Chapter One

The mug by his hand slid over the scarred wood of the table, retreating from him. He barely noticed. There was a sound of liquid pouring, then the mug slid back into place. His eyes stayed locked on the creased yellowish page in front of him, carefully reading the small text that had so fascinated him. His hand curved slowly around the handle of the mug, a piece of glazed pottery with a silhouette of the Sydney Opera House on it. He picked it up, took a sip, and set it back down.

Harry Potter finally came to the realization that his coffee had been refilled.

"Thank you, Kreacher," he said, quiet since Kreacher was still in the kitchen, rinsing the coffeepot out in the sink.

Kreacher didn't respond, so Harry turned back to the newspaper and took another sip of coffee. Sirius wasn't awake yet, but Harry had been up for an hour. He'd woken up when something in his stomach had fluttered and he'd felt a burst of happiness that had nothing to do with him. He hadn't been having clear pictures from Voldemort the last few weeks, only these strange impressions a time or two. Harry felt sick when he thought of it, knowing that Voldemort was happy because he had his body back and he was gathering his old followers to him.

Just then, Sirius plodded into the kitchen, his hair hanging in a tousled mess of curls over squinted eyes. His feet were shod in the same old slippers, and Harry could tell the things were really ready for retirement. Not that he was about to suggest that Sirius break his one and only tie to his . . . lover? Fiancée? She'd been far more than a girlfriend, but whatever she'd been, there would be no tracing her or her brother after they'd run from Barty Crouch. Harry knew Sirius took it hard (even though he'd never say it) that they had lost, for good, the only people Sirius and he had ever considered family. The slippers could stay.

"Any coffee?" he mumbled.

Harry shook his head apologetically. "I drank it, sorry. I'll make some more."

He got up, but Sirius was looking meaningfully at Kreacher, who had just finished drying the pot and was replacing it. The house elf was giving him a very hostile look, and turned back to the sink to fill the pot with water without saying a word. Harry, his lips compressed with the tension of not saying anything insulting, gently pried the coffeepot away from Kreacher.

"It's all right, I'll make it. I shouldn't have had so much, anyway," he added, trying very hard to make the cheerful tone sound convincing. He'd told Sirius he didn't like the attitude he gave Kreacher, but Sirius was not receptive to the idea that Kreacher deserved any better. Harry knew that Kreacher had contributed to the ostracisation that Sirius had experienced in his childhood home, and that Kreacher had very nearly freed Peter Pettigrew to escape yet again, but he couldn't blame the elf for doing what he was asked by people who were kind to him. If Sirius wanted results, he ought to be kind. He could at least be polite, if he had no respect to show. Common courtesy was a nice gesture for beings inhabiting the same house.

Sirius sighed, and pulled over the front section of the newspaper that Harry had finished with. Harry had begun picking up on his habit of reading the paper every day—which was only natural, Sirius knew, but was still amused by a boy who'd just turned fifteen spending his Saturday morning with a cup of coffee and the paper.

"There's an article about us in there," Harry said casually.

Sirius jumped and nearly tore The Daily Prophet in two when his grip tightened on it. He was awake now, Harry reckoned. He couldn't help laughing a little.

"Merlin, Harry, don't say things like that," Sirius scolded.

"No, there really is," Harry insisted. "It's just about us being the Rivers family. They're reporting that you're taking on the Defense job and that I'm the first transfer student Hogwarts has had in about twenty years. Apparently, we don't occasion much comment, the article's about a paragraph long. There's a letter in the editorials begging you and I to come home that's much longer."

Sirius rolled his eyes. Ever since the edition that had declared Pettigrew's arrest and Sirius' pardon, there'd been about five letters a day to that effect. Why the public was so concerned, Harry didn't know, except that his parents had been well-thought of, the more so for becoming martyrs, and it was more exciting than the Chudley Cannons' abominable performance in their last game. There were also some letters, which pointedly named no names, talking about the rumours that You-Know-Who was back. These rumours were, for the most part, being firmly and politely rejected. There was some less eloquent and more adamant resistance, but there were also a few letters (written under pseudonyms, of course) stating their belief that the rumours were true. It was all just speculation to them, Harry thought with disbelief as he measured out the coffee and started the pot. They weren't taking it seriously; it was more like a scholarly debate being carried out in public.

They'd forgotten what Voldemort was capable of.

Harry had a long, ugly scar on his arm to remind him, if his status as an orphan wasn't enough. He was facing no temptation to laugh it off as paranoia. He didn't have that luxury.

He took up the newspaper again while the coffee was brewing, but he ended up just looking around the kitchen. It was an island of cleanliness in a horrid mess of a home. They'd given the bedrooms as many Tergeo spells as possible and determined to get more serious about cleaning when they were ready to tackle the whole house. But Harry hadn't been able to stomach a dirty kitchen. He'd cast the cleaning charms he knew, then bought some scrub brushes, bleach, and vinegar at the corner store. The kitchen sparkled, now. Kreacher had even gotten into the spirit when he'd seen how determined Harry was, and it was his bony old hands that had rid the baseboards and cupboards of the stubborn mildew that refused to respond to the most demanding Scourgify Harry could muster. Harry had even made the effort of walking a few extra miles to purchase some hand towels, and some curtains for the little window above the sink.

Sirius was not happy about the money. Their Muggle money was nearly gone, and their available wizarding money was dwindling quickly. Sirius still had nearly half his inheritance in Gringotts, and he assured Harry that there was plenty of money in the Potter vault, as well. The trouble was that they couldn't access it so long as they weren't officially here. Still, even Sirius seemed to appreciate how much better the kitchen looked, and said cheerfully that they'd live just fine on his teaching salary until Voldemort was gone or they were outed.

Sirius laid the newspaper aside so he could get up and pour his coffee, giving Kreacher another dirty look. He seemed to realize that Harry wasn't reading his section of the paper.

"Nothing much of interest today, hmm?"

"Not that I didn't already know. It's nice, having a secret society around to deliver all the news before it makes the paper." Harry gave the pages in his hands a stern look. "If it makes the paper."

"The Order gets things done," Sirius agreed. "I've got to talk to you about something, by the way."

"Anything to do with the meeting I wasn't invited to?"

"Hey, I don't get invited to the bigger ones, either. Once I start teaching, I'll be able to publicly declare that John Rivers is against Voldemort to anyone who'll listen, but in the Order, only about half of 'em know I'm here. This was a private meeting, just the old bunch, so they all knew me. The point is, they want the house."

"What, this one? They can have it."

"We're going to use it as headquarters. It's an ideal location. It won't be used during the school year, for the most part, and there are only a couple of people who know of it right now. Peter's in jail, so he's harmless—can't believe I told him about this place, anyway—and then it's just us, really."

"Yeah, but we can't be sure that someone in the Order won't talk."

"Oh, yes, we can."

"Your belief in your allies is admirable, but—"

"Fidelius Charm."

"Oh, that one's . . . wait, don't tell me . . ."

Harry jumped up and ran upstairs for the book he knew contained a description of the charm. He recalled that it was complex, and if he was not mistaken, Sirius had told him that his parents had used one. He found what he was looking for quickly, and got even angrier with Pettigrew for what he'd done to Harry's parents. If he'd gone into some kind of hiding, they would have all been safe as . . . well, babes in a cradle was definitely the wrong metaphor for this situation.

Downstairs, Sirius was thoroughly amused, despite being abandoned to a few minutes alone with the detestable house elf. Harry could've just asked him to explain. But no, books held all the answers. It was probably Sirius' fault, he'd been the one to constantly tell Harry to study hard and that he could find the answers to his questions. Maybe Harry should have had more friends growing up.

Harry tromped back downstairs after a few minutes and gave Sirius a level look.

"Who's going to be Secret-Keeper?"

"Professor Dumbledore," Sirius answered, accepting the cup of coffee that Kreacher handed him, at least giving the courtesy of nodding his head at the servant.

Harry looked thoughtful, giving it a thorough going-over in his head, and shrugged. "Probably the best person for it."

"Glad it meets with your approval."

Harry made a face. "I thought you trusted my judgment."

"Oh, sometimes. When there's no veela hookers involved, anyway."

Harry's face became even more disgruntled. "You had to bring that up."

"Or beautiful blonde book managers . . ."

"Shut up, Sirius."

"Or mysterious women with brown eyes, unless I mistake my guess. Maybe we ought to just keep you away from women in general. Who's got brown eyes, Harry?"

"Me," he grunted.

As if reminded, he reached up to rub his eyes, which were still not fully comfortable with the lenses. Sirius snatched him by the wrist and lowered his arm back down to the table, without disturbing the full mug of coffee poised at his lips. Harry, far from being upset, grinned.

"Remember the arm-wrestling at the bar?"

Sirius grinned back. "I never did beat Miguel, did I?"

"Aw, almost."

"Wonder how they are?"

Harry's smile faded at how closely Sirius' thoughts mirrored his own of a few minutes ago. He tried for optimistic. "We can find them, you know. After this is all over."

"No," Sirius said, shaking his head. "Catalina's married and having babies, by now. I'm going to leave her alone."

Harry didn't like the sudden burst of melancholy that was falling over the bright kitchen. He propped his arm on the table and held his hand up. He forced himself to grin again. Sirius chuckled, braced his own arm on the table, and clasped Harry's hand.

"Go," he said, in a bored tone. Harry's hand was pressed against the table in a few seconds, before Sirius even started to look like he was trying. "Guess you need to work out a little more."

"Couldn't have anything to do with me being barely fifteen and you being a large, very fit man."

"Naw, you're just scrawny. Got more muscle on you than James had at your age, that's something."

Harry stood up. "You want to spar a while?"

"We have more pressing things to do," Sirius answered, sipping his coffee.

"Like what?"

"Like make this house inhabitable. And get it ready for a lot of company. If we're going to use it for headquarters, we've got to get it into shape."

Harry wrinkled his nose. "It'll wait an hour. Come on."

They changed clothes and went into the (mostly) empty room they'd been using for practice sessions since they'd moved in. They hadn't been able to get the family tree off the wall, but neither of them could stand looking at the blasted and burned surface of that testament to pureblood mania, so they'd hung sheets over it, and brought in a radio to make it seem more cheerful in here. They tuned in to the recently discovered Wizarding Wireless Network, found the songs particularly unsuitable to an impromptu sparring match, and decided to practice in silence. The music was better at night.

They each fell into an opening stance. With much ribbing about the other's physique and technique, they fell to it. It was a comfortable routine, to come in here and work up a sweat, work off some frustration. They'd been doing this in one home or another for several years, now, and constantly honed each other's skills by trying to surprise someone whose instincts they knew so well. Obviously, they didn't get out much, so this was their only way to have fun.

"Oh, I forgot something," Sirius said, about halfway to exhausted and not ready to give up yet.

Harry, who had tied a strip of cloth around his forehead to stop the sweat, stepped back with his hands up in a time-out to adjust the cloth from falling over his eyes. "Why do I get the feeling this isn't going to be something I'll like?"

"It's only fair play," Sirius said, taking the opportunity to mop sweat from his own face. "You've been sitting on something unpleasant for two days. What is it?"

"You first," Harry said with narrow eyes.

Sirius sighed. "We have to go to the school."

Harry shrugged. "So what?"

"You have to get Sorted."

"What, you mean, into a House?"

"Yes, that's what I mean."

"Do I have to wear the hat?"

"Afraid so."

"Is Headmaster Dumbledore going to be there?"

"It's kept in his office."

"Damn," Harry said grimly.

"Yeah," Sirius agreed.

"No, I mean, damn, mine is worse than yours. That's not actually that bad."

"Oh. Well, what is it you've been wanting to say to me? Get it off your chest, already."

Harry sighed, and lowered himself into a stance. "If you don't call your friend Remus, I'm going to kick your arse," he stated plainly.

Sirius felt a jolt to his stomach that had him thinking he'd missed it and Harry had already carried out his threat. He hadn't seen Remus. Not once. He'd expected to run into him at an Order meeting, but Remus hadn't been there. Harry had obviously found out, somehow. Sirius knew Harry wouldn't look in his mind without permission, but maybe he'd been thinking about it so strongly that it had skimmed the surface and Harry hadn't been able to help it. Or maybe Dumbledore had said something to Harry without him knowing.

Still, he leapt forward and tried to take the teeth out of Harry's threat by pinning him to the floor. It didn't last; Harry threw him off and they found themselves back on their feet trying to kick each other to death. When Harry had him down on the ground with his arm over Sirius' throat and his legs well balanced on the floor, Sirius could have (probably) thrown him off, but instead he gave in.

"I'll talk to him," he sighed.

"Good."

"After your Sorting."

Harry sat in the corner of the headmaster's office. Dumbledore and Sirius waited quietly but anxiously, and Fawkes appeared to be sleeping, his head tucked under his wing and ignoring the whole process. Maybe he was just the only one in the office who realized Harry was embarrassed and was trying to give him a break.

The Hat, which had spoken very jovially about having to Sort a student who was so much older than normal, and seemed to be happy about the challenge, was silent on his head for several long moments. Harry could hear a soft muttering—the Hat was talking to itself. He looked at the faces of Sirius and Dumbledore, still unmoving and impatient, and realized they couldn't hear it. Well, how convenient. Maybe he could talk to the Hat without speaking, without the other men knowing what they were saying. Hopefully the Hat would agree to a private conversation.

You mind telling me what you're thinking? Harry thought at the Hat, hoping it worked. Silently?

Of course silently, the Hat answered, seeming to sneer at him. I wouldn't be so impolite. I was merely trying to sort through the complexities of your mind.

Harry tried to hold back a snicker. Complexities of his mind, indeed.

You have an interesting Animagus form, don't you?

The headmaster doesn't know about that! Harry thought at the Hat in a near panic. That secret was between himself, Sirius, and Two Rivers, who had been dead for two years.

I see. You think you are wise, do you? Fascinated by the night, by secrets, by the dead? The owl is a messenger of the dead in some cultures, you know.

Harry didn't like the insinuation he saw in the words, so close to what he'd been thinking about himself all summer: that he was some kind of harbinger of doom for England, just by being who he was. The owl is a symbol for change, and being comfortable with one's inner self. The owl sees behind masks and into dark places to find truth. It is good at being silent, it is a messenger of secrets, and is surrounded by mystery.

Who told you all that?

A Native American shaman. The one who taught me how to become an Animagus. When I was nine.

You're not the least bit smug, either, the Hat said sarcastically.

Maybe just a little defensive, Harry admitted, a bit amused by himself. It was a damned Hat, not a judge at a sentencing. Sorry for the interruption. You were saying?

The Hat seemed a little surprised by the apology. This is why I don't Sort teenagers, it groused as it went back to shuffling through his brain. Well, I see you're quite an academic. You love your books and scholarly debates, don't you? Still . . . you would never hide behind them. You're plenty devious, so capable of secrets. But look at all this loyalty to your godfather, and those you love. You will never be accused of having no principles, that's certain. Perhaps Ravenclaw.

Tell me which House will help me the furthest toward my goals in life.

I see many goals. Which do you mean?

They all lead in the same direction.

A world without fear . . . A world you can share with your loved ones. And yet you are willing to sacrifice yourself, if it means your loved ones will be safe without you. You are very noble—keeping secrets is only in the interest of protecting this ideal world of yours. Is that about right?

Just about.

Harry was bemused and feeling a bit lost by the Hat's description of him. It sounded heroic. But he wasn't. Heroic, that is. Not in the least. He was a selfish teenager whose godfather indulged him to no end and who had no idea what would be required of him, how much he could handle. He'd been dishonest his entire life, in the interest of protecting . . . protecting Sirius, he had to admit. For himself, he might not have cared. It was Sirius that mattered and that he kept secrets for, Sirius that made him feel like he, Harry, was worth the effort of protecting. Miguel, and Catalina. He would protect them at all costs, too. Maybe even Anna. Didn't she deserve it just as much as they did? Didn't Sascha, and Madeleine the mayor's daughter, and Mona and Jonny? Where did he get off, thinking all those people were his to protect?

Gryffindor, then. I see so much of Slytherin in you, but you have far too much nobility and selfless courage to be suited to that house.

All right, Harry said calmly, thinking he should have seen this coming, though he hadn't. Just like my father, right?

No, the Hat replied, a little bit soberly. Not just like him, but very close.

"Gryffindor," the Hat announced aloud.

Both men relaxed visibly.

"That took way too long for something I already knew," Sirius said wryly.

"We had a lot to talk about," Harry shrugged. "Thanks," he said to the Hat. "I guess you don't have a hand to shake, do you?"

"Appreciate the thought, though," the Hat muttered as Dumbledore took it and placed it on a high shelf, his blue eyes shining with pride.

Harry looked over at the phoenix's perch. Fawkes looked back at him and trilled happily.