Sirius walked forward, his paws sore and fur matted. A freezing gust of wind and rain rammed into him from the right side, but he was too tired to register the temperature as he stumbled, struggling to keep himself upright. A little further… he thought wearily, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. I've almost made it.

At last he saw the silhouette of a building in front of him. His throat tightened and he couldn't contain a small whimper of grief as he stared at it, instantly illuminated by a sudden flash of lightning overhead. It was wrong. It wasn't supposed to be that low, nor at such an angle. It wasn't supposed to be dark and gloomy against the stormy sky. If his memory served him (which, he would admit, it probably didn't), it was supposed to be tall and proud. There was supposed to be a warm orange glow issuing from the windows and the faintest trace of cinnamon in the air. That was how it had looked last time he had properly seen it.

Sirius paused in the middle of the road, staring at the remains of the dilapidated building as the memory came back to him for the millionth time. It was a memory that had once held happiness and contentment, but had been ruined by the years of sitting a sentence he wasn't guilty of. He closed his eyes and consciousness to the raging storm and took a moment to try and remember the joy he had once felt at seeing this house.

/

"C'mon, little buddy. I believe in you. Say it with me, now, 'Uncle Padfoot'".

Much to Sirius's dismay, however, the infant stared blankly up at him, drooling slightly from the corner of his mouth.

"Now don't go giving me that look. I heard you gabbling earlier and I know you can do it. I don't think I'm asking too much, here."

"Give it a rest, Sirius." Sirius rolled his eyes, not looking at Remus. "He's only been walking for a week! You can't expect him to be speaking fluent English by Christmas."

"I'm not asking him to put sentences together," Sirius defended himself, "I just want him to say two simple syllables. He almost had it last week and I want to see the look on James' face when I've got him saying 'Padfoot' before 'Prongs'."

Remus stepped over where Sirius was sprawled on the floor and pulled Harry up into his arms. "Here," he said, sitting down on the couch with the infant on his lap. "You were going at it the wrong way. Try it like this." He cleared his throat importantly and Sirius chuckled, knowing this meant Remus was transitioning to his 'baby' voice. "Who's got you now, Harry? Who's got you?"

Harry's face broke into a wide grin as Remus bounced him on his leg and mumbled something incoherent.

"What was that?"

"Moo'ey."

Remus beamed. "Who's got you?"

"Moo'ey!"

"That's my little man!"

"He'll do that for anyone," Sirius said, getting up and taking the seat next to Remus. "Watch." He leaned forward, trying to get between Remus and Harry. "Who's got you?"

"Moo'ey!"

"No, Harry, not Moldy Moo'ey. You're favorite uncle, remember?"

"Moo'ey!"

Sirius leaned away, discouraged, only to smile as he saw Harry stare after him, arms raised toward him. Taking the baby, Sirius held him up. "Who's got you now, Harry?"

"Pa'foo!"

"Close enough!"

The front door clicked, and Remus and Sirius both jumped. Sirius wrapped his arms protectively around Harry, bringing the child into his chest. "Relax," they heard the cool, amused voice of James Potter enter the room, followed quickly by its owner. "It's only us you four-legged freaks. No need to go jinxing the feather dusters to life."

Remus muttered something about being cautious as Sirius set Harry on the floor. "Walk on over, Buddy, you can do it. Show Mummy and Daddy what we've been practicing all night."

Harry stood, rather wobbily, before awkwardly walking toward his parents, arms raised in the 'up' request. He fell half-way and finished in a crawl. Lily, who had walked in behind James, positively beamed before addressing the babysitters. "He wasn't too much?"

"No more than usual," Remus assured her.

"At least he's not teething this time," Sirius agreed. That had been a hell he never wanted to revisit. Ever.

"Thank you so much," Lily continued, taking Harry up in her arms. "Peter said he'd watch him but apparently something came up-"

"No problem," Remus assured her again. "Anytime."

"Remus and I have third shift with the Order tomorrow," Sirius said, glancing at Remus, "but I expect we'll finish sometime before ten. Once you've gotten Lil' Prongs Jr. to bed, what d'you say we all break out the Butterbeer and chocolate frogs?"

"Sounds like a plan, mate," James said, clapping Sirius' shoulder. "Can hardly wait!"

"Great!" Sirius exclaimed. Remus yawned and Sirius, suddenly realizing how exhausted he was after waking up at 2:00 A.M. for the morning shift, felt as though he wanted to collapse. "We best be headed home," he said. "And don't expect me to be up any time before noon tomorrow, 'cause that's not happening."

"So I should Apparate over around 6:00 A.M., then?" James teased, his signature smirk plastered across his face.

"Only if you want to change your name to Singular Prong," Sirius replied sincerely. Nonetheless, he brought James into a tight, several second long hug. "Stay safe tonight, Potter."

"And you, Black."

Sirius pulled away, nodding and avoiding James' eyes. It was as if every time they left these days they were facing the possibility of never seeing each other again, and he hated it. "Well, see ya' soon, little squirt," Sirius mumbled as he bent to kiss the side of Harry's head. "As for you, Evans," he winked, trying to make up for his emotional moment, "Keep 'em in order."

"As always, Sirius." Lily said in a slightly sing-songy voice that made James roll his eyes in a way that Sirius would describe as 'madly-in-love'.

And finally, Sirius gave Remus a brief hug. "Tomorrow night, Mooney."

"Tomorrow night, Padfoot."

With a final wave, Sirius Apparated home.

/

Sirius glared bitterly at where the front door had once stood, a gravelly growl issuing from deep in his throat. He trotted forward, pushing his way in through the not-so-sturdy door. He didn't bother to shake the heavy water from his soaked pelt as he stared around the interior, which looked slightly more recognizable from the inside. Yes, there was the couch, and the stairs, and even a few of Harry's old baby toys were scattered across the floor from mere moments before Lord Voldemort had attacked.

Sirius cautiously inspected a toy broomstick that lay discarded nearest to him on the floor. He rolled it over with his paw and felt his throat constricting. He had given Harry that toy. 12 years ago he had given baby Harry that toy to play with under James and Lily Potter's watchful eyes, in hope that he would someday take up Quidditch just like his dearest father before him.

Sirius couldn't force himself to go upstairs. He couldn't do it; he didn't want to see them again. James' body limp on the stairs, glasses broken a final time, wand a few stairs below his hand, and his eyes – those brown eyes Sirius had known and trusted for so long – staring blankly at the ceiling. Or Lily, remaining unmoving where she had fallen protecting Harry in the nursery. She had been on her stomach when Sirius had found her, saving him from having to see her dead eyes but also looking so ominously still. Her usually perfect hair had been a mess and her body angled in such a way that made it obvious she'd been shielding Harry's crib.

The imagines glued behind his eyeballs, Sirius desperately ran out of the house, hoping to cast them from his memory once and for all. He couldn't say how many times he'd seen them in Azkaban and he sure as hell didn't want to have to remember them like that for another second.

Trying to outrun the haunting pictures, Sirius quickly lost track of himself. Before he knew it he'd ran all the way to the graveyard. They'll be buried here, he thought. James and Lily's final resting place will be in this graveyard.

So, dragging his paws, Sirius journeyed into the graveyard.

He didn't know how long or far he walked. Time was meaningless as Sirius searched the headstones for the two names that would finally confirm what he had known all these years; the names that would finally allow him to grieve properly.

And he found them.

Sirius read the headstone of James and Lily Potter. 'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death'… he thought. I've got to say, I'm disappointed, Potter. Quite dramatic. I'd reckon I've rubbed off on you.

But despite the playful bantering that was going on in his head, Sirius felt quite miserable. It wasn't because he knew they were dead; no, he'd known that for ages. It was because he'd just realized that he would never get to hear James' reply.

Sirius walked right up to the headstones and inspected the smelly, muddy ground. Circling a few times, he finally curled up against the stone, ignoring the cold wetness that had now seemed to have swallowed his belly. Oh, James and Lily, this is all my fault. If only I'd been the Secret-Keeper… if only I hadn't let him do it. I'm so sorry. You deserved so much more than you got. I will make it up to you, though. I'll keep him safe for you, your Harry. I'll protect him with my life, just as I always told you I would.

/

The next morning, an old woman came into the graveyard. In the storm the previous night, she was worried that the flowers had been washed off her husband's grave. It was a quiet morning and, knowing her neighbors, she would be the only one up at this time on a Saturday.

As she placed the new flowers, she noticed something move from the corner of her eye. Looking over, she saw nothing peculiar except… except a dog.

She hadn't noticed him walking in, but there was a dog lying against one of the headstones. He seemed to be sound asleep, she noted, and absolutely filthy. From what she could tell his fur was matted and caked in mud, so much so that it was hard to distinguish and actual color. Perhaps black? She wondered. Yes, I think so… you can see a bit of his tail.

Doing the only thing that seemed sensible, the woman kneeled down a few feet from the grave and called, "Hello?"

The effect was instantaneous; the dog's head shot up, eyes wide with alarm and ears perked as though he thought he were in immediate danger. Seeing the woman, he stumbled out of his makeshift grave-bed and backed away, tail between his legs and growling.

"No, no, don't fret," the woman said quickly, not making any sudden movements. "It's okay, boy, I'm okay, though I can't say the same for you."

Now that she had a clearer view of the dog, it was obvious that he wasn't healthy. Despite his dirty coat, she could see his ribs protruding painfully from his sides. His eyes were grey and lifeless, whether it be hunger or exhaustion or both, she couldn't tell.

He didn't seem comforted yet. "I promise," she said quietly, "I'm nice. You're looking quite sickly and I can help you." The dog – if it were possible – seemed to be considering her words as his tense posture slackened. "You seem like you could do with a good bath and sleep, and a nice large meal." At this the dog's eyes widened and he licked his jaw, seeming quite eager all of a sudden. "Is that a yes, then?"

The dog glanced warily at the grave which he had been sleeping. "An old master?" the woman suggested; she could only guess, seeing as she didn't have her glasses at the moment. The dog only ducked his head and the woman smiled sadly. "Here," she said. She went back to her husband's grave and took a few of the flowers she had put there and added them to the other headstone. "Is that better?"

His tail thumping, the dog licked her sleeve.

"Good. Let's get you fixed up."

The dog, it turned out, was a very patient and pleasant costumer. He didn't fuss over the bath and seemed fond of any food she had to offer him. "Feeling better, I'd reckon?" she asked as he begged on his hind legs for the sixth and final piece of chicken. After receiving the meat, he chewed in what seemed to be an agreeing manner.

For the next few days, the woman cared for the dog. While she was more than happy to have some company, some part of her seemed to know that the dog wouldn't hang around forever. As soon as he was at full strength, he would want to be leaving, and she would let him go.

A week had passed when the dog finally seemed to have finished his stay. He wasn't quite as healthy as the woman would have liked, but his ribs were slightly less noticeable and eyes slightly brighter. "You want to leave, now, don't you?" she asked as he waited expectantly for her at the door. "Go off on adventures, do you?"

The dog whimpered.

"Well," she bent over, exhaling loudly. "Good luck. You were a very pleasant dog." She kissed his forehead. "Take care of yourself out there."

The dog pressed his cold, wet nose to her cheek and, slightly remorseful, the woman opened the door.

She watched him take off toward the graveyard and stop in front, staring into it almost as though thinking about all the people resting there. Then, finally seeming to make up his mind, he sprinted off down the street, farther and farther until he was out of sight.

Impossible as it was to know the great deed she had done, the woman continued to wave after the dog, her face tight in a smile, the widest smile she'd smiled in years. "It'll be okay," she said. "You'll see, dog."

For Abby. Thank you.