrait for a long moment, hand hovering. Then he reached up, grabbed the edge of the curtain, and yanked.

The velvet snagged halfway. The ring had twisted in its bracket. She screamed louder.

“BLOOD TRAITOR! SCUM! SHAME OF MY WOMB!”

Sirius swore under his breath, shoved the curtain rod back into place with his wand, then gripped the edge again and dragged it shut. The scream cut off like a door slammed in a hurricane. Only her hissing breath remained, muffled behind velvet.

He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, fists clenched.

Then he turned, stalked back to the drawing room, and shoved the locket, along with the other pilfered items, deep into the sack.

Kreacher had followed again, silent as a shadow. Sirius didn’t look at him.

“If you touch anything in this sack again,” he said quietly, “I will give you clothes and set you free… no more Mistress, no more Black family, nothing left to serve. You’ll be alone.”

Kreacher gave a low, strangled noise. Not quite a sob, not quite a snarl. His hands twitched, clutching empty air. But he bowed his head, just slightly, and said nothing.

Sirius resumed the grim harvest with a tight jaw and burning arm. A portrait cursed him in Latin, he ignored it. A cursed doorknob jolted him hard enough to numb his shoulder, he barely flinched. The attic spat out a box of belching powder that exploded in his face, he stood there for a moment, eyes stinging, smoke in his lungs, then wiped the soot from his mouth with the back of his sleeve. No swearing this time. Just a long exhale through his nose, and a glance down the stairs where Kreacher had vanished. Something cold and sickened twisted in his chest.

In the hall cupboard he found a long-forgotten box of family treasures: a velvet pouch of fingerbones strung together with cursed silver wire, each one engraved with the initials of long-dead ancestors, that burned his palm the moment he touched it; a collection of miniature glass eyes that all blinked in unison; and a tarnished goblet etched with Black heraldry.

By midday, Sirius looked like he’d been in a brawl. Scratches on his arms, soot on his face, robes torn at the sleeve. But he was smiling, a tight, feral thing. The house could claw all it wanted. He was clawing back.

Only one room remained untouched: the guestroom at the far end of the second-floor landing. Phineas Nigellus Black still hung there in his frame, fast asleep in a velvet chair, the thin edge of a sneer resting even in slumber.

Sirius didn’t open the door.

He stood outside for a moment, hand hovering near the handle. Then he shook his head, turned on his heel, and headed back downstairs, his sack of spoils clinking softly behind him. His jaw was tight, eyes bruised with fatigue, but there was something like grim satisfaction in the way he moved.

One more day. One more step forward.

Chapter Text

The Shrieking Shack creaked and groaned in the wind as Remus slipped through the side door, the faint glow of his wand casting long shadows along the walls. Upstairs, a dim light flickered; Sirius’s doing, no doubt, and sure enough, he found him exactly where he’d expected: sprawled near the hearth with dust in his hair, his coat torn at the elbow and one hand cradling a fresh burn.

Remus raised both eyebrows. “Did the house assault you, or did you try charming your way into a swarm of Veelas again?”

Sirius looked up with a crooked grin, his hair falling into his eyes. “The house. I think it’s waging a campaign. Guerrilla tactics. I’m just trying to hold the line.”

“You look like you lost the war.” Remus set down the brown paper parcel and began unpacking it. “Eat. And don’t argue… it’s not charity, it’s strategy. You can’t fight while fainting from hunger.”

Sirius’s eyes softened as he took the food. “You’re a good man, Moony.”

“Debatable,” Remus muttered, brushing dust off a floorboard. Then his gaze landed on the canvas bag sitting beside Sirius, seams bulging and stained in one corner. He crouched beside it and gave it a wary nudge. It jangled faintly.

“That’s everything?” he asked, peering inside.

“Everything that didn’t bite back too hard,” Sirius replied. “Some of it cursed me, some insulted my lineage. One hex tried to turn me into a moth. I’m still not sure it didn’t succeed, partially.”

Remus winced. “And you handled them all alone?”

“I made it out alive.” Sirius flexed his singed fingers and gave a dramatic bow. “Some might even call that progress.”

Remus shook his head, shouldering the bag with a grunt. “I’ll try Knockturn first thing. And I’ll be back here every night with news. And food.”

Sirius gave a mock salute, though something in his expression quieted at that, gratitude, unspoken but deeply felt.

“Thanks, Moony,” he said, voice low.

Remus paused at the door. “Don’t thank me yet. Let’s see how much galleons your lovely family heirlooms are worth.”

With a flick of his wand to dim the light, he slipped out into the darkness, the bag of Black relics heavy on his shoulder.

Knockturn Alley breathed like a thing alive. Even at night, shadows curled at the corners of cobbled lanes, seeping from narrow, leaning buildings with shuttered windows and crooked signs. The air smelled faintly acrid, burnt silver, perhaps, or old spells rotting in the cracks between stones.

Remus hadn’t brought everything, only a fraction of the haul tucked securely into a reinforced satchel at his side. Just enough to test the waters; too much at once would raise suspicion, or worse, attract the wrong sort of attention. Better to pace it out, keep their luck intact.

He kept his head down as he slipped through the gloom, ignoring the hunched hag hawking crystal phials of “nightshade’s last tears” and the pale boy trailing after passersby with an open palm and a dead-eyed stare. The alley narrowed as he neared the end, where a blackened brass sign creaked faintly in the stale wind:

Borgin and Burkes: Purveyors of Fine Antiquities and Enchantments.

The shop’s windows were nearly opaque with grime, and the door gave a drawn-out creak as he pushed inside. Dust and candle wax scented the air, layered over something darker, like singed parchment and rotting velvet.

The shelves were cluttered with objects that felt more aware than inanimate. Gilt cages held things that blinked. Cursed daggers hummed faintly in locked cases. A twisted chandelier overhead had once belonged to a Romanian blood cult, if Remus remembered his Order briefings correctly.

“Evening,” came a voice, smooth and slow, from the far end.

Mr Borgin appeared from behind a curtain of moth-eaten velvet. He looked unchanged, tall, cadaver-thin, and slick as ever, his slicked-back hair dark as ink and his smile full of teeth that never quite looked human.

“You’ve got the look of a man who’s either lost something… or wants to sell something he shouldn’t have.” His eyes flicked to the satchel slung on Remus’s side. “Or both.”

“I’ve brought items of interest,” Remus said evenly, stepping up to the counter. He placed the first few objects down with careful precision: the Black goblet, the velvet-wrapped mirror, a serpent figurine coiled around a garnet the size of a knut.

Borgin’s brow arched. “Ah. A man of taste. Although…” He picked up the goblet and turned it in the light. “Black family heirlooms…”

Remus didn’t confirm it.

Borgin set the goblet down and leaned in. “You do realise these sorts of items attract a certain… clientele. The Ministry kind. Especially with dear Sirius Black still at large. Name like that on your inventory… well, it fetches more suspicion than Galleons.”

Remus met his gaze. “That’s your risk. Not mine.”

Borgin let out a low, breathy laugh. “You are cheeky. Thought I recognised the tone. Half-breed, war-worn.” His smile didn’t falter, but his voice dipped into something colder. “Careful how you trade in my shop. Some things in here bite back.”

Remus didn’t flinch. “Then let’s make it quick.”

Borgin examined the mirror next, sniffed, muttered something in Latin, then gave a disapproving shake of his head. “Cracked curse. Been repaired. Sloppy work.”

“It’s clean,” Remus said shortly. “Or close enough.”

“And yet you want full price,” Borgin sighed. “As if I’m the fool here. This is Knockturn Alley, my friend. Not Gringotts.”

He named a figure - insulting, laughable. Remus gave a tight smile. “Double it.”

“Half again,” Borgin snapped. “And that’s generosity. You don’t like it, take your cursed bric-a-brac to Spindlegut’s and see what she offers. Assuming you survive the door.”

Remus didn’t blink. “The serpent alone is worth fifty.”

“The garnet might be. But the onyx is cracked and the spells are old. No one wants tired curses these days. Collectors are picky.” He leaned forward, voice dropping. “And let’s not pretend you're not desperate.”

Remus’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed level. “I’ve more. This is just a sample.”

That made Borgin pause. Greed lit his eyes for a flicker. “More?”

“From the same estate.”

“I see.” Borgin tapped the goblet with one long fingernail. “Well, if you’re their new errand boy, tell your master I don’t do charity.”

“I’ll pass it along,” Remus said coolly. “But I expect you’ll pay better next time, or I’ll find someone who will.”

Borgin let out another sharp laugh, then turned to his ledger and began scratching something down in thin, spidery script. “Fine. Let’s say four hundred for the lot. You are bleeding me dry, of course.”

Remus took the pouch of Galleons without comment.

Borgin’s smile curled. “See you soon, Mister Lupin.”

Remus paused at the threshold, but didn’t turn. “Only if you pay fair.”

Then he stepped out into the alley, tucking the pouch into his coat. The night felt colder somehow, but maybe that was just the weight of what still needed doing.

A week later, just as the last light faded behind the hills of Hogsmeade, Remus pushed open the warped upstairs door of the Shrieking Shack, the hinges groaning in protest. The usual scent of damp wood and dust greeted him - familiar now, in an odd, comforting way.

Sirius was exactly where he always was at this hour: perched in the wide windowsill like some half-wild monarch surveying his ruined kingdom, coat flared behind him and hair catching the last golden shards of sun. A broken chessboard lay scattered at his feet, pawns and knights toppled like fallen soldiers.

“You look like a gothic gargoyle,” Remus said, stepping into the room. “With worse posture.”

Sirius turned, grinning. “Speak for yourself. At least I don’t smell like parchment and ink.”

Remus was about to fire back when his gaze caught on Sirius’s left hand, bandaged haphazardly, fingers tinged with red around the edges. He frowned, crossing the room.

“What happened?”

Sirius glanced down, then flexed the hand with a wince. “Ah. Bit of a scuffle with the second-floor bannister.” He waved it airily. “Snapped clean off when I leaned on it. Sent me flying into the umbrella stand and nearly took my eye out with a cursed walking cane.”

Remus blinked. “Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately,” Sirius said. “For once.”

He winced again, but his tone stayed light. “I think Kreacher loosened it. Can’t prove it, of course, but his mutterings have gotten worse. Been skulking around like I stole his inheritance. Which I suppose I did, technically.”

Remus gave him a look. “You nearly got brained by antique furniture.”

“Technically,” Sirius repeated, then shrugged. “Nothing broken. Just a few bruises and a profound mistrust of bannisters.”

He flexed his hand again and winced more sharply this time.

Remus shook his head and reached into his satchel. “Right. Before your house finishes what Azkaban couldn’t… eat.”

He tossed him a paper bag. “Dinner. And no, before you ask… it’s not cursed. Or moving.”

Sirius peeked inside. “That’s wildly disappointing. I was hoping for a cursed sausage roll.”

“You’ll survive the disappointment. Hopefully longer than you survived the last packet of pickled onions.” He dropped a heavy coin pouch beside Sirius with a soft clink of Galleons. “Here. Spoils of war.”

Sirius looked down at it, then back up, one brow arched. “Is this my birthday, or did you knock over Gringotts?”

“Neither. Though I did spend twenty minutes letting Mr Borgin insinuate that I was both a thief and a half-breed charlatan after he’d taken a look at what I had to offer.”

“Sounds like a delight.”

“Like bathing in pond slime. If pond slime wore cravats.”

Sirius picked up the pouch and weighed it in his hand, eyebrows lifting. “You, my friend, have missed your calling. You’d have made an excellent black-market dealer. Or a smuggler. Or, Merlin help us, a Ministry accountant.”

“Flatter me again and I’ll charge commission,” Remus said dryly, sitting across from him. “Though I draw the line at accounting. The paperwork’s murder.”

Sirius snorted, then tilted his head. “How much this time?”

“Seven hundred.” Remus reached for the paper bag again and pulled out a wrapped sandwich for himself. “The necklace, mostly. As soon as I brought it out, Borgin’s eyes lit up like he’d seen an old friend… or a murder weapon. He knew it. Didn’t say how. I didn’t ask.”

Sirius frowned slightly. “I don’t even remember where that one came from. Drawing room, maybe? Looked ugly as sin, I know that much.”

“Well, it’s his problem now,” Remus said with finality, brushing crumbs from his lap. “So, tally time?”

Sirius shifted and pulled a scrap of parchment from his coat. “We had just over twenty-two hundred before,” he muttered, squinting. “Add today’s haul, and… that’s twenty-nine hundred. Give or take.”

Remus nodded, calculating quickly. “At five pounds to a Galleon, that’s… what, fourteen thousand five hundred pounds?”

Sirius gave a low whistle. “Merlin’s bollocks.”

Remus allowed a faint smile. “Should be more than enough to carry us till Grimnark resurfaces. Rent, identity paperwork, furnishings, food, maybe even something nice for Harry.”

“We’re practically rich,” Sirius said, a wild glint in his eyes. “We could buy matching sofas. Or bribe a Ministry official.”

“Let’s aim for surviving the next month first.”

Sirius leaned back with a sigh, gaze flicking to the cracked ceiling. “Still… not bad, eh? A few weeks ago, I was stealing half-eaten chips from a bin behind a curry shop. Now look at me. On the rise.”

“You’re positively bourgeois.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

They both laughed, the sound soft and real, curling like smoke in the lamplight.

Once the laughter had faded and they’d returned to something close to stillness, closer to human, Sirius fished in his coat pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled slip of parchment. He handed it to Remus with a crooked grin.

“What’s this?” Remus asked, unfolding it. “A shopping list?”

“Reparations,” Sirius said solemnly. “It’s for the bread. And the biscuits. And those very decent sausage rolls from the corner shop with the green awning.”

Remus squinted at the list. Names of shops were scrawled in Sirius’s angular script, alongside numbers that added up to just under fifty pounds. “You’ve started a money-lending business without telling me?”

“Very lucrative, yes,” Sirius said, leaning back on his hands. “Go drop it off as tips or something. Quietly. No need to make a scene.”

Remus huffed, but there was something softer in his smile. “Bit sentimental for a fugitive.”

Sirius shrugged. “They fed me. Least I can do.”

Remus shook his head, folding the parchment and tucking it into his coat pocket. “You’re an idiot,” he said, fondly. “But a decent one.”

Then he pulled the coin pouch towards him and drew out a folded scrap of parchment.

“We’re nearly there,” he said, smoothing it across his knee. “Today’s the first of September. I’ve already started your paperwork. I’ll go Thursday, hand over the gold and get everything sorted.”

Sirius raised a brow. “Not earlier?”

“I’ll be… indisposed Tuesday and Wednesday,” Remus said mildly, eyes not quite meeting his.

Sirius smirked. “Ah. Seeing a nice lady, are we?”

Then his smile slipped, softened. He met Remus’s gaze, more gently this time. “Right. Of course.”

Remus gave him a faint, wry look. “The lady is a bit toothy for your taste, Padfoot.”

Sirius leaned forward, voice quieter now. “You want to spend the full moon here? We could go to the forest, maybe. I’ll be with you.”

Remus’s expression warmed, and he shook his head. “Thank you. Truly. But no need to take undue risks… not at this stage. I got my pay cheque yesterday. I’ll buy Wolfsbane, take it, and curl up on my sofa with a thick blanket and a locked door.”

Sirius studied him for a moment. Then gave a small nod. “Alright. But if you change your mind…”

“You will be the first to know,” Remus said gently. “Promise.”

A pause lingered, soft, companionable.

Then Remus straightened slightly, slipping back into his usual rhythm. “Right. So…Thursday.” He tapped the parchment with his knuckle. “And once that’s done, it’s your turn to visit the orphanage.”

Sirius stilled. His fingers paused mid-motion, halfway through fiddling with a broken bishop from the chessboard. He stared at the warped floorboards. “I don’t know, Moony. What do I even say to him? ‘Hello, I’m your godfather, who landed in prison because I trusted the wrong friend, got your parents killed and nearly got you killed too? Fancy a cuppa?’”

He let out a rough breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “And there’s something else. The matron, Grindle… she gave me a look the other day. Not just the usual suspicion. I think… I think she might’ve recognised me. All those posters plastered everywhere, the news on the Muggle telly…”

Remus didn’t answer, brow furrowing slightly.

“I’ve already messed things up once,” Sirius went on, voice lower now, tight with doubt. “What if I do it again?”

There was a pause. Sirius shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the thought.

“Besides, I haven’t even visited him since I stopped working there. I…” He swallowed. “I didn’t have the courage. And then you vanished. I didn’t know where to start. What to do. What’ll Harry say? I promised that I will visit him… and I didn’t.”

Remus’s eyes softened. He didn’t offer a platitude. Just a quiet steadiness, and a thread of gentleness in his voice. “He’ll ask why. And then he’ll listen. I’m sure of that.”

Sirius didn’t look up.

Remus folded the parchment slowly, thumb pressing a neat crease into it. He didn’t speak immediately. His gaze drifted to the broken window, to the hills fading into dusk, then back to Sirius, as if pieces of a plan were slotting into place.

Finally, he tapped the parchment against his thigh. “Alright. I’ll go. As your solicitor.”

Sirius blinked. “What?”

“I’ll handle the introductions,” Remus said, more firmly now. “Ask questions, present the paperwork, keep attention away from you. If she’s already suspicious, best not to hand her a reason to call the police… or worse.”

Sirius stared at him for a beat, then a grin broke through. “You? Playing a solicitor?”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“No, I love it. You were a Prefect,” Sirius said, his voice easing. “And you’ve always had that terrifying rule-abiding air. You once lectured a guy on wand safety in a pub. The only thing missing was a three-piece suit.”

“I was fifteen. And that bloke was waving a lit wand near a butterbeer barrel.”

“All I’m saying is, you’re a natural.”

Remus rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted.

Sirius leaned back against the windowsill, the weight on his shoulders just a little less crushing. “Thanks, Moony. Truly.”

Remus didn’t reply, but the look he gave in return said enough.

Remus adjusted his tie as he stepped through the iron gate of St. Jude’s, the sharp tang of fresh paint catching his nose almost immediately. Three boys were lined up along the low fence, sleeves rolled and brows furrowed, each wielding a paintbrush with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

He spotted Harry at once, wind-tossed hair, chin streaked with white, one shoelace trailing like a forgotten ribbon. Perched atop an overturned crate, Harry squinted critically at his handiwork, glasses sliding down his nose as he worked. The other two boys, older and lankier, bickered over whose section was straighter, lobbing playful insults over the slats. Harry laughed at their antics, his brush sweeping in broad, careless strokes that left nearly as much paint on his sleeve as on the fence.

Remus allowed himself a moment. Then he adjusted the cuffs of his borrowed suit and stepped inside, carrying a folder neatly labelled “Blake, J.” in his hand.

Inside, the air was cooler. More still. He was shown into the office, where Matron Grindle waited behind a desk that gleamed with efficiency. The room was spare but spotless, with orderly rows of files, a high-backed chair, and books shelved by subject and author’s surname. Every paper on her desk was squared. Every pencil sharpened to a precise, surgical point. She held the room the way stone monuments held courtyards: immovable, unquestioned. Her grey hair was twisted into a disciplined coil at the base of her neck, and her glasses sat perfectly aligned on the bridge of her nose.

“Good morning,” Remus said, offering a polite smile and the leather folder. “Remus Lupin. I’m here on behalf of Mr James Blake. I believe he volunteered here some weeks ago.”

She gave a slow nod, her eyes never leaving his face. “Indeed. You’re his solicitor?”

“I am. Mr Blake has recently submitted preliminary adoption paperwork with the Borough Social Welfare Office for Harry Palmer,” Remus said smoothly, placing the correct forms on her desk. “As per the Adoption Act 1958, Section 13, Subsection 2, we’re obligated to notify the ward’s guardian institution prior to formal submission.”

Grindle adjusted her glasses minutely and examined the papers with a meticulous gaze. Her fingers were steady, deliberate. “He helped with our repairs after the explosion from the gas leak in our kitchen. Quiet. Kept mostly to himself. Strange sort.”

Remus gave a short, professional nod. “That sounds like him. He’s… well, he leads an unconventional life. Grew up in the system himself, actually. Disowned at sixteen, shuffled around foster care. That sort of background tends to leave its mark.” He allowed a hint of empathy to colour his tone. “He travels, volunteers where he can, helps institutions like yours. He finds ways to give back.”

Her lips thinned slightly. “A philanthropic drifter. And how does such a man propose to offer a stable home for a child?”

Remus had anticipated the question. He leaned forward slightly, keeping his tone measured and sincere. “Mr Blake has acquired a modest home just outside London. He’s intending to settle down permanently. He has financial reserves, employment references, and a clear plan for the boy’s future… one I’d be happy to forward to your office as part of the secondary documentation.”

Grindle considered that, her sharp gaze flicking back to the folder. Her fingers hovered above a page, then stilled. “You’re certain,” she said after a moment. “That Mr Blake fully understands what he’s taking on? Harry Palmer can be… a difficult child.”

She finished the thought with care, though the words trailed slightly, as if she were still weighing how best to say what she really meant. Remus caught the shadow behind the question, something that wasn’t quite said aloud. He let the silence stretch just enough to weigh it, then folded his hands neatly atop the desk.

“I believe he’s quite sure,” he said evenly. “In fact, Mr Blake is thrilled. He and Mr Palmer developed something of a bond during the time he spent here on repairs. That connection never left him.”

Grindle’s lips pursed, eyes narrowing slightly, measuring him, perhaps. She gave a short nod, and looked back to the parchment.

Still, she hesitated.

Remus could feel the next question brewing. The same one he feared.

She glanced back up. “Mr. Blake... There was something oddly familiar about him. I thought so even when he was volunteering. As if I’d seen him before… somewhere else.”

There it was.

Remus’s brain whirred. He’d been warned this might come up, but no amount of rehearsing made it feel less dangerous now. He needed to distract. Misdirect. Silence that flicker of memory before it became a flame.

He swallowed and straightened the folder with deliberate care. “Actually… Mr Blake asked me to pass on something else as well. A gesture of appreciation.”

Grindle blinked. “Appreciation?”

Now came the gamble.

Remus hesitated, lips parting as numbers tumbled through his mind. Five thousand? Too little. She might be suspicious. Might think it an attempt to hush questions or buy goodwill. But ten…

Yes. Ten thousand. It was substantial. Enough to seem sincere, but not so extravagant as to seem suspicious.

“Yes,” he said carefully. “He wishes to donate ten thousand pounds to the orphanage. For upkeep, educational support, and institutional expansion as you see fit. He was especially impressed with the structure and care here. Said it reminded him of what he wished he’d had growing up.”

The shift was instant.

Grindle sat back, arms folding against her chest. Her eyes darted once more to the neat signature at the bottom of the page, James Blake, and then to Remus, cautious curiosity sharpening into something closer to interest.

“Ten thousand,” she repeated, almost to herself. “That’s… generous.”

“He insisted,” Remus said gently. “He was especially taken with how professionally the place is run. He wanted that recognised.”

Now she was calculating, not suspiciously, but logistically. Her fingers tapped lightly on the desk.

“Well,” she said, smoothing the front of her blouse. “With that kind of funding, we could retile the roof, repaint the brickwork, replace the laundry boilers, even refit the dormitory windows before winter.” A pause. “And I’ve been meaning to hire a qualified tutor… someone to give proper support with maths to the older boys. We haven’t had a full-time post in years. And the plumbing in the south wing…”

She trailed off, already organising priorities.

“I’ll put the paperwork in motion,” she said briskly, rising from her chair. “We’ll schedule a home visit next week. If all goes well Mr Blake may come to formalise everything the next Sunday, if that suits him.”

Remus rose as well, offering his hand. “He’ll be very grateful, Matron.”

She clasped it with surprising firmness. “And thank Mr Blake for his generosity. It’s not often someone comes back for children like ours.”

Remus gave a tight, sincere smile, heart still pounding in his chest. “Sometimes,” he said softly, “they come back because they know exactly what it’s like not to be chosen.”

Outside, the air was sharp with the scent of paint and early autumn. As he stepped past the fence again, the boys were gone, just faint footprints in the grass and a half-dried bucket on the path.

He walked a little faster, heart full and mind already racing ahead to Sunday.

By the time Remus reached the Shrieking Shack, it was well past noon. The light outside had shifted into that lazy, golden slant of early afternoon, and the brittle air carried the dry scent of hay and distant woodsmoke. He stepped through the doorway and let his satchel drop to the floor. It landed with a dull, unnatural thud, heavier than its modest size should’ve allowed.

Sirius was already pacing the top floor like an overexcited greyhound who’d caught scent of a hare. He turned sharply at the sound. "Did you rob Gringotts on the way? Please tell me you haven’t kidnapped a goblin.”

Remus looked at him with a mix of amusement and long-suffering patience, the kind that came from too many years of Sirius being exactly like this. He didn’t dignify the question with an answer; just stretched his back, slung the satchel over one shoulder, and said, “Come on. We’ve got to go.”

Sirius fell into step beside him with a grin. “If that bag starts hissing or demands a blood tithe, I’m not intervening.”

They stepped out of the Shrieking Shack and into the high, clear light of early afternoon. Below them, the grounds of Hogsmeade stretched quiet and sun-dappled, but Remus turned away from the village.

Instead, he led them along a narrow path behind the shack, one worn into the earth by years of mischief. It skirted the treeline, close enough to hear the rustle of leaves and catch the scent of pine, but still in the open, still touched by sunlight. When they reached a patch of flattened underbrush at the forest’s edge, Remus stopped.

“You’ll have to side-along with me,” he said, adjusting his coat and brushing a few burrs off his sleeve. “It’s just easier.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You're not going to tell me where we’re going, are you?”

“No.”

“Not even a hint?”

Remus gave him a flat look.

“I’m just saying,” Sirius went on, “first it’s the satchel full of contraband, now it’s apparating a fugitive. You’re turning into quite the scoundrel, Moony.”

Remus didn’t bother replying. He simply extended his arm.

With a grin, Sirius took it.

There was a sharp twist, a jerk behind the navel, and the world pulled itself sideways. The colours around them stretched, warped, then snapped back into place…

They landed with a crunch of dry grass beneath their boots, on a quiet slope just beyond the crest of a wooded hill. The sky above was wide and pale, streaked with faint cirrus clouds. A kestrel wheeled overhead, sharp against the blue, and somewhere down the slope, the faint hum of a tractor broke the stillness.

Remus adjusted the satchel over his shoulder and set off without preamble, boots crunching through the wild, untamed grass.

Sirius followed close, the questions bursting out of him before he could stop them.
“Where are we going? Did you go to the orphanage? Did you talk to the matron… what did she say? Did you see him?”

He caught Remus’s arm. “Moony. Did you see Harry?”

Remus didn’t stop walking. “All in good time,” he said evenly, though his voice wasn’t unkind.

But Sirius wasn’t soothed. His steps were quick, fretful, like a man chasing a shadow. “I’ve been waiting all morning. You were supposed to…”

“We’re nearly there,” Remus said quietly, cutting across the words.

They walked in silence after that, the path narrowing into a hedged lane. Brambles scraped at their sleeves. The air cooled beneath a tangle of branches overhead, and a a bird trilled sharply and then fell silent.

The trees thinned, and Sirius slowed. His gaze caught on the undulating stretch of green beyond, the gentle sprawl of fields and hedgerows broken only by a smattering of rooftops in the valley below.

He blinked. “Hang on. Ain’t this Crockham Hill?”

Remus smiled faintly. “Yes. Wreinleigh Cottage’s just east of the village. We’ll skirt it… we’re not taking the main lane. It’s tucked behind an old orchard. Bit overgrown.”

At that, something in Sirius seemed to loosen. His shoulders dropped, just slightly. The tight edge in his steps softened, and by the time he fell into stride beside Remus again, his tread had gained a faint, familiar spring.

They followed a side path now, veering from the gentle slope of the village and into a thicket of tangled hedgerow. It led them along a rut-lined track that barely qualified as a road. The earth was dry, scattered with rabbit prints and tyre grooves lost to weeds.

Remus stopped just ahead, hand resting lightly on a rusted gate wedged into a low stone wall. “Wrenleigh Cottage,” he said.

Behind the gate lay a gravel path, half-swallowed by moss. The garden was a glorious mess, long grass, tall foxgloves nodding in the breeze, a crooked apple tree leaning against the sky like it had grown bored of standing straight. The cottage itself was small and red-bricked, the corners softened by moss and time. Ivy clung to the walls in lazy tendrils.

Sirius came to a halt, gaze lingering. He leaned on the gate and let out a low breath. “It looks… like someone tried to charm a boot into a house and gave up halfway.”

Remus gave a short laugh. “That’s not wrong.”

But Sirius didn’t look away. There was a stillness to him now, quiet and drawn in, as if something behind his ribs had unclenched. “I like it,” he said finally.

“I knew you would.”

They pushed through the gate together. The iron groaned. Gravel crunched. A pair of butterflies lifted from the grass and fluttered off, unbothered.

Remus pulled a key from his coat pocket and held it out. “It’s yours now.”

Sirius took it, slowly. His thumb brushed the worn teeth.

“Come on,” Remus said, nudging the door open. “You should see what I’ve done with the armchairs.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Please tell me you’re not still hoarding that floral monstrosity.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Remus said evenly. “It’s vintage.”

And with that, the two of them disappeared inside, the door shutting gently behind them. Outside, the breeze picked up, rattling the ivy and stirring the garden into a quiet rustle, like the cottage exhaling, as if it, too, had been waiting.

The drawing room of Wreinleigh Cottage was small, but warm in a way Grimmauld Place never had been, worn but lived-in, as though the air itself had memory. The hearth was old stone, its edges blackened from years of use, and the walls were lined with mismatched shelves crammed with second-hand books and odd trinkets. A rug sprawled across the floor, bearing the ghosts of spills long since forgiven. Two patched floral armchairs sat angled before the hearth, their cushions slightly misshapen, but inviting all the same.

The curtains, however, were new. Deep red with a hint of velvet sheen, unmistakably Gryffindor. They clashed spectacularly with the faded rose walls, but Sirius looked at them with something close to childish wonder, like he’d stepped straight back into the Gryffindor common room.

“You didn’t,” he said, grinning.

Remus, already halfway into one armchair, gave him a flat look. “You said red velvet in the drawing room only. I’m just saving us time.”

Sirius dropped into the other armchair with a pleased hum. “Compromise achieved.” He stretched his legs out, eyes drifting over the low-beamed ceiling, the scent of dried lavender and wood polish settling around him like a familiar cloak.

Remus set his satchel down by the side table. From within, he pulled a paper bag so heavy it sagged dangerously, seams stretched to their limit. The scent hit the room at once, and he spiced meat, fresh bread, and something warm and peppery that made Sirius sit up straighter.

Remus placed the bag on the table with exaggerated care. He began unpacking its contents: meat pasties wrapped in parchment, a warm chicken and mushroom pie, a paper bundle of rosemary roast potatoes, a slab of crusty sourdough, a case of butterbeer clinking gently, and, like a final flourish, treacle tart, sticky and glistening with syrup.

“Merlin’s knickers, Moony, what is this? A bloody feast?” Sirius gawked. “You’ve brought a whole market stall… Is this what I think it is? Victory Dinner?”

“It’s my salary,” Remus said with faint amusement, tossing a meat pasty across. “Decided to spend it like a reckless fool in honour of our celebration.”

Sirius caught it with a grin, already peeling back the paper. “Well, I always said your impulse control was dangerously underdeveloped.”

Remus arched a brow. “Pot, kettle.”

“Touché.” Sirius took a huge bite, then nodded approvingly. “This is excellent. You should be reckless more often.” He leaned forward slightly. “So? Don’t keep me in suspense. What happened?”

Remus allowed a small smile. “Home visit next week. Adoption’s set for next Sunday.”

There was a beat of silence.

Sirius whooped, throwing both arms up and nearly knocking over all the food. “Yes! Yes!” He laughed, a proper laugh, rough-edged and too loud, like it hadn’t been used in years. “Bloody hell, we’re doing it, Moony. We’re actually doing it.”

“Looks like it,” Remus said around a mouthful of bread.

Sirius tore into the rest of his pasty like a man starved. They ate with unhurried pleasure, the kind that came after weeks of tension wound tight and pulled loose. Grease on fingers, crumbs on coats, and the golden, crumbling joy of something warm in their bellies.

Then, as Sirius reached for a roast potato, Remus spoke again, casual, almost offhanded.

“Oh, and you need to write a cheque for ten thousand pounds to the orphanage.”

Sirius stopped mid-chew. His mouth remained half open, potato suspended mid-air.

“What? I’m bankrupt!” Sirius groaned. “My vault’s still frozen, I’m living in a house that actively tries to murder me, and I’ve been flogging cursed heirlooms like some back-alley antique dealer with a death wish.” He added, airily, “At this rate, I might as well set up a stall in Knockturn Alley. Much simpler.”

Remus gave a placid shrug. “Only way to make Matron Grindle forget you’re the ‘mass murderer extraordinaire.’”

Sirius stared at him a beat longer, then sighed, mock-tragic. “Fine. I’ll find more stuff to sell. Maybe I’ll auction off Kreacher. Think anyone wants a homicidal house-elf with hygiene issues?”

“Ministry might take him,” Remus murmured. “As a consultant.”

They laughed again, freer this time, heads tipping back, eyes glinting in the low amber light filtering through the windows. And for a rare, brief moment, the war, the betrayal, the years stolen from them, it all felt distant.

There was only food, friendship, and the thought of a boy waiting for a family. A boy who didn’t yet know two battered, half-broken men were fighting tooth and nail to come back for him.

Chapter Text

Saturday evening, just after supper, Matron Grindle called Harry aside.

She looked the same as always. Hair pulled so tight it made her eyebrows arch, voice firm, not unkind, but never warm either. “Best clothes tomorrow, Palmer. And see that your shoes are polished. You’ll report to my office at eleven sharp.”

He blinked at her. “Yes, Matron.”

She nodded once, then walked away without explanation. But she didn’t need to say more.

Best clothes. Polished shoes.

It meant one thing.

Adoption.

His chest squeezed. For a moment, he stood in the hallway like someone had taken the floor out from under him. A hollow sort of thrill swept through him, followed by a wild rush of panic. His thoughts darted in all directions.

Someone’s come. Someone picked me. I’m getting adopted.

It should’ve been joy. And it was, at first. But then came the questions.

Who? What are they like? Will they be kind? Strict?

And then, darker ones.

What if they hate me?

And underneath all that, something else tightened in his chest, a dull ache he hadn’t expected. Leaving.

He wasn’t sure when it had happened, probably sometime between painting fences and sneaking biscuits; but Callum, Ameer, and Thomas had become his people. Not best friends, not quite, but close enough that it mattered. They laughed at his jokes. They picked him for their team. They shared sweets when no one was looking.

Harry had never had that before

He tried to calm himself as he climbed the stairs, past peeling wallpaper and flickering lights, but everything looked strange now, too final. The hallway smelled like floor polish and boiled cabbage, and suddenly he wasn’t ready to leave it. Not like this.           

Callum and Ameer were painting the back fence when he last saw them, laughing about something stupid. Even Toby, who had hit him with the trowel, seemed like familiar sunshine compared to the looming, unknown world outside. What if leaving meant losing everything he knew how to handle?

He slipped into the dormitory quietly. The others were downstairs still. That was good. He didn’t want to explain.

He opened the drawer and pulled out his best clothes; a grey jumper that was slightly too short in the sleeves, a pair of trousers that almost fit, the only two socks with no holes, with colours that were close enough. He laid them out with trembling fingers.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at them. Then he bent to find the polish tin, tucked beneath his trunk. As he worked the cloth over the leather, slow and steady, a thought clawed its way forward.

What if they find out what I am?

Weird things happened around him. Always had. Things that made teachers frown and the Matron sigh and the other boys whisper when they thought he couldn’t hear.

What if the new family saw it? What if they felt it; that strange, wrong thing inside him and sent him back?

The thought was so sharp it made him freeze mid-stroke, the polish cloth dangling in his hand. Getting adopted and then rejected, felt worse than never being picked at all. It would prove it, wouldn’t it? That there was something broken with him. That’s why his parents must have left him too.

His chest tightened until he thought he might choke on it.

He reached beneath his collar and pulled out the pendant: silver, worn, warm from where it always sat against his skin. A stag in a field of lilies. It had no name, but it had weight.

Prongs.

The word came to him like a whisper, a memory. James Blake had said it once, when he saw the pendant.

Harry held it in his palm now, thumb brushing over the antlers.

James Blake.

He hadn’t come back.

He’d promised he would. After the fire. After the repairs. He said he’d visit. That he understood.

Harry had told him everything. About the fire. About how he’d made the glass crack when he was scared. About the way things moved when he was angry or sad or cornered. Blake hadn’t looked afraid. He said it was okay.

He said it like he meant it.

But he’d left, just like everyone else.

Harry’s throat burned. For a long time, he’d waited. Every knock on the door, every unfamiliar visitor, every shadow on the landing, he’d hoped. And nothing.

He was just being nice. Saying the things adults said. Platitudes and promises and lies.

Harry clenched his jaw, shoving the pendant back under his collar.

He grabbed his old canvas bag and opened it with a snap.

If he was leaving, then fine. He would be ready.

He began gathering his things; a broken slingshot, the worn paperback novel he’d read five times, two socks with holes that didn’t match but were his favourites. Then, carefully, he pulled out the shoebox under his bed.

He lifted the lid slowly. Inside was a too-small grey cardigan, frayed at the sleeves, and a faded baby blanket that still smelled faintly like soap and dust. They were the only things that were truly his. They came with him when he was a baby, they said.

He folded them gently and placed them in his bag.

Outside, the wind whispered against the windowpanes, soft and restless.

Harry lay down on the narrow mattress, still fully dressed. The ceiling above him was cracked and yellowed, a stain in the corner shaped like a bird. He stared at it until his eyes ached.

He wasn’t sure if he was scared or hopeful. Maybe both.

Tomorrow, everything might change. Or fall apart.

And eventually, tangled in thoughts too big for a ten-year-old heart, Harry Palmer slipped into an uneasy sleep.

Harry woke with a jolt.

For one breathless second, he couldn’t remember where he was, whether the dream was real, or he was still clawing at the edge of sleep. Then the pale ceiling of Dormitory Three came into view, cracked and water-stained, and his pulse settled.

But the dream clung like cobwebs.

He had been standing by the front gates, bag in hand, his new family beside him, featureless, blurred. Someone had whispered, “He’s not normal.” Then the car had turned around, its door slammed shut, and suddenly he was back on the orphanage steps. Alone. Matron Grindle had looked disappointed. Mrs. Melling hadn’t said a word, just turned away with tight lips. Even the boys - Callum, Ameer and Thomas had disappeared into the fog.

He reached under his collar and gripped the pendant, stag and lilies, warm against his palm. His fingers curled around it. He exhaled slowly. Then he rose and dressed in silence.

He wore the grey jumper, though his trousers didn’t quite reach his ankles. The shoes were polished within an inch of their lives. He smoothed his hair, then gave up on it. The collar wouldn’t lie flat. That was fine. It never did.

When he entered the kitchen, it was already half full. The usual noise was there, clattering bowls, chairs scraping the floor. But it felt quieter today. Or maybe that was just him.

He slid into his usual seat.

Mrs Melling stood at the tea trolley, same as always, apron dusted, ladle in hand. But when Harry didn’t say anything, didn’t offer his usual “Morning, Madam General,” she turned to look.

Her brow creased. Then, without a word, she ladled an extra scoop of porridge into his bowl and handed him the last unburnt slice of toast.

Callum didn’t mutter “You’re late.” Ameer didn’t joke about Harry’s hair or his elbows sticking out like twigs.

They watched him quietly for a moment, then looked down.

Harry ate without speaking. The toast scratched against the roof of his mouth. He kept his eyes fixed on the bowl, but he realised that they knew. They’d seen the jumper. The shoes. No one dressed like that unless they were going.

After breakfast, it happened the way these things always did. No speeches. No drama.

Callum caught him near the door. His voice was rough. “Write to us. Or, like… I dunno. Show up one day. Just don’t disappear.”

“I won’t,” Harry said. “Promise.”

Ameer gave him a slap on the back, too hard, then muttered something about not crying. Harry couldn’t tell if he meant himself or Harry.

Even Thomas, who was only six and followed Harry like a shadow most days, tugged at his sleeve and whispered, “You always do cool stuff. Don’t let them turn you boring.”

Harry smiled, a little. His throat was thick. “I’ll come visit.”

Callum nodded. “You’d better.”

Harry turned towards the stairs. His bag waited by the bed - packed, zipped, quiet. The dream tugged at the edge of his thoughts again, but he pushed it away.

Today is real.

Even if it didn’t feel like it just yet.

Harry moved through the orphanage like a ghost tracing its final steps before crossing over; each hallway, each doorframe familiar as the back of his hand, yet suddenly distant, like echoes from a life already passed.

He passed the laundry room where Callum had once dared him to climb into the dryer. The stairwell where Ameer told his best stories, wild and full of sound. The scuffed patch of corridor where he’d once tripped and bled and cried until Madame Leroux carried him back to bed, humming softly in French.

It didn’t make sense to miss these things. The radiator hissed. The beds creaked. The food was never enough and the days moved in the same tired loop. But there was something about the rhythm of it, about knowing what came next, who would say what, who would sit where, that had settled under his skin like a second pulse.

And now he was leaving.

He should’ve been thrilled. He was thrilled. Somewhere inside, a part of him was shouting in disbelief: someone picked you. But that voice had grown quiet under the weight of everything else. Excitement had curdled into anxiety, then folded in on itself and become guilt.

His feet slowed near the library, where the light filtered through the cracked window and painted dust into gold. Somewhere in the garden, someone was singing, off-key, a bit too loud. Probably Toby.

Harry closed his eyes for a second.

This place had never been easy. But it had been his. The only place he had ever belonged, even if it was in the odd, accidental way weeds belonged in cracks in the pavement.

Leaving felt like tearing something out by the root.

In the library, the air smelled of paper and dust. Her photograph hung above the reading nook, a matte black-and-white print in a simple wooden frame, slightly faded at the edges. Madame Leroux, pale-eyed and gentle, looked out at the room with the same quiet warmth she’d carried in life.

Harry stepped closer, fingers brushing the worn edge of the frame.

“Hi,” he said softly. “I… I’m leaving. I don’t know where yet. Somewhere new.”

He glanced at the bookshelves, the ones she used to straighten even when they didn’t need it. The corner where she kept candies in a teacup. The chair she’d read from, her voice low and careful like the pages might shatter.

“I thought you should know,” he went on. “You always said I’d go somewhere better. I think… maybe you were right. I’m scared, though.”

He let out a breath and leaned his forehead lightly against the wall beside her picture.

“I hope it’s nice where you are. I hope it’s warm. And there are books. And no one interrupts you when you’re reading.”

His voice trembled as he looked up at her face again.

“Au revoir, Madame,” he said, voice barely a whisper.

Then, after a beat, with the smallest, aching smile, “Merci. Pour tout.”

He gave the frame one last look, then turned away before the silence could settle too deep.

Mrs. Melling was wiping down the tea trolley when he found her. She looked up at his footsteps, eyes unreadable beneath her stern brow.

“Goodbye, Madam General,” Harry said softly.

She didn’t speak right away. Just studied him with the solemn weight of someone watching a chapter close.

Orphanages, she thought, weren’t cruel places. Nor kind. They simply were. Like mirrors, they showed you what you carried inside, and gave it room to grow. Some children arrived angry and stayed that way. Others built shells so tight nothing ever got in or out. The rest sharpened their edges early, learned to fight, to tease, to hide anything soft. Hazing came in pranks, in dares, in the cold shoulder if you cried too much. A gauntlet every child ran until they either bent to it or learned to walk through it untouched.

But Harry Palmer - odd, clever, Harry; had arrived quiet and blinking, with something wondering and gentle nestled in him. And somehow, despite everything, the scraped knees and disappointments, the whispered jeers and mean jokes passed down like tradition, it had survived. It had outlasted the testing, the teasing, the silences. It had weathered the sharp angles of childhood and grown without ever hardening.

She remembered the first time she saw him. Curled in a blanket at the back door. No name. Just left there like a parcel no one wanted. She’d carried him in herself.

“You turned out all right,” she murmured, eyes misting slightly. “Go on, then.”

Harry gave a small nod; the kind you saved for people you didn’t know how to thank properly.

As he stepped out of the kitchen, there was a sudden rustle, a hiss of breath, and then movement.

He flinched, heart leaping.

From behind the bannister and under the coat rack, three figures sprang out in a flurry of limbs and muffled giggles. “Got you!” Callum shouted, just a little too loud, like he was trying to pretend his voice hadn’t cracked.

Harry stumbled back against the wall, pulse racing. “Bloody hell…” he started, but then they were on him.

No punches or tackles this time. Just a tangle of arms, tight and brimming. Ameer wrapped him in a lopsided hug that nearly knocked them both off balance. Callum threw one arm around his shoulder and pressed his forehead to Harry’s temple, blinking too fast to hide it. Even Thomas, grinning through wet lashes, squeezed him like he was trying to carve the memory into bone.

“Don’t forget us,” Thomas whispered fiercely.

Harry swallowed hard. His arms came up, slow at first, then wrapped around them all. He didn’t know what to say. There were no words big enough for this, only the weight of it, heavy and warm and breaking.

This was the last ambush. Their last game. And this time, he didn’t want to win.

He walked the last corridor alone. At precisely eleven, he arrived outside Matron Grindle’s office. The door was closed. Muffled voices carried through, and something in Harry’s chest began to hammer.

Then the door opened. She gave him a single nod.

He stepped in.

The man behind the far desk stood as he entered. Greyish brown hair, a composed, quiet presence, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit with a neat tie. His face was lined but kind, eyes thoughtful and tired. Harry didn’t know him, though something in the man’s face stirred a blur of memory, the kind that brushed past you like a dream half-remembered. A glimpse on a street corner, or a shape in a doorway, seen once and lost again, and now, too much was happening for him to remember it clearly.

Then he looked to the other chair.

James Blake.

But not quite. Not the scruffy man with laughing eyes and rolled-up sleeves who’d fixed a jammed cupboard and called him “trouble.” This Blake wore a deep navy suit, hair impeccably cut, posture easy yet somehow regal, like a king in disguise who’d decided, just for today, to walk among the rest of them.

Harry froze.

He wanted to run to him. To scream, You came.

He wanted to shout, to ask why it had taken so long, if he’d been wrong to hope.

He felt like a balloon stretched too tight. Like if anyone said anything too kind, too soft, he might burst.

He came back. He didn’t forget. He said he would, and he did.

But what if this isn’t real either? What if it all unravels again?

Across the desk, Grindle was speaking. “Palmer, you already know your new guardian, Mr Blake.”

Blake smiled, just slightly. Enough to soften the lines at the corners of his eyes.

“Hello again,” he said gently.

The man beside him stood as well. “Remus Lupin,” he offered quietly, extending a hand. “Mr Blake’s solicitor.”

Harry shook it, still numb, still trying to steady the world beneath his feet.

There were more papers. More words he didn’t quite follow. A rustle of files and the scent of lavender from her office vase. Then Matron Grindle extended her hand to him, firm, composed, the same hand that had held his records, his bruises, his fate; and Harry took it. He knew that hand. It had caught his shoulder in the hallway more times than he could count. Pulled him from more than one poorly considered hiding spot. It had lifted him to his feet without ever quite offering comfort.

Nine years of shared existence passed between them in that single handshake. Chores and school forms. Quiet nods and clipped words. A shattered lightbulb without cause. A fire that went out on its own. A cupboard door that locked and unlocked itself.  She didn’t smile, but her gaze held something steady, something almost like pride.

Harry couldn’t say anything. He was too dumbstruck, the moment too large. He just held on.

Then Blake turned to him.

“So, Harry,” he said, voice warm and impossibly steady, like he had been waiting for months to say this one thing. “Ready to go home?”

Chapter Text

The next part of the story has begun.

Book Two – A Name Reclaimed is now live. If you’ve walked with Harry this far, thank you from the bottom of my ink-stained heart.

The journey continues, and things are about to get a bit more magical, a bit more dangerous, and a whole lot messier.

You can find it on my profile, or by following the series title: The Seven Names of Harry Potter.

With wonder and gratitude,

Pensieve Pundit