Bellatrix's spell is a nasty one – paralytic and a literal nightmare. Sirius knows it has to be, it has to be the nightmare curse because if it isn't, then- then Remus is dead with a noose swinging him from the rafters of the room and Harry is choking on his own blood, a sear across his chest scoring a deep line through his ribs.

One thing he knows for certain is that he's falling. Sirius' sense of balance catches it as it begins and the sensation of an uncontrollable fall takes over any other feeling he might have, including the nightmare.

…which makes no sense, but the paralysis is gone and Merlin's balls, I'm falling! Sirius flails, arms waving about. He twists rapidly in the air and he has no idea which way is up-

Sirius hits the ground hard.

The short scream immediately emitted from a nearby person barely registers, Sirius too busy groaning and getting his bearings. Happily enough, he doesn't seem to be injured, despite his lengthy fall. He pushes up from the ground, glancing around at the surrounding garden, full of dry, browning grass and dying flower-bushes.

Sirius straightens, patting his pockets for his wand, only to freeze at the sight of a small, wide-eyed boy holding up a stick defensively barely two metres in front of him.

He has Lily's green eyes and messy black hair that curls delicately over his forehead, barely concealing the familiar lightning-bolt scar, the mess of white tissue livid against his dark tan skin. Sirius stares, because this is his godson. A pintsize clone of his godson, maybe five years old at the most, but his godson all the same.

"Are you okay?" Harry suddenly questions in a whisper, voice so small and young.

"I…" Sirius croaks, all of a sudden feeling so tired, like the life has been sucked out of him. He draws in a deep breath, the hot air almost burning his lungs, finding his wand hanging around his neck as it had in the old days, before he invested in a wand holster. "Who are you?" he questions in confusion.

"I'm Freak," Harry says and Sirius is filled with a sudden, stomach-dropping horror. "Who are you?"

Sirius hesitates, glancing around the garden again. He can see the silhouette of a person in the kitchen and then their face as they lean forwards, staring in horror at him through the window. Petunia, he recognises a moment later, before she lets out a shriek.

Harry in front of him twists to face her and Sirius makes a split-second decision, lunging forwards and grabbing Harry by his shoulder. Before Harry can move, Sirius turns on the spot, apparating out of the Dursley's back garden, only briefly surprised there's no anti-apparation ward.

They reappear on the step of 12, Grimmauld Place, Harry wobbling, arms flailing like Sirius' had been, only a few minutes beforehand. Sirius hauls him up against him, stopping him from moving and tripping off the top step.

"You're safe from them, Harry," Sirius promises, but his godson still struggles. To make it easier on them both, Sirius goes down a few steps, forcibly setting Harry down on the cracked stone. "Harry, Harry, I need you to stop moving-"

"Where are we? What just happened? Who are you?" Harry cries, hitting Sirius' head with his stick. Sirius flinches, grasping it and holding it still. "Where's Number Four?"

"We're in London, Harry, at my home." Sirius explains calmly, breathing slowly. "My name is Sirius Black and I'm your-" the words stick in his throat. Your godfather, he thinks as Harry looks at him in confusion. "I'm your…"

"I thought you were dead," Harry whispers, eyes widening. "Aunt Petunia said you were dead."

"I'm not dead," Sirius confirms, before abruptly realising Harry thinks he's James. Expression shifting to match Harry's, there's a long moment of silence before Harry launches himself forwards, dropping his stick – squashing it between them – to wrap his arms around Sirius' neck.

"You're alive! You've come to take me away! Am I going to live with you now? Is my mummy alive, too?"

Sirius' heart aches sharply, before he hugs Harry tightly. "No, kiddo," he murmurs. "Your mum's gone." Harry tenses in his arms for a second, but then relaxes again.

"Okay," he murmurs sadly.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Sirius reaches up with his spare hand to stroke Harry's mop of hair, carding his fingers through it. A small rhythm generates, before Harry wriggles back out of his grasp, disappointing him a little until he sees Harry's wrinkled nose. "What?"

"You smell funny," Harry says after a moment. Sirius frowns before taking a look at himself. To his own confusion, he's in his old Azkaban inmate robes, but they're in much better shape than from when he originally left that damned prison. There's dirt under his long nails and rubbing at his skin proves there to be more than just a fine layer of grease there.

"I'm a mess," Sirius mutters, grimacing. Looking up at Number 12 and seeing the open blinds, it suddenly occurs to him that- that if he'd travelled in time, his mother might not be dead yet. "How old are you?" he asks Harry.

"Don't you know that?"

"I was put in a place where there aren't any clocks," Sirius replies, standing shakily, muscles weak and groaning. Gripping the wand around his neck – how can I have a wand? Did I die in the Department of Mysteries? How am I even here? – Sirius casts a time charm. The answer both astounds him and makes Sirius feel uneasy.

"What's that?" Harry gasps, standing up from the step. "How did all those numbers appear?"

"Magic. We're wizards, Harry," Sirius says, taking his hand. "The numbers mean that it's eleven forty-eight in the morning, a Wednesday and the first of August, nineteen eighty-four. Congratulations, kiddo, your fourth birthday was yesterday."

"I'm four?" Harry says in an awed voice.

"Yeah, you're four," Sirius confirms, feeling angry that the Dursley's ever had custody of Harry – reminding him, abruptly, of Harry's introduction. "Your name isn't Freak," he says, crouching briefly so to be on Harry's eye-level. "It's not Freak."

Harry frowns, thick brows knitting together just like James' used to. "But-"

"No buts," Sirius interrupts. "Your mother named you Harry, after her mother, Harriet Evans."

"I don't like that name," Harry says in reply. "Dudley's got a friend called Harry. He isn't nice."

"…right," Sirius mutters, before wondering how the fuck he's going to do this. No doubt the blood-wards around Privet Drive had already begun screaming at Dumbledore via his enchanted silver instruments.

Maybe I can make this work, he thinks. Harry thinks I'm his dad and he doesn't like his name…oh, how both those facts burn a hole inside of him, but Sirius has to make this work, somehow. Bellatrix cursed me, he thinks, and I fell.

In his head, Sirius reviews the geography of that room in the Department of Mysteries.

"I fell through the Veil of Death," he says out loud, in an attempt to stick the reality of this situation in his head. Is this what happens when people are chucked in there? They get to relive their lives twelve years in the past?

"What's that?" Harry questions, childish curiosity clear. Sirius can tell if he can divert the topic, Harry won't care about the Veil anymore – so he does.

"If you could choose a name for yourself, what would it be?" he questions, forcing himself to run through all the available Black names. Leo would be an awesome name. Sirius tries to imagine thinking of the boy in front of him by different names, standing straight again so as to stretch his legs.

Looking up at Number 12 again, he eyes each of the windows, stopping still upon seeing Kreacher staring at him with beady eyes from the third floor balcony. As soon as Kreacher sees himself get caught, he disappears – probably to find Sirius' mother.

She doesn't die till 1992, dammit. Sirius grimaces, before picking Harry up and putting him on his hip, finally chucking the stick away. Harry grips tight to his prison robe, swaying slightly before curling up against his chest. Taking his wand from its chain around his neck, Sirius does as many refreshing charms as he can on himself, scouring his yellow skin red getting the muck off with scourgify rather than tergeo.

Harry oohs and aahs at the magic, asking to see more. Sirius knows he only has a limited time to do anything before his mother either opens the door or boots him from the property. Frankly, he doesn't know which one is worse.

These split-second decisions I'm making are questionable, Sirius thinks as he nods, unlatching one of Harry's hands from his robe.

"This will hurt, but it won't last very long, I promise." Sirius swears, before slashing small cuts in either of their palms. Harry flinches, biting his lip hard enough it bleeds. Sirius clamps their hands together.

"I, Sirius Orion Black, take this child as my own in blood. I will maintain them; I will protect them; I will provide a home for them. These things I swear, my magic forfeit should I purposefully break my vow."

As he speaks, streaks of golden flame curl around their joined hands, entrancing Harry. Sirius can feel the magic surround them like static – but quickly, he becomes very glad he swore this vow inside the boundaries of Number 12.

Harry's eyes roll back, his scar sparking actual lightning as a black shadow begins to leak out. The skin tears apart, beads of blood trailing down his forehead. The shadow is monstrous and Sirius stares, horrified, as it comes all pouring out, faster and faster until a person-sized cloud forms above their head.

A face forms, before it lets out a scream that Sirius would not have been able to hear if not for Padfoot's extended hearing range. Then, it explodes in a fiery blast, shattering the windows of every house in Grimmauld Place, one by one – and the dark magic in the release not even leaving the boundaries of Number 12, courtesy of the powerful wards around the Black Family Home.

Harry goes limp in his arms and Sirius supports him better quickly, wiping at the blood on his forehead as he adjusts his weight accordingly. However, Sirius almost drops him when he sees the abrupt change in Harry's facial features.

Shit, he thinks, blanching. I know James and I are- were, cousins of a sort, but…Sirius really needs to stop making split-second decisions. Adopting someone in my own bloodline would make the magic of the vow think I need an heir.

Which, in a way, he does.

"It's either you or Malfoy, to be fair," Sirius murmurs in disbelief, before the door to Number 12 slams open to reveal his mother, Kreacher at her feet. They lock eyes, grey meeting grey and there's a moment where Sirius sees happiness there in her eyes, hope.

"Regulus?"

Sirius clenches his jaw. "No, Lady Black."

Immediately, Walburga blinks and that hope is banished, though strangely the happiness remains. She looks him over, expression twisting into one of disgust – and despite the wrinkles and age, all the years that have passed for him, if not her, Sirius still flinches.

"You were in Azkaban. Broke out, did you?"

"I was always full of surprises," Sirius mutters in a bitter voice. "I need to hide my son from Dumbledore."

"Mmmm…" Walburga nods, moving out of the way. Sirius walks up the steps cautiously, flinching again when her wand trails delicately over his arm. "You surprised me, playing the long game. I'm proud of you."

Grimacing, Sirius goes further into Grimmauld, inwardly screaming as he sees more than just the beginning of what would become the decrepit Number 12 of the future.

"Kreacher, clean this damn place up," he snaps at the house-elf, who eyes Harry carefully before looking to Walburga, who shuts the door, the lock clicking ominously.

"Do as he says. Now he has returned to us, he may do his duties as Lord Black, despite this unjust imprisonment. He served the Dark Lord, he is a true Black…"

Right, Sirius swallows, avoiding looking at his mother as he shifts Harry on his hip. If she fixes the Tapestry, will Harry show up?

"Take my grandson to the sitting room," Walburga instructs, "the dark magic around him isn't settling right."

"It shouldn't," Sirius replies, reluctant but knowing that his mother might be one of the only people who'd know what that thing from his scar was. "I banished something that- that took root in him. It was alive."

"Oh?"

Sirius hurries into the living room, not liking the curious sound of his mother's rasping voice. He sit on a sofa, sitting the unconscious Harry on his lap, bringing up his wand to run basic diagnostics.

"Lay him on the couch," his mother instructs, but Sirius ignores her. "Did you not hear me, boy?"

"Despite my obvious allegiances, my grievances with you were just, mother," Sirius snarls, feeling a sharp anger rise in his chest, pounding the inside of his ribcage like a fist. "I despise you and I came for the safety of this house, not your protection or help."

He expects a curse to wrack his body, to make him curl up and wish he was dead, but it doesn't come. Instead, his mother sets herself heavily in her chair and it's strange, but she looks older than her portrait did – more lined and more grey, heavy bags under her eyes.

"You're holding the heir to House Black. Do you expect me to hurt you?" she questions.

I see.

Sirius looks away from her, struggling to remember basic healing spells as he conjures a soft cloth to wipe at the blood on Harry's forehead.

"Dumbledore hid him with muggles," he eventually admits, not looking at her. "Azkaban- it's fucked with my head."

"Language…"

"I'll speak however the fuck I like, especially now." Sirius replies, before continuing. "I feel like I've lived twelve years in Azkaban, not three."

"Some don't survive a month," Walburga mutters, leaning back comfortably in her chair as she watches them, twirling her wand with a precision Sirius doesn't like thinking about. "My strong, brave son. The Dark Lord won't be pleased with you once he returns, but that mudblood must have delved into some powerfully dark magic to save her son."

"She sacrificed herself for him," Sirius says, staring at Harry, wishing he'd just wake up. Wake up! "So, the darkest."

"Ritual magic. I'm surprised her life was worth that of both her son and the Dark Lord…it's suspicious," Walburga narrows her eyes and Sirius has the sudden urge to stay away from her, knowing that tone of voice. Paranoia, wariness… "The greatest advocates are the greatest hypocrites. Did you mean to lead him to his death? Did you know something?"

Sirius thinks of the prophecy, of the lines Lily and James shared with him.

"Equals. The Dark Lord was a half-blood."

Walburga hisses, rearing up in her chair. "I knew it! Liar! I knew Regulus would never have betrayed him because of cowardice! The Dark Lord's cause was great, but he was the anathema of his own ambition!"