Without Thorn the Rose

by Threadbare Threnody

A bittersweet coming-of-age story for fans of good writing. Lily died, and left James to raise a stranger's son alone. In the shadows of Azkaban, Harry learns from Dementors and Death Eaters, while in the caverns of the sea a mysterious power awaits the chance to steal his soul. Warnings inside.

10. Red Viper, Black Dog

o─-o─-o─-─-─-─ WITHOUT THORN THE ROSE ─-─-─-─o-─o-─o

Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling.

Warnings: Some slash in this chapter.

Notes: Thanks for all the new reviews, favs, and follows. Sorry it took me a few extra days to get this chapter out. I am getting down to the end of the semester here, and finals are the next two weeks, so there may be a few more off-schedule weeks. Also, this chapter was a beast that required an almost total rewrite. I probably could have posted it a couple of days ago, but I wanted to polish it some more. Please let me know what you think of the new character I introduce in this one. I have already posted some pics of my idea of what he looks like over at my Pinterest. Hint: yummy.

Oh, I have also been advised that the word fugleungen should be fugleunge. I think this has something to do with gender or definite articles or something. Norwegian is very mysterious to me. I wrote a little macro that auto-updates all my chapter files from my central file to make it easier to change that everywhere. Unfortunately, this also means that I won't have any qualms if I want to go back and toy with already posted chapters some more. In fact, I have already done so a few times without saying anything, but I will notify you all if I decide to change any plot points. Frankly, I just don't understand how people can post as they write without wanting to change things later!

o─-─-─-─-─ 10. RED VIPER, BLACK DOG ─-─-─-─-─o

"Thanks, angel," Rabastan acknowledged, passing back an empty bowl from which every last crumb had been licked.

"Angel?" Harry asked sceptically. He was sitting cross-legged before Rab's cell, just out of arm's reach of the auburn-haired prisoner.

Rab shrugged, and a flicker of resentment crossed the auburn haired man's gaunt face. "I don't have anything else to call you."

Harry looked away a bit guiltily. He had long since extracted from his great-uncle a magical vow to keep Harry's secrets, but even so, Harry still had not given his name to Rab. The idea of doing so made him uneasy, and Harry was learning to trust his instincts, both magical and mundane. After that first reckless visit, Harry had also concealed his presence from the other prisoners atop the tower. Given the placement of the cells and the stairs, he needed only silencing spells to do so.

"I don't think an angel would visit a Death Eater," Harry replied bluntly.

"Why not? Death Eaters fight for the freedom of their fellow wizards."

"Except the muggleborn kind," Harry pointed out.

Rabastan's eyes glinted murderously. "Mudbloods," he spat. "They're worse than muggles. At least those vermin leave us alone."

Harry sighed, and got to his feet. Rab's rants usually signalled the end of a session. The man would pace his cell agitatedly for hours, pulling at his hair and spewing vitriol into the wind until his words were incomprehensible. It was impossible to talk him down from this state.

Harry hadn't noticed it on his first meeting with his great-uncle, but upon closer inspection, there was a threadbare quality to the man's soul, and there were days on which Harry arrived to find him catatonic, staring into space dumbly while drool rolled down his chin. Worse, in the presence of dementors, Harry could actually see the man's soul fraying. It was equal parts thrilling and revolting.

"No, wait!" Rab cried, reaching out desperately through the bars to clutch at Harry's trousers, which were all he could reach of the boy. The man's lower lip trembled, and tears began to gather in his eyes. "I'm sorry, please don't go! Did I do something wrong? Are you a muggle-lover?"

These sudden emotional transitions were another side effect of the damage to Rab's soul, Harry supposed, but they were difficult to tolerate, even so. He glanced longingly toward the entrance to the hidden stair.

"I need to get going," the dark-haired boy explained. "I'll come back tomorrow, but I'm taking the silencing spell down now."

That was the signal for Rab to either stop talking to Harry or start choking on his magical vow. The man had already pushed it to the limit several times, and today was no exception.

Rab's emotions shifted gear again without warning. Spittle flew from the Death Eater's mouth as his face flushed bright red with fury. "You little freak. You think you can jerk me around like some two-sickle whore? Fuck you! Go suck off some muggles, why don't you, or a dementor, you fucking ghoul!"

Harry just shook his head wearily. He had the plot of the melodrama by heart after several weeks' worth of visits. Next, Rab would weep and beg Harry's forgiveness for insulting him. Harry gestured with his hand, dismissing the silencing spell, and headed for the stairs.

Rab tried to choke out a few more words, despite the invisible, choking pressure of his vow. "Y…muggle-loving…fu…"

Rab coughed and gasped for breath as Harry approached the wall that hid the twisted stair and drew back the stone with magic. The Death Eater was not finished, however. He could still talk; he simply could not reveal Harry's presence by directing statements to him. Unfortunately, this did not prevent communication nearly well enough.

There was a strangled sob, and the sound of skin and bones thudding against the icy bars of Rab's cell. Harry glanced back, against his own better judgement, as the pathetic man clutched the bars and blubbered.

"Muggles—I don't care about muggles. Muggles are grand, muggles are brilliant! Bring me a knife, and I'd cut the Mark off right this minute! Bring me a picture of the Dark Lord, and I'd spit on it! Bring me Dumbledore, and I'd kiss his wrinkled old ball-sack! Only—only, ple…" Rab's voice was choked off again.

Harry was closing the stone door when a scratchy voice called from the next cell.

"Traitor!"

Harry paused.

Rabastan's tears had dried quickly, it seemed, as he snarled, "Fuck off, you flea-ridden shit-eater!"

Harry slipped back out onto the tower's parapet, keeping out of sight of Rab.

"Everyone knows what a traitor you are," the auburn-haired man called. "Betrayed your own best friend, didn't you?"

"NEVER!" the other voice roared.

It was the animagus in the next cell. Harry saw the man's long, bony, white fingers clenching his bars, and he couldn't resist his growing curiosity any longer. It was a risk, but he had taken plenty of those already. He stepped into view of the animagus, and looked him over.

The prisoner, who was usually a shaggy black dog, also had shaggy black hair as a human, but only on his head. He was rather tall, and his face would have been quite handsome, if it weren't so skeletal and worn with suffering. Harry knew him at once from the photograph in Nature's Nobility.

"You're Sirius Black," Harry murmured, eyes wide.

Sirius stepped back cautiously, looking Harry over with alarm, but he nodded, once, curtly.

"Sold out your own best friend to the Dark Lord!" Rab baited gleefully, still unaware of Harry's presence.

Sirius's face writhed with fury. It seemed he was helpless to resist his fellow Death Eater's taunts. "I never sold out Prongs, you bloody snake!"

"Ha!" Rabastan's laugh was a high, unhealthy sound, more like a cry of pain than amusement. "Prongs! Is that what you called him when he pronged you up the arse, you bloody shirt-lif—"

Harry cut Rab off mid-giggle with a silencing spell that enclosed himself and Sirius. Anything to prevent the repellent drama from playing out. Harry suspected that the men had enacted this particular scene a thousand times. It must have been the only entertainment available for years.

Sirius looked back at Harry, startled.

"You shouldn't let him get you so riled up," Harry advised.

Sirius scoffed bitterly. "Not like there's anything else to do around here."

Harry acknowledged the truth of this statement with a rueful tilt of the head. "He's just taking the piss, though. He knows you didn't sell out Potter."

Sirius frowned in suspicion. "And how would you know?"

"Everyone knows. Potter told the whole story to the Prophet just after the attack. It was above the fold for weeks. He made Dumbledore his secret-keeper after you turned, but Voldemort found them anyway."

Sirius made a derisive noise. "I suppose you read all about it? What are you, a vampire?" he asked, referring to Harry's youth.

Harry smiled mysteriously. Sirius already seemed to be a good deal sharper than Rab, and his soul, though not unscathed, bore far less damage than Rab's. Sirius' glowing soul pulsed and swirled healthily, though it seemed a touch smaller than was usual for a wizard.

"You tell me your story, I'll tell you mine," Harry offered.

Sirius looked intrigued, but did not reply right away as he curled up again with his blanket in the leeward part of his cell. After a moment of silent thought, Harry realized that the man was trembling, and his eyes had taken on a sheen of terror. Given the perpetual darkness and the arctic winds that raked the soaring tower, Harry hadn't detected the intruder.

"Stop," Harry commanded, whirling to face the dementor that loomed over him.

It inhaled with a hoarse rattle, and Harry stepped back protectively against the bars of the cell, summoning his dove patronus, Pax, with a quick wave of his hand. The dementor shifted restlessly, but stayed near the edge of the tower.

"Hu-u-ungry," the black-robed creature rasped. "Pre-e-ey."

"This one is mine. Go find someone else to chew on," Harry warned.

The dementor paused for a moment, then turned and sailed over the crenulation. Harry turned back to Sirius and found him in dog form, shivering. Harry warmed the man with a spell and sent Pax to him, hoping he hadn't been rendered incapable of speech.

"Sorry, I don't have any food for you. I'll bring some next time," Harry promised, settling onto the pleasantly icy stone floor in front of the cell.

Sirius glanced at Harry, whimpered softly, then shifted jerkily back to human form. Harry was impressed—Rab would have been insensible for hours. Sirius regarded Harry with only slightly less fear than he had the dementor, but his intelligent black eyes searched Harry's face intently. Harry was glad he had used a sticking spell to keep his fringe firmly in place.

"You can speak to dementors," Sirius observed. His words sounded like an accusation.

Harry smirked. "Anyone can speak to them."

"But you, they understand."

Harry looked up at the star-littered sky for a moment. "How shall I put it? They…speak to something inside of me."

Sirius looked perplexed. "Well, this is certainly a new tactic. You haven't tried this before. I wonder if it will work?" He scratched his scraggly beard and regarded Harry curiously.

Harry arched one thin black eyebrow. "When you say 'you'…"

Sirius looked nonplussed. "You Ministry types. You've never sent an Unspeakable before."

Harry was caught off-guard for a moment, but he recovered quickly. "Ah. Yes. Well…"

Sirius cocked his head. "So? What is it this time? A new potion? Honestly, I thought you had given up years since."

"The Ministry never gives up."

Sirius was motionless for a few seconds, and then he chuckled awkwardly, as though he had forgotten how. The laughter turned into a coughing fit that lasted quite a while. When he finally recovered, he was regarding Harry in a different light.

"You're not Ministry, are you?"

Harry clucked his tongue and sighed. "What gave me away?" he grumbled.

"The lack of irony, mainly. Never met an Unspeakable who had any respect for the Ministry. I'm not sure they even consider themselves employees." Sirius' sharp eyes raked over Harry's face. "You really are just a kid, then?"

Harry glowered at Sirius' apparently waning opinion of him. "I wouldn't say I'm just a kid…but if you must know, I'm ten."

Sirius snorted. "I always knew the wizenguards were a sorry lot, but when kids are breaking in, you know you've got problems."

"Never mind that. Can Unspeakables really communicate with dementors?" Harry asked.

"I wouldn't know, but you didn't seem to be the Dark Lord reborn, so I thought if anyone could, it would be them."

"The Dark Lord—Voldemort—he understood dementors?" Harry asked sharply.

"So he said. How did you get in here?"

Harry smiled in what he fancied was a predatory manner. "Answer my questions, and I'll tell you."

Sirius was still a moment. Then he reached out for Pax, who alit on the man's wrist of his own volition. Sirius petted the small creature for a moment, gazing into its eyes. "Leave your patronus with me sometimes, and I'll tell you as much as the Ministry know."

Harry raised an eyebrow challengingly. "Only if you agree to keep my visits a secret," he returned, and extended his coral-pierced hand, which was already glowing with golden spell-light.

Sirius fixated on Harry's hand as though it were a weapon. "With what as forfeit?"

Harry shrugged. "Loss of consciousness?" It was the same forfeit Rab had taken, and was effective enough.

Sirius considered a moment, then, slowly, he inclined his head, and took the vow. He took a deep breath, afterward, and looked at Harry determinedly. "So. What do you want to know?"

Harry sat forward eagerly. "You were the first Black Sorted into Gryffindor in centuries. Your family disowned you, and you fought alongside Dumbledore. But then you turned. I want to know why."

Sirius closed his eyes and sighed deeply. "So do I. So does the Ministry."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, puzzled.

"I Obliviated myself."

Harry's mouth dropped open. "You mean you don't know? You betrayed everyone, and you don't even know why?"

Sirius barked a humourless laugh. "They tried for years to get it out of me. Legilimency, veritaserum… They never found anything. There's a reason we Blacks are known for our psychomagy."

Harry, who was half Black through Lily, yearned to confess his heritage to Sirius so that he, too, could learn the subtle family art, but that was a conversation for another time, if ever.

"Was this before or after you joined Voldemort?"

Sirius massaged his stick-thin left forearm unconsciously. "Before. That was the whole point, I would guess."

"But if you didn't remember why you wanted to join him, then why do it?"

"I implanted messages and impulses into my dreams. They were…difficult to controvert."

"And it didn't occur to you that someone else might be manipulating you?"

Sirius shook his head. "I learned the art of mind magic at my mother's knee. I know my own work when I see it."

"So you blew up the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures—killed hundreds of innocent people and creatures—because of some dreams?"

"The creatures, I released. As for the employees—innocent?" Sirius growled harshly, eyes blazing. "They deserved far worse than death. That was simply the best I could do, even with the Dark Lord's backing."

Harry's eyes widened. "Why? What did they do?"

Sirius shook his head. "Obliviated, remember? All I know is what I saw that day." He cut his eyes sharply toward Harry, who was hanging on every word. "And that's not a story for children."

Harry scowled. "I've seen plenty."

Sirius clearly didn't take this claim as legitimate. "Let's just say, when they said they were disposing of dangerous creatures, they didn't mean quite what everyone thought."

Harry squinched his face up, pondering that idea.

"I didn't just blow up their offices," Sirius continued, baring his teeth with a grim and twisted pride. "I obliterated them beyond all repair. And then I hunted down every last survivor. Everyone who was on vacation and sick leave. All but one."

"Who?" Harry asked, propping his chin on his fist, fascinated.

Sirius shook his head. "I don't know his name. He caught me setting up the spells and bolted. I thought I was done for, but he must not have told anyone in time. Damned if I know why not." Sirius' jaw clenched, and he looked coldly murderous for a moment.

"You still want him dead, even after all these years?"

"I'd kill him in a heartbeat."

Harry frowned thoughtfully at the animagus. "Sirius," he asked slowly, trying to find just the right words. "What do you think your reason for turning was?"

Sirius shrugged one bony shoulder. "Love? It's the only possibility that makes any sense." Harry nodded. "Thing is, I probably didn't completely Obliviate my memories of that person. That would have been too obvious, especially if we had a public relationship. Voldemort, the Ministry interrogators, they would have noticed that. So it's probably someone I remember. I just don't remember loving them that madly."

"That makes sense," Harry agreed, struggling to keep his face impassive. He was impressed that Sirius had put his finger right on it, but, after all, the man had had years to think it over.

"But I've dated a lot of people," Sirius continued, rubbing streaks into the grime that coated his forehead. "I was a bit of a slag at Hogwarts, to be honest."

"Maybe I could go talk to some of your old lovers," Harry suggested innocently. "Try to figure out who it is. That is, if it wouldn't damage your mind to find out."

Sirius waved his hand dismissively. "That presumes I've walled it off in some part of my mind. I haven't. Those memories are quite literally gone."

Harry bit his lip. "So even if you found out who it was, you still wouldn't remember?"

"That's right."

Harry nibbled his lower lip, thinking quickly. "But that's too tragic, isn't it—to think you destroyed a love so…so epic?"

Sirius looked troubled for a moment. "I suppose. I can't really know."

"I just can't imagine anyone would really do that," Harry continued pointedly. "I mean, to lose each other forever…"

"Some things are more important than being together, I suppose."

"But I just can't believe you would really destroy a love that deep…"

"You said that already."

Harry rolled his eyes, and stopped beating around the bush. "What I mean is, don't you think you must have stored your memories somewhere safe? Maybe I could get them for you."

Sirius was silent for a long time, staring into space. Then he nodded, once. "I've thought of it before."

"Where would you have stored them?"

"Gringotts, I suppose. That would have kept them safe from the Dark Lord and the Ministry. Probably under a code name, in a vault that I don't remember I have."

"But if I could find the key…" Harry prompted.

Sirius snarled suddenly. "Whoever this lover is, I must have been counting on her to visit me. It would have triggered a dream, perhaps, a message…only she never once did. So why should I even bother, after all these years? She obviously thinks herself better off without me."

Harry sighed. "I'm sure she had her reasons."

Sirius glowered at the wind. "Even if I did get my memories back, what good would it do me? I would still be in here, and she would still be out there. And if she hates me now…"

Harry smirked to himself, but hid it behind his fist.

─-─-─-─-─o─-─-─-─-─

"How come you've never visited Sirius in Azkaban?" Harry asked one morning during his monthly stay at Remus'.

Remus started, and nearly splashed tea all over the Sunday Prophet crossword.

"Harry, it's not polite to keep pestering people about things from their past," he instructed.

"I know," Harry replied calmly. "It's just—haven't you ever wondered why he did it? Why don't you just go ask him?"

"I know why he did it," Remus answered in clipped tones.

Harry propped his chin on his fist and widened his eyes. "Really? Did he tell you?"

"He didn't have to." Remus looked sad and a touch guilty for a moment, then turned back to his crossword. "Now, enough of that; help me with this clue. 48-across, six letters. Lead singer of the Hobgoblins, to his friends."

"Stubby," Harry answered automatically. "Do you blame yourself? Is that why you won't see him?"

Remus filled in the letters with so much pressure that his quill nib snapped and dripped ink all over the table.

"Bloody—" Remus muttered, Scourgifying the mess. Harry quirked a nervous smile. It took quite a bit to bring his Uncle Remus to curses. "Harry, we are not having this conversation, and that is final. You need to learn that there are certain subjects that are simply off-limits."

"I know that. I really do," Harry reassured the man. "But did he tell you he was going to do it? Did he ask you to come with him? He must have said goodbye, at least," Harry speculated, ignoring the steadily darkening glower being directed at him. "Did he leave you something to remember him by?"

Harry was watching Remus like a hawk, and couldn't resist a small smile when the man's eyes darted, briefly, in the direction of his bedroom.

─-─-─-─-─o─-─-─-─-─

Harry suffered only a fleeting pang of guilt as he rummaged through his uncle's desk, later that afternoon. He had spelled Remus to sleep in front of the Omnivision, but, even so, he worked as quickly as he could. He wasn't sure how late Gringotts was open, never having been there.

There was no vault key in Remus' room, but there was something out of place. In his underwear drawer, folded into a pair of polka-dotted boxers, was a matchbox-sized metal contraption with a hinged lid and a small wheel. Engraved into the base was 'SOB to RJL, you are forever the light of my life'. Harry, frowning, turned the wheel a few times, but nothing happened. Then he shook the contraption, and heard the sloshing of liquid, as well as a faint tinkle. Grinning, Harry vanished the metal casing along with the liquid, and a tiny, shining key fell into his hand.

"Gotcha," Harry muttered, tossing the gleaming gold key into the air and catching it.

It was a simple matter of a hooded cloak and a handful of floo powder to make his way to Gringotts incognito. Harry wanted to linger in the lobby and gawk at the bank's grand and dazzling interior, but he kept his head down and stuck to the plan. He presented the key wordlessly to the first teller available, and the tiny goblin inspected it meticulously, his bat-like ears twitching.

"Name?" the goblin asked, in a voice as short as he was. Harry shook his head wordlessly. He hadn't spent months studying Wizarding Law for nothing. A name was not necessary, and although the Ministry pressured the goblins to keep records of such things, the implacable race followed their own age-old ways. Harry could only hope that Sirius had not paid for any security measures on his vault that would require identification.

The goblin favoured Harry with an unimpressed look, and Harry self-consciously tugged his hood lower. "Come along, then," the small being instructed, returning the key before leading Harry away. It seemed Harry was in luck.

After a nausea-inducing trip at high speed through the vaults, Harry climbed on unsteady legs from the cart, before a wall full of small doors, perhaps a foot square each. The goblin pointed to the correct door, and Harry drew back with a gasp that he couldn't stifle.

He couldn't understand what he was seeing through the thick metal door. Inside the vault lay an unliving soul, the size of a small animal. Surely that wasn't how Sirius had stored his memories. That would be ghoulish, even by Harry's standards. He had been expecting something along the lines of a pensieve.

Harry's heart pounded as he turned the tiny key with sweaty fingers. Inside the miniature vault was neither a pensieve nor an animal. The space was empty, save for a fist-sized chunk of glossy, sharp-edged, black obsidian, and the wisp of unmoving soul within it. Harry gaped at the sight stupidly until the goblin cleared his throat pointedly. Then Harry pocketed the rock with ginger care, and locked the vault again.

─-─-─-─-─o─-─-─-─-─

Harry turned the chunk of ensouled obsidian around and around in his hands as he lay on his bed in the attic of the cottage on Azkaban. At first, it had seemed opaque, but against the light it was darkly translucent. The origin of the stone itself, however, was the last of Harry's questions. How had Sirius split off a piece of his soul, and how had he anchored it? Had he employed a dementor? Surely not; he would have needed Voldemort's aid to communicate with one. Was there a spell for severing a soul, then? There must be. Or could a master psychomage manipulate his own soul at will?

"Planning to carve yourssself a knife?" Lady asked, lifting her head from Harry's chest lazily.

"Knife?" Harry asked, puzzled.

"Or an arrowhead? I wouldn't bother. You're bad enough at being a wizard, ssso don't go trying to be a muggle," she informed him in no uncertain terms.

"Don't worry, I'm not turning Palaeolithic on you," Harry hissed in reply. "Jussst wondering how I could chip off a bit of my sssoul."

Lady tilted her head and flicked her tongue out, tasting the air. "Will there be blood?" she asked eagerly.

Harry made a disgusted noise, and brought the obsidian closer, inspecting it minutely. There were glowing threads, so fine as to be nearly invisible, he realized, leading away from the bit of soul and in the direction of the prison. So that was it; Sirius had not truly severed this piece of his soul, but merely dislocated it. Harry had experimented with that already, but hadn't realized that memories could be affected.

Harry desperately wanted to experiment on the stone and its wisp of soul, but he was keenly aware of how irreversible any damage would be. Even so, after hours of temptation, he could not resist raising the stone to his lips and inhaling deeply. Grey spots danced in his vision, spreading rapidly until they merged into a bank of grey fog. And then, without warning, Harry was someone else.

Gazing down at the small figure in the hospital bed, tracing every scratch and bite with his eyes, Sirius felt as though someone were squeezing his heart. It wasn't right that someone so kind and gentle had to suffer this kind of violence. He reached down for the slim, cool hand, and enclosed it in his own, trying to imbue some warmth. He had made up his mind. He wasn't just going to let his friend suffer alone anymore, not while there was anything he could do about it.

Grey fog swirled, and the vision shifted.

"Padfoot, then," the boy curled up in the window seat said, with a smile playing about his lips. Sirius ached to taste those lips. Surely, they would taste like sunshine and honey. "Because you have such enormous paws."

"You know what they say about dogs with big paws," Sirius replied with a lecherous grin.

Remus scoffed and turned his face away, trying to hide a slight blush. The rays of the setting sun made golden silk of his light brown hair. Sirius stuffed his hands into his pockets, resisting the temptation to run his fingers through that shining silk.

Grey fog.

Sirius watched Remus' face from across the pillow as the smaller boy slept off the exhaustion of his monthly transformation. Sirius was weary, too, from a night spent in wild, frenetic play, but still he felt compelled to watch over the other boy. Remus sighed, blinking sleepily at Sirius.

"Sirius?" he mumbled.

"Yeah," Sirius answered, scooting forward for a light kiss.

"James?" Remus asked, glancing around blearily. "Pete?"

"Back in the dorms," Sirius answered, caressing his lover's tangled hair.

Remus made a contented sound, and cuddled into Sirius' chest, right where he belonged.

"Love you, Pads," Remus murmured.

Sirius wrapped his arms around the other boy in silent wonder. Something like a crashing wave was moving through him, and if he didn't hold on, he was going to be swept away.

Grey fog, and in the brief instant when Harry could remember who he was, he tore the stone from his lips. The wrenching effort left him dizzy and ill, but he didn't want to fall in deeper into those bittersweet memories. He felt disgusted with himself, as though he had violated something pure.

Downstairs, Harry heard his father snoring. That was his call to be off. He shoved Lady onto the bed unceremoniously, and pulled his shoes on, lacing them with a tossed-off spell. Then he clambered down from the small attic balcony, using a cushioning spell to jump the last few feet to the ground.

The sunlight hours were lengthening again, but night still ruled the day, and Harry was never so sure of himself as under cover of darkness. Navigating the treacherous underwater entrance to the grotto beneath Azkaban had long since become routine, and Harry's legs had grown stronger from scrambling up the perilous and winding stairs day after day. He waited at the top, impatiently, until the guard completed his hourly patrol of the tower, before darting out into the arctic winds.

"Sirius," Harry called, soft despite the silencing spell he had cast. He kicked the frosty iron bars of the animagus' cage. "Sirius!"

The shaggy black dog rolled over, and a bedraggled Pax wriggled out from underneath the gaunt beast, greeting Harry with silent flaps of his beak. Harry cast a warming spell at Sirius, and then floated the bowls of bacon, eggs, and toast through the bars. The black dog's nose twitched, and at once he was scarfing down the breakfast food, even before he had completed the transformation back to human. In less than a minute, Sirius was licking up the last of the eggs.

"Thank you," the dark-haired man said, bowing his head, for all the world as though he were taking a leisurely dinner at another pureblood's manor. The man had style; Harry had to grant him that. "For the warming spells, too. I only wish you could bring me a hot bath."

"I could probably work something out," Harry replied seriously, "but I think the guards would notice. They haven't seen Pax, have they?"

Sirius shook his head. "All's well. The dementors have been leaving me alone. They leave Rab alone, too, as long as I keep to that side of my cell."

"Thank you for that. I know there's no love lost between you two."

Sirius shrugged. "He's a vile little snake, all right, but he was never as bad as some of them. Bark's worse than his bite, you might say."

Harry was glad to hear that, since Rab was positively insufferable at times. "Never mind him," he said impatiently. "I have it."

"You have what?"

"Your memories," Harry answered, grinning broadly, as he pulled the chunk of rough obsidian from his satchel and held it up to catch the pale starlight.

Sirius stared expressionlessly at the glassy black rock for a long time, until Harry began to pout.

"I found the key and the vault," Harry explained.

"Obviously. How?" Sirius asked flatly.

Harry looked a little guilty. "Well, I sort of know your, er, lover."

"Former lover. Who wants nothing to do with me."

"It's not like that," Harry protested. "He's all broken up over it, even after all these years."

"'He'?" Sirius asked, startled.

Harry nodded distractedly. "I think he feels like it's partly his fault," Harry continued, "because he's…well, you'll understand once you have the memories back."

Sirius looked away, frowning.

"Do you know how to retrieve the memories?" Harry asked intently. "I can't even think how you got them in there to start with. And why a rock, of all things?"

"The magical and optical properties make obsidian the ideal"—Sirius broke off, shaking his head. "Never mind; you don't have the arithmancy for it anyway."

Harry scowled, but when Sirius extended his skeletal arm, Harry eagerly placed the obsidian in his palm.

Sirius examined the stone closely. "They're in here, all right," he allowed.

After a moment, Sirius touched the stone to his forehead, and Harry sat forward, pressing his face to the bars to get a closer look. The infinitesimal strands that connected the scrap of soul in the rock to Sirius' much larger soul were drawing taut and beginning to quiver with energy. As the moments ticked by in silence, the displaced scrap of soul was drawn thread by thread into the orbit of the rest of Sirius' soul, until the black rock was left empty. Then it fell from Sirius' limp fingers and shattered like glass against the frigid stone floor.

There was a long, fraught moment as Harry dipped his head to try to see up under the curtain of matted black hair and into Sirius' face. Then Harry noticed the tears spattering onto the stone below, and turned away, embarrassed. There was nothing worse than watching someone else cry, except crying oneself, in his opinion.

"I'll, erm—I'll just come back tomorrow, shall I?" Harry asked hesitantly, folding his arms awkwardly.

There was no reply. Harry fled.

─-─-─-─-─o─-─-─-─-─

"If you had, hypothetically, Obliviated yourself of all your memories of the person you loved, don't you think you'd be happy to get those memories back?" Harry asked, all in a rush.

It had been a week since Sirius had regained his memories, and the man still refused to speak to Harry in anything more than monosyllables, no matter how much hot food Harry brought him. He had even incited Rab to have a go at the man, but to no avail.

Bjorn set his tea cup down and looked at Harry dubiously. "Do I even want to know what you've gotten yourself into this time, fugleunge?"

Harry exhaled dejectedly. "Probably not. But don't you think you'd be at least a little happy?"

"I suppose that depends on what I've been doing without these hypothetical memories. Did I insult my loved one unforgivably? Did I get married to someone else?"

"Well, let's just say, hypothetically, of course, that you joined a Dark Lord and became a mass murderer."

Bjorn sipped his tea calmly. "Hmm. And what does my loved one think of that?"

"Erm…I think he thinks you should be in Azkaban."

"Naturally."

"Yeah. So…do you happen to know where they bury people around here?"

Bjorn looked startled for a moment, and then began to chuckle.