A/N: As of September 2018 this has been significantly revised. Even if you have read it before, you might find some new bits in here.
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Sirius Black died in the battle at the Department of Mysteries, but twelve years later a huge dog is seen on the side of the hill and a ragged and emaciated stranger appears in an English village.
This is a story about a second chance; about a journey from shadow into light, and about love.
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Chapter One: Layhill Cottage
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Pausing to flex her stiff fingers, Julia wiped a hole in the condensation that had collected on the leaded glass kitchen window and peered through to the lane outside. Autumn was late this year and the trees had hardly begun to colour. Days which began with a gentle mist ripened into muggy warmth, but the evenings were getting cooler and the dusk earlier. Soon the clocks would go back.
"What are you doing now, Megan?" she said to the framed school photograph of her daughter on the deep sill. Only her dog was there to hear her question, and he didn't reply. She glanced at the clock on the cooker and answered herself. "Having lunch I expect. Make sure you eat your vegetables. I miss you." Picking up a fork, she resumed the tedious task of pricking sloes.
Albie pricked up his ears and gave a soft woof just as Julia heard the back door opening.
"Who is it, sweetie?" Julia's question was answered by a woman's voice calling from the back door. "It's only me! I need the loo!"
A minute later the toilet flushed and a short, slightly breathless woman wearing a blue district nurse's uniform came into the kitchen. Albie gave her a wet, enthusiastic greeting, and she tugged his ears affectionately. "Converting the old outhouse into a second bathroom was a stroke of genius."
"I'm glad you approve. You're about the only person who ever uses it."
"It'll come in useful one day," the woman assured her. "When you're too old and infirm to manage the stairs."
"I'm forty-four, Heather." Julia paused. "Thereabouts anyway I think. Not quite decrepit yet. My hands are full at the moment so I'm afraid you'll have to look after yourself if you want a drink."
"No thank you. I shouldn't have had that second cup at Isaac's."
"Oh, you've seen him?" Julia wiped her sticky fingers on a dishcloth. "How's his ankle?
"Doing well," said Heather. "But he's frustrated at not being able to get out. He wants to know if you've finished with a book he lent you. Something to do with Lay Hill? And he dropped an enormous hint about some shortbread."
Julia laughed. "The old devil. I have finished with his book, I'll take it over this afternoon. Was there something else?"
"Yes, Joe wants to put the ewes in the middle field next week if that's all right?"
"Of course. He'll need to check the fences though, you know what they're like for escaping." Julia nodded towards the kettle. "Are you sure you don't want a drink?"
"Absolutely. I've got to get off. When you write to Megan, tell her Patches is fine and the children love him to bits. Are you making sloe gin? Save me some, won't you. You should try lemon juice."
"What for?"
"The stains," said Heather. "I know what sloes are like."
"Oh," said Julia, looking at her brown fingernails. "Thanks. Does it work?"
"No idea," said Heather. "Before I forget, I wanted to give you this." She rummaged in her pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper.
Julia looked at it. "A website?"
"Oh," said Heather, casually, "it's just a dating site I've heard good things about. For mature people. Thought you might like to take a look at it." She tickled the great black dog under his chin and opened the door. "Bye, Albie."
"For goodness' sake, Heather!"
"Must dash!" The door bumped shut behind Heather's retreating form.
Julia screwed the paper up in disgust and threw it away.
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When the sloes had been covered with sugar and gin and sealed in a big glass jar, she wrapped a few pieces of shortbread in a cloth and found the shabby old book under her bed. She picked up the dog lead and put her boots on though the ground outside was still dry. Albie bounded out of the garden through a gap in the hedge and Julia squeezed through behind him, inspecting the hazel trees on her way through. They were were loaded with nuts turning from soft mossy green to brown; almost ready to harvest.
They skirted the brick stable in the little meadow at the side of her cottage. Now that Megan's pony had taken up residence with Heather and Joe, nothing much was inside the building; half a dozen damp and mouldy bales, no use for anything. A section of the corrugated tin roof was hanging loose and the next strong wind would probably bring it off altogether. She should get it looked at.
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Isaac's cottage, on the other side of the hill, was almost identical to her own. Built of warm, uneven handmade bricks, both had the same eccentric masonry which twisted the over-large chimneys into ornate spirals. The one on her own cottage was surmounted by a distinctive weather vane in the form of a running dog. At least, she had always assumed it was a weather vane, although it had never budged so much as an inch, no matter what the direction or severity of the wind.
One year she had asked her chimney sweep about it, and he had offered to take a look. She had footed the ladder anxiously, acutely aware that Old George who must have been seventy if he was a day, probably shouldn't be climbing around on her roof.
After poking about for some time, he had climbed down and rubbed his sooty hands with an old rag. "Well then," he had said in his broad Midlands accent, "for all it looks loyk a weather vane it's naow such thing."
"Really?" said Julia. "What is it then?"
"Ah s'pose it's just some sort of ornymint loyk." He looked up at the chimney. "I dunna see as it's much use for owt."
"Do you think I should have it taken down?" Julia asked, biting her lip as she squinted at it.
George had been horrified. "Tek it den! Never! That's bin there 'undred's a years, there'll be no good come aht a tekkin' it den. Stick wi' tradition," he said, winking at her.
So she had, and was glad of it for it pleased her very much. The image reminded her of Albie.
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The gate into Isaac's garden gave its customary squeak as Julia pushed it open and shooed Albie through. A vigorous crop of distinctive yellow-green mistletoe sprouting on the old apple tree at the side of the cottage caught her attention. She must remember to ask for a few sprigs at Christmas.
At the back door she knocked and went straight in calling, "Hello, Isaac, it's only Julia!" Albie did not wait for her, but promptly disappeared into the house. She unlaced her dusty boots and left them in the porch.
A querulous voice called from inside, "Have you brought some of your shortbread? If not, you might as well turn round and go back. If you have, put the kettle on as you're passing. And you brought that ruddy great dog with you again, I see!"
"You grumpy sod," she called back. "You should think yourself lucky I'm visiting you at all. And if you stopped giving the ruddy great dog biscuits under the table when you think I'm not looking, he might not be so keen to come."
She boiled the kettle, made two cups of tea and navigated the cluttered passageway to the sitting room. Isaac was sitting in an armchair by the unlit fire, with one plastered foot propped up on a stool. She put the tea and shortbread on a table within reach and bent down to give him a kiss on top of his bald head.
"I've brought the book back." She handed to him. "It was absolutely fascinating. Wherever did you find it?"
"Can't recall," he said vaguely. "Had it for years. Thought you might be interested though. I understand you're making the Widow's Plea this year?"
"How can you know that?" said Julia, surprised. "They only asked me yesterday."
"They asked you because I said they should."
"I should have known you had something to do with it," said Julia. "I'm honoured to be asked, of course, but quite terrified! And I'm not really a widow, you know."
"Near enough, I think," said Isaac. "Anyway you've earned it after all the work you've put in these last few years."
"I enjoy helping out. And the tradition is so closely connected with my cottage and land, I want to keep it alive." She held her hand out. "Can I just see the book again for a moment?"
Isaac handed it back to her. She opened it and turned a few yellowed pages to find the right place. "The Widows Plea", she read out, "has been performed by a widowed or bereaved woman of the village of Layhill as the culmination of the Souling ceremony, held shortly after midnight on All Saints' Day since at least 1353. It is a short poem traditionally declaimed in a semi-musical manner accompanied by a pipe or whistle. Its purpose is to recall the lost loved one from the Shadow Path—the timeless realm between the worlds of the living and the dead—on the day when the barrier is said to be at its weakest." She lowered the book. "Now that is quite creepy, isn't it?"
"Not at all," said Isaac. "Merely a recognition that there is much mystery still in the world. And in any case, I never heard of it actually working. You'll do fine. More than fine, I think. I've got a good feeling about it." He patted the cushion of the chair at his side. "Now, sit down and tell me how the lovely Megan is doing at her new school. I'm missing her pretty smile."
"You and me both," agreed Julia. It had been a month now since Megan had gone, and Julia missed her so much that sometimes it was a physical pain. The Christmas holiday seemed awfully distant.
"What's that school called again?" he asked. "Some outlandish name isn't it? And out in the back of beyond too."
"Hogwarts." she said. "It's up in the Scottish Highlands somewhere. Not far from Aviemore. It seems very far away." She felt a lump in her throat and changed the subject. "Do you think you'll make it to the ceremony?"
"I doubt it." Isaac sighed. "Heather said she doesn't think the plaster'll come off till the beginning of November, and I'll never get up the hill like this. I reckon I'll make it to Harvest Festival, and the pub and church on Halloween though. If I can get a lift."
"Is that a hint?" asked Julia. "Of course I'll take you. I wish you could be there to give me moral support when I make the Plea though. Next time you change a light bulb just be sure to use something better than a pile of books to stand on!"
"I'll be giving you moral support in spirit." He took her hand and squeezed it. "You'll be fabulous, I guarantee it. In fact my reputation depends on it."
They sat companionably for a time drinking their tea. Isaac dusted shortbread crumbs from his whiskery chin. "have you thought of . . . looking for someone else?" he said. "Megan is growing up so fast. She won't stay with you for ever."
Julia sighed. "Have you been talking to Heather? She wants me to join a dating website! What do I want a man for? Apart from opening the odd jar of pickled gherkins I can't see what use one would be."
Isaac clasped his hands in front of his chest. "Companionship? Love? Sex, even?"
Julia was embarrassed. "Well, you didn't look for someone else, did you?" She looked at the cluttered mantelpiece where a photograph of a pretty, middle aged woman nestled amid a mass of bric-a-brac.
Isaac followed her gaze. "No," he conceded. "I didn't. You're right, it's not my business. I won't mention it again."
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When they had finished their tea, Julia laid the fire and brought in some logs, washed the pots, and kissed him goodbye. Then she and Albie made their way home. It was warm in the low afternoon sun and clouds of midges flickered in the air.
As they walked, Julia turned her mind to preparations for the Harvest Festival. The blackberries were already past their best, but she paused and picked a handful while Albie waited hopefully by a tree for the squirrel he had chased up there to reappear. Picking off a tiny spider, she ate a berry and considered. She would make apple pies, she decided, and wondered if they had Harvest Festival at Hogwarts.
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