AN: Thanks for the reviews! Please feel free to point out any slip-ups as you see them, and I'll try to fix them.

Sirius Black wondered exactly when it had all gone to hell.

The moment Bellatrix had hit him with a stunner, he knew it was over. Of course, things went wrong years ago rather than seconds, and among his many fuck-ups were worse things than being hexed by his own cousin. As his body tumbled backwards towards that mysterious and forbidding archway, his mind raced through all the previous events. He had heard it said that one's life flashed before one's eyes upon facing death, had heard Reg describe how you could sometimes see it on someone's face if you scared them well enough, but this was not a flash. This was an agonizing replay in which he could see a lifetime of regret. Suddenly, all of those cryptic things Dumbledore had said about what amazing things remorse can do to a man's soul made sense, if only "amazing" meant "anguish-inducing and heart-wrenchingly excruciating." He felt as though his soul was being stretched out on a rack or tossed on a pyre to be burned at the stake. No, Dumbledore had no idea what he was talking about. The daft old man couldn't possibly have had many memories worth regretting, but Sirius Black, on the other hand, had more than enough.

Most recently, Sirius regretted stopping to taunt his cousin. Somewhere—beyond the veil, maybe?—his mother was wearing her best I-told-you-so face, as it turned out that his smart mouth really did lead to his end. He could have used that breath to utter any number of curses, but he opted for an insult instead, and a lame one at that. He could have Avada Kedavra'd the bitch when he still had the chance; Merlin knew he had enough pent-up angst and hatred for an Unforgivable. At the very least, he could have used his last moments to come up with something actually witty to say to Bellatrix instead of running his damn mouth.

Better yet, he could have fought harder for Harry's right to be informed about his own fate, and maybe they wouldn't even be in this mess in the first place. He had so many more things to tell Harry, about how to hold his firewhisky like a true Gryffindor, about how not to look like too much of a prick in front of a pretty girl, about spells for contraception and potions for hangovers and what pranks would piss off Snape more than anything, and whole a whirlwind of memories of James and Remus and Lily and Peter. Of course, if he wanted to linger on all of the things he had done wrong, he could spend eternity mulling over his time as a Marauder. He should have stayed Secret-Keeper and just let You-Know-Who kill him instead of shrugging off the responsibility and being a decoy. He should have gone to Godric's Hollow sooner and saved his friends. He should have fought Hagrid harder for his custody of Harry and spared the boy a childhood of torment with Muggles. He should have noticed something about Wormtail's character when his Animagus was a rat, of all creatures. He shouldn't have nearly gotten Snape killed at school, or maybe he should tried harder to let Lupin finish him off, and James and Lily would still be alive instead of condemned by that damn prophecy. Had the slimy bastard only sought out the Dark Arts in response to his bullying? Was it, after all, his own fault that James was dead? He should have shagged Marlene McKinnon after that Quidditch match, should have gone for Keeper when he had the chance, should have studied to get the OWL's for Auror training (maybe an Auror would have been given a trial). He should have done anything besides laugh when the Aurors came to take him away from that bloody crater Peter left. He should have tried to reconcile with Regulus instead of alienating his entire family and leaving his baby brother to become a Death Eater, only to get himself killed for backing out. He had had every opportunity to reach out to so many of Voldemort's followers, including his own soon-to-be murderer. But no—Sirius Black was going to die without a family, without his best friends, without getting any proper time with his godson, all because of his own foolishness.

His soul ached with regret. His stunned body fell beyond the outline of the arch, through the wispy, whispering veil, and he was no more.

When the first thing Sirius saw beyond the veil was the ceiling of his room in 12 Grimmauld Place, he was sure that he was in hell. None of his memories from this room were pleasant, and it seemed the afterlife wasn't even kind enough to give him the posters he started collecting after his second year. If he must spend eternity in the Black Manor, it would at least help to have some pictures of bikini models and Muggle rock bands. Bands of sunlight streamed through the Slytherin-green curtains on his windows, leading Sirius to wonder why there was sunshine in hell. Why, too, were his hands so small and uncalloused, his legs short and knobby, and why did his stomach feel, for the first time in over a decade, as though he went to bed satisfyingly full?

"Master Sirius," a gravelly voice groaned from beyond his door, "it is time to wake up on this most important morning."

"I am in hell," he muttered in a voice an octave higher than he remembered. Utterly confused, he swung his legs over the side of his bed and found himself at least a foot too short. He stumbled clumsily in his too-small body to the full-length mirror by his dresser. He found himself face-to-face with his eleven-year-old self: a round face plumped up with the best food money and house-elves could serve, light blue eyes that would fade to a mysterious gray with age, shaggy brown hair that hadn't yet grown into what Lily called his "Mick Jagger" look, and not a single trace of spending 12 years surrounded by Dementors. He wanted to scream or pound the mirror so hard it shattered, but if, by some miracle, he really was alive, he would then have to answer to his parents. He imagined all the possible explanations—time-travel, eternal punishment, eternal reward, he was a ghost, he was in a coma, he was dreaming, this was some bizarre effect of the veil—and decided that assuming he was dead wouldn't do him any good. Worst case scenario, he would wake up in a few hours in St. Mungo's or pass on into the next life, which he thought he'd been prepared to do only a few minutes ago. Unless this was the next life, and he was being given the opportunity to redress his regrets by some fluke of arcane magic in the Department of Mysteries. If he really was eleven again, he could see James and Remus and Lily, he could go and hear Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd, The Rolling Stones, he could even see his brother again.

"Master Sirius?" Kreacher croaked, this time rapping on his door.

"Coming," he called, still shocked at the pitch of his voice.

As Sirius shed his pajamas for a set of robes, he realized with awe at how much he did not feel thirty-six. He had just lived another life—he had just died—yet he felt more like a child who had woken from a very strange dream. This dream just happened to predict the future of the next twenty-five years.

But maybe not. He certainly felt as though he had free will, so it stood to reason that he could choose differently than he had before.

When he flung the door open to meet Kreacher, Sirius had to stifle his revulsion. His hatred of the house-elf had only grown since his childhood, but it would benefit no one for him to mistreat his family's servant. He couldn't recall doing anything worse than an innocent prank at this age, so it would raise questions for him to suddenly express the loathing of a betrayed adult. He nodded at Kreacher as cordially as he could manage and hurried down the stairs.

The person sitting at the kitchen table made him want to throw up. Though Regulus Arcturus Black was only ten years old, the sight of him scared Sirius more than he thought possible. He had not seen his brother since graduating Hogwarts, and then, only in passing, as no self-respecting Black would acknowledge a runaway traitor. Yet here Reg was, baby-faced and sly as ever, eating carful bites of ham and toast while glancing at the day's issue of the Daily Prophet. He looked up at the sound of Sirius's bare feet padding along the kitchen floor.

"What's wrong with you?" Reg asked with a scornful smile. "Drink too much of Father's firewhisky again? Or did you go out and find the Muggle stuff this time?"

"As if I would ever get shitfaced and tell you." Sirius wasn't sure where those words came from and why he chose those as his first words to his long-dead brother, but Reg seemed unfazed.

"Even if you don't tell me, I'll find out. I always do."

He tentatively sat at the table where he already had a plate set for himself, a small luxury he couldn't remember having since Hogwarts. "You're never going to tell me how you know everything, huh?"

"Not a chance." Sirius took a small bite of toast. Finding that he could still eat and enjoy food as much as any eleven-year-old boy, he dispelled his lingering suspicions that he was a ghost or any otherwise undead being. Regulus eyed his brother's hesitance curiously. "But really, why do you look like Kreacher after he's gone through your sock drawer?"

"I…" I haven't seen you alive in almost twenty years, and I'm pretty sure that I'm dead, too, but if that's the case, this is the strangest afterlife I could think of. "I had a funny dream."

"Funny funny or bad funny?"

"Bad funny. Mother was a giant portrait with a Permanent Sticking Charm on the back, and she screamed every time I walked in the house. Oh, and Kreacher worshipped her like she was the best thing since broomsticks."

Reg shrugged before pushing his copy of the Prophet aside. "Sounds funny funny to me." Sirius glanced at the top of the paper to find the date—September 1, 1971, his first day at Hogwarts! His brother must have noticed his attempts at subtlety, because he added, "You forgot what day it is? Merlin's pants, you did get shitfaced!"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that filth coming out of your mouth, young man," said a commanding voice accompanied by heavy footsteps. Sirius didn't need to look up to see who was talking; he had already started shaking involuntarily with apprehension of his father's stern wand.

"I was only copying Sirius," Reg mumbled in fake embarrassment.

"Is it true, boy?" Mr. Orion Black asked with a firm hand on his son's shoulder.

"Yes, sir," he stuttered, trying not to cringe too obviously at his father's touch. "Won't happen again."

"Damn right it won't. If it were any other day, I'd have the both of you for a solid Mouth-Washing Hex." At those words, Sirius was met with a flood of repressed memories, a flash of fear, the taste of lye in his mouth. He put his toast down. "But it's the big day, so we won't tell your mother, eh? You're going to make us proud today, boy."

He remembered the lectures, the letters, the Howlers from another life after his parents heard the news of his Sorting. They had ranted about how it was bad enough that Aunt Dorea had gone and married that traitorous Potter boy, but now their son was expected to room with her son, and soon enough he'd be converted into one of those Muggleloving half-breed sympathizers. They had even arranged a conference with Dumbledore, Slughorn, and McGonagall to rectify this obvious mistake. "I'll do my best, sir."

"And a Black's best never disappoints."

"Sirius, you're finally up!" Walburga strode into the kitchen, and the rhythmic clink of her heels sounded like gunshots or curses. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten what day it is. And what's this I heard about you dreaming about me?"

Regulus chimed in. "Sirius dreamt you were an angry portrait with a Permanent Sticking Charm."

She considered this thoughtfully. "Well I am going to get my portrait done soon, but I hadn't thought about a Sticking Charm. That's a lovely idea, Regulus, thank you."

Sirius opened his mouth to correct her, but between his father's stern gaze and his own impending headache at what he believed was a temporal paradox, he kept quiet. He tried to finish his plate, but the nagging memory of Mouth-Washing Hexes and his parents' disappointment tied his stomach in knots. He would have hoped that, after over a decade in Azkaban, he would have overcome his fear of Orion and Walburga, but it seemed that his younger body carried with it his younger attitudes and ideas. Either that, or not even the Dementors were hellish enough to steel him against his parents.

"The elf packed everything you need, yes?" Orion asked his elder son.

"I believe so, sir, but I can check."

"Nonsense—that's the elf's job. Kreacher!" With a bang, the house-elf appeared before the family. "Go and check Master Sirius's school trunk one last time." Kreacher bowed low before vanishing again. The elder Blacks looked at Sirius carefully.

"Regulus," Walburga began, "why don't you practice your penmanship before we take your brother to the Express?"

"Yes, Mother," he said dutifully, trying to hide the unenthusiastic shuffle of his feet. His brother knew that he would likely be eavesdropping at the door anyway, as his parents hadn't started to use Silencing Charms for family discussions until he was thirteen, and they started using particularly colorful language.

"Now Sirius," his mother said, turning from the kitchen door to the table, "we know that you haven't been nearly as eager as your brother to represent the family name to the rest of the wizarding world, but the moment you set foot on that train, you will be symbolizing something much bigger than yourself. Your older cousins have done their part, but you are the Black male heir. You are a very important young man to the rest of the respectable families, and even the more common rabble will look up to you as an example of purity and power. Am I understood?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Good. What this means is that you will need to be on your best behavior today. This is the first impression most of the other great families will have of you. Of course, once you're Sorted into Slytherin, you can afford to be more relaxed in your common room and around your roommates, but until then, you never know which young man might turn out to be your best friend and which young lady may become your bride." She must have mistaken the look on his face for shock, because she soon clarified, "Of course you aren't concerned with that right now, nor should you be. But I understand the Talkalots have a daughter your year, as do the Goldsteins, though they do tend to be Sorted rather randomly. We just can't have you going through Hogwarts burning all your bridges. The Rosiers have a son who will be starting with you today, and I've no doubt you will be roommates by the end of the night." Sirius could only nod in response. "That's a good boy."

"Mother?" he asked. "What if I'm not in Slytherin?"

The Blacks exchanged an incredulous look before laughing loudly. "A Black not in Slytherin? Where would you go instead? You haven't the marks for Ravenclaw nor the sociability of a Hufflepuff, and Merlin forbid you become one of those foolhardy Gryffindors. You pull enough antics that I can't imagine you in any House but Slytherin, and we've done our best to raise you with the highest ambitions. Don't worry yourself with silly ideas. Now, are you all ready?"

Sirius stood up to go, but his father stopped him with a rough hand on the back of his neck. "Why aren't you wearing shoes, boy?"

"I forgot them," he said quietly.

"Did you expect to get on the train barefoot? What sort of foolish boy forgets his shoes?"

"I'm sorry," he mumbled as he ran for the stairs. He passed by a giggling Reg on the way. While he was in his room, he snagged his wand and coinpurse as well, not wanting to imagine his father's opinion of a wizard who was shoeless, wandless, and broke. He hadn't felt his ebony and phoenix feather wand since they snapped it and carted him to prison, and it felt just as magical as he remembered. Once he had his shoes on, he descended the stairs much more slowly, letting each foot fall with a deliberate thump. He felt himself torn between two very familiar emotions: terror of his parents and the rebellious need to prove himself better than them. No matter how much the older Sirius wanted to surrender to his defiant, egotistical side, he was being smothered by his memories of panic and abuse as well as the reality of his current situation. He had to soldier through his time with his parents, knowing that the worst was always yet to come, but in five years, he would be able to find refuge with the Potters.

Maybe I can run away earlier this time around.

Orion was waiting at the foot of the stairs. "Take off your left shoe."

"What?"

"Take it off, and don't use such insolent language when you speak to me." Sirius did as he was told. "Now give it to me."

He realized too late what was about to come. Orion snatched the shoe from his son's hands and swung it at his head. The sole collided with his left temple with a dull thud. Sirius tried not to flinch, but this younger body had a much lower tolerance for pain than that of one who had survived twelve years in prison. Before he could help it, silent tears streamed down his face, and his head throbbed with pain. He received another sudden blow to the other temple as his father added, "That's for forgetting to address me as 'sir.'"

"Yes, sir," he whispered.

"Now put the shoe back on, that's a good boy. Wipe those tears off your face; we can't have you seen weeping like a woman at King's Cross."

Orion herded his family and house-elf into their entryway. They were to Apparate to King's Cross, him with Sirius and Walburga with Reg, while Kreacher would bring the luggage. Sirius discovered that Side-Along Apparition with his father was just as unpleasant as he remembered. However, when he opened his eyes to see the bustling community of wizards on Platform 9¾, he comforted himself with the idea of seeing James Potter alive for the first time in fifteen years. Throngs of robe-clad families carried luggage, comforted frightened first-years and lonely younger siblings, and made tearful goodbyes. Kreacher appeared beside them with Sirius's large trunk, a carry-on bag, and a cage containing a black great horned owl Sirius barely recognized.

"Her name is Cressida. You'll share her with Regulus next year," Walburga said, noticing her older son's confusion. "We hope this means you'll write home often."

In his first life, Sirius stopped writing home after his first year, because his younger brother was all-too-willing to give a detailed report to their parents about the Marauder's latest adventures. After running away, he hadn't seen the owl at all. He felt a vague fondness for the bird and wondered if she would be of more use this time around. "Thank you, Mother and Father. I'll be sure to write you."

Walburga gave him a brief, stiff hug, and Orion gave him nothing more than a stoic face and a curt nod. Sirius looked at Reg, forced a smile, and pulled his brother into a hug that neither of them seemed prepared for. "I'm going to miss having someone to tattle on me all the time, Reg," he whispered, remembering the words he would have spoken at his brother's wake, had he been allowed to go without James's invisibility cloak.

"When did you get all mushy?"

Sirius pulled away from the hug. "If you're going to be that way, then I won't write you about what Hogwarts is like and give you a head start."

Reg considered this for a moment, likely wondering if he could figure out how to suck up to each individual professor. "I was only joking. I'm going to miss you, too."

With their goodbyes out of the way, Sirius and Regulus hauled his trunk to the luggage car. Sirius gave his family one last look over his shoulder before boarding the train, all the while trying to figure out whether or not he was grateful for this second chance. On the one hand, his head still throbbed, and would likely bruise or swell up. On the other hand, he couldn't count the number of times he wished for the chance to have another conversation with his stupid, cowardly, just-following-orders brother.

Sirius picked a compartment on the side of the train opposite the boarding deck to avoid seeing his parents not missing him, the same reason he had picked this same compartment years ago. He put Cressida on the seat beside him and waited anxiously for a certain someone to find him. Surely he hadn't changed anything yet that would prevent this meeting from happening, but what if forgetting his shoes and being nice to Reg caused some sort of ripple in this timeline? What if no one ever came into his compartment, not even Snape, and he had to live out a second life all alone? What if he had accidentally prevented the Marauders from even banding together in the first place?

A knock on the compartment door startled Sirius out of his musings, and he found himself staring into the confident, bespeckled face of James Potter.