Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing, of course, dears.

Author's note: If you're a reader of my other story, Light Up the Sky, thank you so much for reading, really. You guys all make my day. I hope you enjoy this story, which is slightly similar in concept to that one, only not entirely. Enjoy!

It had just been an average October night at Hogwarts. Halloween decorations had begun to appear all over the castle as they always did, orange banners blooming like flowers, pumpkins sprouting up all over in unsuspecting places - "like an embarrassing rash," Sirius said to Peter, who blushed - and the ghosts were humming happily, soaring about with the air of someone on their birthday. Halloween was approaching and the students of Hogwarts were all in high spirits.

Sure, there had been a few scares over the summer, gruesome articles in The Daily Prophet about the so-called "Death Eaters", with the murders of muggle-borns and such. But everyone was turning over a new leaf now, putting the paranoia behind them and moving forward with the new school year, with the promise of Halloween and all the excitement it brought with it. Surely this 'Voldemort' fellow wouldn't cause too much trouble, Sirius thought for the hundredth time as he stuffed the pockets of his robes with leftover pumpkin pies from dinner, and treacle tarts to bring up to James. It was just the media overreacting to everything, as they always did. If Dumbledore stepped outside of his house without his robes on, there would be headlines in the Daily Prophet about the apocalypse.

Well, Sirius thought to himself as he ran up the winding, torch lit staircase to Gryffindor tower, that would be rather frightening. Perhaps that would be a sign of the coming apocalypse.

He shoved half a treacle tart in his mouth hungrily - James would bash him over the head with a couch cushion for that later on in the common room - and wiped his hands on his robes - which Remus would scold him for later on in the common room, clicking his tongue as he turned over his parchment to extend his already-adequate Transfiguration essay - and racked his brain for more pranks he and James could pull before the night's end. It was only eight o' clock and they had barely accomplished any hi-jinks, due to James' insufferable slobbering over Evans. He'd really stepped in it earlier when she overheard him explaining to a group of first years outside of Herbology exactly how gingers steal souls from unsuspecting children, and he'd been trying to make it up to her ever since, but the fiery redhead hadn't been responding to any of the owls he'd sent her, and only spoke a few times to snap, "Potter, stop sending me owls! We are INDOORS! Speak to me IN PERSON!" And then when he tried to speak to her in person, she'd storm off in a rage, seeking the comfort of her Hufflepuff boyfriend, Comicus Diggle, "whose name is comicus enough," James always said.

Yes, it was just a normal night. Even when Sirius spotted pieces of parchment with the Dark Mark drawn on them hanging in the corridor, ("ruddy Slytherins," Sirius said in a tone that would almost sound affectionate), he shrugged it off, choosing to draw mustaches on the snake's gruesome faces with his wand rather than run and tell a professor. Only after he stopped to admire his handiwork did he realize he was not at the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

The portrait of The Fat Lady was not at the top of the stairs as it should have been, nor were the usual suits of armor that flanked her; the corridor was too wide, as well, with not as many torches to light the stone walls. He realized at once he was outside of Dumbledore's office.

The stairs must have moved again, Sirius realized with a groan. Now he would have to walk down three more flights of stairs to get back on track, and he only had two treacle tarts left for the road. James would surely sock him one when Sirius came back with only a pocketful of crumbs.

"Sorry, Prongs, but a man's got to eat," Sirius said as he went to take another out. "I'm a growing boy of seventeen, after all..."

But then he stopped and remembered how upset James had looked, when he saw Evans cuddling up to Diggle after Herbology, fuming over the ginger joke. Sirius supposed her anger had less to do with the actual joke and more to do with the fact that James said "hold onto your souls, kids, here comes one now" when Lily approached them, but he digressed; he ignored the growling of his stomach and put the treacle tart away to save for James. The boy could use the comfort food.

He was about to head back down and start on his long journey to Gryffindor tower, cursing the stairs for moving so bloody often, when he stopped at the sound of shouting.

Curious, Sirius looked down the hall to the gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's office. It had to have been coming from there.

He couldn't exactly make out words, only a frantic tone, muffled by layers of wall and stone. Who was getting expeled?, he wondered. Sirius crept down the hall, careful to tiptoe around squeaking or anything else that would make noise. He wanted to hear this.
Hopefully they're making Professor Flitwick shave his beard, Sirius thought. That would cause the little man a lot of turmoil.

But no, the voice wasn't the sound of the little old professor. Nor was it the cries of his cousin Hugens Black, who Sirius thought might be lamenting getting caught hexing a muggleborn or using the Imperius curse to get a date, or something equally amusing. And surely if it was something minor, like the former, Professor Slughorn would be the one to deal with it, and if it was something Unforgivable, such as the latter, the Ministry would be dealing with it.

Who would be shouting in Dumbledore's office?

Sirius was about to turn around and head back to the Gryffindor common room, because it was not his place to spy or eavesdrop, and whatever was going on was none of his business.

But then with a scoff remembered he was Sirius Black and no man's business was off limits to him and so he went on forward anyway.

"Ice mice," he said to the gargoyle, which creaked open. Sirius grinned. He knew some good would come out of that trip to the headmaster last week, when Professor McGonagall had dragged him by the ear to explain to Dumbledore how exactly a live owl ended up on his dinner plate.

As he entered the little stairwell, the yelling grew louder and clearer, carrying down to where Sirius stood. It wasn't a voice he recognized, he realized as he tiptoed up the steps. There were other voices, too, shouting back.

"Enough of this nonsense, Albus!" he heard Professor Slughorn saying. "He's clearly a spy."

"I'm not a spy!"

"He's a spy, Albus," Slughorn went on. "A spy from the Ministry, no doubt. Fudge is always sticking his big nose in our business, trying to see what we're teaching here. Always accusing me of meddling with the Dark Arts. Well, I say!"

"I'm not a bloody spy! But there is a spy here, a spy for Voldemort!"

"Don't say that name!" Slughorn shouted. "He's nothing. He's just a rumor. Just a silly little rumor, just some paranoia stirred up by Rita Skeeter and the like."

"Who even are you?" the boy shouted. "Why are you being ridiculous?"

"Horace, please lower your voice," Professor Dumbledore said. Sirius held his breath on the stair, his mind racing. "Spy or no spy, he's just a boy. Old enough to be a student. A second year, from the looks of him."

"Third year," the unfamiliar voice corrected, and Sirius realized at once it was a young boy. "As you already know, professor! This isn't funny! Why are you pretending not to recognize me? And let go of me!"

Sirius crept further up the stairs, his back pressed firmly against the stone wall.

"I see," Dumbledore said, and Sirius could just imagine him peering over his spectacles with a sparkle in his eye. Why were his eyes always sparkling and twinkling, anyway? Did someone hit him square in the retina with a glitter hex when he was a young lad and it just never wore off? Sirius shook his head and paid attention to the matter at hand. "Well, this is certainly an interesting story, at least. Whether a lie cooked up by Voldemort himself -"

"Albus!" Slughorn shouted.

"Or by the Ministry, as Horace thinks," Dumbledore went on. "- it still is, undeniably, interesting."

"Professor," the boy said pleadingly. "You've got to listen to me. Why are you being like this?"

Sirius was immensely curious. The boy had a Gryffindor-ly sound to his voice, Sirius liked to think, although he wouldn't be able to explain how or why he thought that, to anyone who didn't know what he meant. He couldn't explain it ; there was just a certain tone most Gryffindors carried - loud and obnoxious, as Slytherins, including Sirius' mother might say, or bold and courageous, as most liked to think, like their words came straight from the heart, or from their stomachs, if they were hungry, as Sirius currently was. James' treacle tarts were burning a hole in his pocket that he could feel all the way to his stomach, and he would've turned around and headed back to the kitchens if he wasn't so immensely curious as to what was going on.

The boy must've been a Gryffindor, but it was odd, because Sirius didn't recognize his voice. He prided himself on knowing mostly everyone in his house, if not the entire school, save for the first years and the few quiet Slytherins he and James didn't quarrel with. But this boy - he couldn't place a face to the voice. And why had he said 'who even are you?' to Professor Slughorn. Surely any student at this school would recognize the bloody potions teacher.

Like the handy Marauder Sirius was proud to be, he dug into the pocket of his robes and took out the mirror he'd mostly used to communicate with James with, and held it up, angling it just right at the top of the door so he could see who he was looking at.
Confusion struck him across the face like a scorned woman.

Who in Merlin's name -? Sirius thought, utterly baffled, adjusting the mirror and tapping it with his wand to zoom in on the boy standing beside Dumbledore's desk, while Slughorn and a tall, hulking fellow gripping him by the arms as if he were a prisoner. Sirius recognized the man as the arithmancy teacher, but he recognized the young boy as two people, two entirely different people, who could not possibly be more opposite if they tried their hardest, which they sometimes did, yet they were both present there in that young boy's face.

The mirror nearly slipped from his hand. His mind was boggled.

WHO in MERLIN'S NAME?, he thought again as he stared at the young, panicked face in the mirror, and Horace's suspicious glare boring down on the top of the boy's head, the familiar, dark, thick-haired head.

"Whatever's going on here," Professor Sprout said, startling Sirius, who hadn't known she too was in the office. "We mustn't tell James Potter. Not just yet."

Slughorn nodded in agreement, as did the arithmancy bloke.

"Well, I'm afraid not telling James is out of the question," Dumbledore said and looked straight into the mirror. "Because Sirius Black is standing outside the door listening to our every word."

The only thing Sirius could manage to think was that James would really be needing that treacle tart.

Please review, my lovelies! It encourages me to continue, as I'm really quite a person and need encouragement from time to time in order to function.