A/N: This is a rewrite of Dark Birthright which was first posted in 2014 and Secret Life of a Black Dog which was first posted in 2015. The plot is the same but it has been fleshed out a bit and some background details have changed slightly. I think it's better now. I hope you do too.

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Big thanks to Tara for beta reading and making many useful suggestions.

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Twenty-eight days had passed since Sirius had spoken to Harry. It had been twenty-eight days since Remus had fetched him, heart pounding with anxiety at the boy's unexpected appearance, in order to sacrifice his knees to the chill flagstones before his own kitchen range. Twenty-eight days—not that Sirius was counting of course—since he had seen the disappointment in the Harry's face and heard the hurt and accusation in his voice.

Had Harry understood in the end? They hadn't been bad lads, he and James. Cocky, yes; a little too full of themselves, he could see that now. Things had been easy for them and they had expected things would always be easy. That things would always work out. And now . . . James was dead, impossible as it was to quite believe even after all this time. Sirius himself was a shadow. So insubstantial that sometimes he was surprised anyone could see him at all. He avoided looking in most mirrors, fearing that one day even his reflection would have vanished.

Most mirrors; but not one particular mirror. Several times every day, Sirius looked into that one. Not for his own ravaged features, but for Harry. And always the thing was dark and empty. Perhaps he should have reminded Harry about it when he had the chance. But he hadn't done so, and Sirius supposed Harry had better things to do than talk to his godfather.

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Buckbeak was an island of stability in the shifting emptiness, but even the hippogriff wouldn't be with him forever. Sirius's custodianship was a temporary arrangement that had already outlasted his obligation. The responsibility kept him functional after a fashion, but the beast's needs were basic, and it was resolutely uncommunicative.

Sometimes he woke shouting; in a bed or on a couch, or on the floor, or with his face pressed against Buckbeak's warm flank, feeling a fading sensation of a warm hand on his thigh or his back; of another heart beating next to his. In the moments of waking and the moments before sleep wrapped him in its uneasy embrace, the past seemed so close he could almost reach out and touch it. There it was. He and James. The glory days. They had been unbeatable, unbreakable, unstoppable. The bee's knees. The cat's whiskers. The dog's bollocks.

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So much of the last fifteen years had been spent as a dog that sometimes he hardly knew his own shape or how many feet he had. As long as he was warm and fed, Padfoot was happy enough. He did not experience boredom or grief in the same way as Sirius. Did not dwell on his memories or hear the voice of his dead friend when the silences grew too heavy.

So each day in his dismal wreck of a house passed much like another. One by one they melded seamlessly together, and outside his house the sun rose and set, spring turned to summer and Harry kept on not looking in his mirror.

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Julia's office at the end of a neglected corridor behind the undistinguished Incidental Magic division of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes was tiny and insignificant. So much so that only a handful of people knew it was anything more than the cupboard it had once been.

On her desk was a little brass sign engraved with the words: You don't have to be mad to work here, but it helps. She had given it to her brother when he started working for the Ministry and it was one of the few of his things she had kept after his death. She was finding the sentiment increasingly apt.

When she had first come to work there, her boss—perhaps embarrassed by the meanness of the space—had made a window for her. It showed a spectacular coastal view and every day it was different. Sometimes she even fancied she saw a little boat bobbing among the waves. But the outlook was dictated by her mood and today it was resolutely static: subdued into grey stillness as if in a heavy fog.

Gazing at the featureless window, she chewed her thumbnail pessimistically and pondered. Just in case some new insight might occur to her—despite having already treble and quadruple checked—she ran a finger down the side of the list written on the long, rather creased document on the table in front of her. From the first name at the top to the twenty-second at the bottom. Absently she tapped at it with her finger. That was where the problem was. That very last name. She drew a line underneath it with a marker pen, as if she needed to remind herself of what it said. It might as well be You-Know-Who himself for all the use it was.

With the exception of a few of the oldest and grandest families, Julia found wizards to be mostly unconcerned about their own history and utterly indifferent to Muggle history. This had often been a source of frustration to her, but at the moment it was a relief. She preferred not to draw attention to the fact that the tattered book she had been studying for several days was not, in fact, the volume of helpful housekeeping advice it appeared to be and therefore should not be in her office at all. Most certainly she should not be planning to take it home with her.

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Snapping the cap securely on to her marker pen, she dropped it into her pocket then wrapped the fragile book in a cloth, eased it gently into her bag and squashed the untidy list in beside it. Then—leaving it unlocked, as she had never had a key for it and in any case doubted the contents would interest anyone else— she closed her office door behind her and made her way to a brighter, better-maintained corridor.

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Two men followed her into the lift and stood behind her. She tensed but did not turn round, warily watching their distorted reflections on the polished surface. There was a faint movement of air as the taller of the two lazily waved the doors shut and sniffed as if he could smell something faintly unpleasant.

As the lift started to ascend, the other man slid his arm above Julia's shoulder and rested a hand flat against the wall in front of her. "Ah," he purred, "Arthur Weasley's pet Muggle. Julia, is it not? How delightful!" "I have, from time to time, wondered if what they say about Muggle women is true. Perhaps you can . . . ah . . . enlighten me?"

Julia shuddered. "Get lost, Yaxley."

"That will be Mr Yaxley to you, you little tart."

"Get lost, Mr Yaxley," said Julia obediently.

"Now don't be like that," said Otus Yaxley, blowing on to the back of her neck in a manner she found deeply unpleasant. "Some respect would not go amiss, little Muggle. You and I could have such a lovely time. I daresay I could show you a thing or two with my . . . um . . . wand. They are such very useful things. When it comes to, ah, job security, for example. What do you say?"

The lift jerked to a halt at level six and Julia prodded at the button to open the doors. "I have, from time to time," she said, "wondered if it's true what the girls in Catastrophes say about the size of your . . . little wand." She turned to him with a thin smile then switched her attention to the other man. "And it's a shame even wizards can't find a cure for male-pattern baldness, don't you think?" As if by accident she trod on Yaxley's foot as the door slid fitfully aside.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the other man's hand travel involuntarily to his long fair hair as Yaxley spluttered, "Did you hear what the Muggle bitch said to me, Lucius? Did you?"

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The door to the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office burst open and her boss dashed out almost knocking her over. "Julia!" said Arthur with obvious relief, steadying her and picking up her bag. "I'm extremely glad to see you! We've a bit of an emergency, can you come along?"

"Yes, of course, but—"

"No time to lose!" He waved his wand. "Accio, overalls!" and a garish orange boiler suit flopped out of his office and landed on the floor at his feet. With a grunt he bent down and picked it up. "It might be a bit on the large side, what do you think?" He shook it out and handed it to Julia.

She held it up under her chin doubtfully. "Um, I expect it will be all right."

"Excellent!" Arthur set off at a trot back towards the lift. "Come along!" he said. "Down to Transportation. We'll take a Ministry van."

He stopped suddenly as he was about to step into the lift and Julia bumped into him. "Oh crikey." He patted his robes and tutted. "Have you got your key?"

"Of course." Julia fished the heavy, old-fashioned key out of her jacket. "I still come into work that way sometimes. When I need the exercise."

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Julia had never managed to get used to travelling in one of the Ministry's specially modified Muggle vehicles. She struggled into the voluminous garment, trying not to look too hard at where Arthur was taking the van, although, when he drove under a skip lorry, she squeezed her eyes shut and didn't open them again until he pulled abruptly to a stop, nearly jettisoning her from her seat.

They had arrived in a quiet road of modest, semi-detached houses. "This is the one," said Arthur, checking in a small notebook. "Number fifteen, Mr Meakin. Sneezing toilet." He looked at Julia and tutted. "Thought it might be a bit big. Better roll your sleeves up."

The garden path leading to the front of Number Fifteen, Sycamore Avenue, was lined with neat rows of sunny marigolds. A shocked-looking elderly man answered the door, He glanced at the ID card Arthur showed him. "It's sneezing!" He shook his head in disbelief. "My bloody toilet keeps sneezing! Am I going mad?"

Julia felt sorry for him. "Not to worry, Mr Meakin." She gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. "Nothing we can't handle."

"When did the problem start?" asked Arthur.

"I suppose it was a couple of hours ago." Mr Meakin waved them through into his hallway. "Not long after those two very nice chaps from the Council were here. Fire safety officers. Do you know them? Very pleasant. Very helpful. Said my smoke alarm needed maintenance." He pointed up the stairs.

"Fire safety officers?" said Julia looking at Arthur who was frowning. "I don't think so."

"Well you're from the Council too, aren't you? You've the same identity cards. Marvellous what they can do now! Moving photographs. Who'd have thought!"

Inwardly, Julia winced. It had never occurred to her to vet what Arthur thought would be a convincing Muggle ID card. "Let's take a look at this toilet, shall we?" she said.

"Upstairs." Mr Meakin jerked his thumb. "You won't miss it."

She wrinkled her nose and followed the smell of sewage and the sound of wet, squelchy sneezing into the bathroom. The toilet appeared to be contracting itself ready for another explosion. "Stop it", said Julia firmly, "That's quite enough." She put her hand out and touched the porcelain, feeling a familiar static tingle as the magic dissipated. With a faint shift in pressure like an inaudible sigh, the thing relaxed back into its normal, non-magical state.

Satisfied, Julia washed her hands at the basin, and went in search of the smoke alarm, which she found fixed to the ceiling at the top of the stairs. It was humming faintly and pulsating with a green glow. Another half an hour, she estimated, and the thing would have exploded. She helped herself to a bedroom chair and stood on it to reach the throbbing plastic case with her index finger. With a little pfft, it stiffened and the green glow died. After putting the chair back, she went downstairs and found Arthur and Mr Meakin in the kitchen drinking mugs of tea.

Mr Meakin seemed to have forgotten his earlier distress. "Well I never," he said lifting his mug in her direction. "A lady plumber! Whatever next?"

"Oh yes," agreed Julia sympathetically. "They'll let anyone do a City and Guilds these days, you know. It's fixed now." She lowered her voice and murmured to Arthur, "Could do with a bit of a clean."

Arthur disappeared for a few minutes. When he returned, they chatted with Mr Meakin for a little longer, and when he got up to rinse the cups at the kitchen sink, Arthur waved his wand and murmured, "Obliviate."

Quietly, Julia and Arthur let themselves out.

"I suppose you have to do that," said Julia on the way back. "Only it seems a bit . . . brutal."

"What does? You mean the Obliviation?" Arthur looked surprised. "It's what we've always done."His anxious gaze followed a fire engine as it raced across a junction and into a side street, siren squealing. " These are becoming more and more of a problem. It's getting out of hand. We're struggling to keep up and I'm still not a hundred percent."

He did look a little pale and thinner than usual after an unexplained sickness had kept him away from the Ministry for several weeks in the New Year. There had been rumours of a snake attack and Death Eaters but Julia didn't know if they were true, and did not like to ask. "Thanks for helping out," he said. "It's always quicker when you do it. I'll drop you off at home, shall I?"

"Yes please," she said, getting tangled up in her overalls as she tried to extricate herself. "I need to talk to you about something. Can I come and see you tomorrow?"

"Of course, my dear, whenever you like. I look forward to it."

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London bustled as it always did in the warm early evening sun. Julia smelt frying onions and garlic and curry; heard the closeness of her neighbours in the flats to each side; in the two storeys above her and two below. Their footsteps and voices and crying babies; the clatter of pans and the distant repetitive thud of music played too loud. How could all those people have no inkling of how fragile their lives were? How vulnerable and close to disaster.

She watered the pot plants on her balcony and stood for a while watching children playing in the park below. Their high voices carried on the air, full of life and energy.

As the outside air cooled and the sky darkened, the starry nicotiana plants began to release the scent they had been saving for night-time. The children in the park were replaced by the evening shift of sweary youths with cans of cheap cider and cigarettes and an excess of hormones. She emptied her bag and put the book and list on the kitchen table beside a rare copy of The Black Death in Europe and Great Britain, which she had borrowed, via a complicated inter-library lending scheme, from the British Library. It lay open on a graphic drawing of plague victims; men, women and children lying dead and abandoned on a medieval city street. She shivered and closed the book, then shut all her windows securely as if by doing so she could insulate herself from danger.

Lying sleepless in the cold space of the hour before daybreak, she stared up into the darkness listening to the steady thump of her own heartbeat and seeing the image from the library book. There might be worse ways to die, but at the moment she couldn't think of any. Muggle medicine had moved on tremendously of course. Surely nowadays there would be a cure? But then there were so many more people altogether, and they moved around so much she thought fretfully. Perhaps she could run away. Find a remote spot in the hills somewhere. Live in a tent.

Although the notion had taken her as far as buying a hurricane lamp and a bottle of paraffin a few days before, she had felt rather silly for doing so and shoved them away at the back of the cupboard under the sink. It was an impractical fancy not a feasible plan. She would starve or freeze. And anyway: what would be the point? She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing.

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It was not one of her regular days for working at the Ministry but she headed there next morning and went straight to Arthur's office. His door was ajar and she knocked and poked her head hopefully into the room.

"Julia, my dear!" Arthur beckoned her in. "Thanks again for your help yesterday. Sit down. Tell me, how are the new mobile fellytones coming on? And the outernet? I'm just dying to have a go!"

She laughed. "Telephones, Arthur. And internet. They're getting very popular. I think almost everyone will be using them soon." Julia had a strong suspicion that Arthur's apparent foolishness was an act so well-practiced, it had become a habit. He was a far shrewder man than many took him for. And he was kind. Deeply, genuinely kind.

He waved her into a chair. "You didn't come to talk about tele-fellytones did you?"

Julia shook her head. "I'm really concerned about something, and I'm afraid it's about to become rather urgent." She rubbed her knees nervously. "I know you've more than enough problems at the moment with—well, everything that's been going on, but I'm worried and I need your advice."

"Go ahead," he said. "How can I help?"

"I don't know if you're familiar with Of Majicke in ye Tyme of Plesance?"

"My goodness! I haven't looked at it since I was at school and that was more years ago than I care to recall."

"I only know it," said Julia, "because I helped Ben revise it for his N.E.W.T.s. There's a bit in the section about Blood Magic. She fished a piece of paper out of her pocket. It goes: And so it came to pass that one particular man; a wizard of moderate powers but of great hubris and ambition; proud and ruthless, took the long journey to the East and brought back to the land of his children that which, after his name, came to be known as the Black Death."

"I vaguely remember," said Arthur. "But why is that worrying you?"

"I think . . . there might be more to it."

"Then you'd better tell me what's on your mind."

A little while later Arthur's normally affable manner was edged with anxiety. "This is very worrying, but it's considerably beyond my experience. I want Kingsley to hear what you have to say. Will you wait here while I find him?"

While Arthur was gone, Julia studied his comfortable office. It was painted a delicate shade of mauve and two squashy armchairs patterned with pink cabbage roses sat on a hairy orange rug. The window showed a tall, crooked, hotch-potch of a house set among swelling green hills tinged gold by the sun. Fluffy clouds rolled across the blue sky.

On his desk was a photograph of a laughing group of several red-headed youths, a skinny girl with bushy hair and big teeth, and a lad with dark, untidy hair and glasses. She recognised him; Harry Potter: the famous Boy who Lived. In the background of the picture were tents and banners. She wondered where it had been taken.

A few minutes later, Arthur returned, looking relieved. "Luckily, Kingsley can spare us a few minutes. He'll be here any moment. Will you have a cup of tea?" He waved his wand and a tea tray rattled through the door leaving a trail of drips on the floor underneath. "I thought English Breakfast and ginger nuts today, does that suit?"

"Lovely," Julia agreed. While they dunked their biscuits companionably and waited for Kingsley, she asked about the photograph.

"Yes, that's Harry,' said Arthur waving at it with a biscuit. "With Hermione Granger and my children at the Quidditch World Cup last year. It seems a lifetime away now. So much has happened since then." He paused in thought and his soggy biscuit disintegrated into his cup with a plop. "Oh no! Look what's happened now! He tried without success to fish it out with a spoon. "That's the trouble with these. Tell me, my dear, how do you Muggles avoid this?"

"The timing is important," said Julia, "but the trick is in the wrist movement." She demonstrated. "Magic won't help with this. You have to get it just right."

Arthur watched closely. "I think you're teasing me," he said at last.

"Of course I am," said Julia popping the last morsel in her mouth.

They both started at a single sharp knock at the door. Before Arthur could reply, Auror Shacklebolt swept in, his peacock-blue robes shimmering gloriously. He carried a distinct air of authority and feeling intimidated and rather untidy, Julia stood up, brushing crumbs off her chest.

"I'm pleased to meet you at last, Julia." Kingsley took her hand in a swift, firm grip. Motioning for her to be seated again, he pulled a chair round to face her and sat down himself, smoothing out his sleeve with an unhurried movement. "Arthur has told me something of your concerns, but can you explain again for me, please?"

A short time later, Kingsley's dark eyes had narrowed with anxiety. He rested his chin thoughtfully on his steepled fingertips. "I see no reason to doubt your conclusions, Julia. But there is only one person I know of who can advise you on this, and he is—in a manner of speaking—lying low at the moment. I am sure he will want to discuss this with you, so I will arrange a meeting. I suspect time is of the essence. Can you be available tomorrow?"

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