author's note: This year is going to start being confusing, owing to the introduction of many timelines that are almost identical to one another (did you know that we're on the third timeline, here?). There's also another aborted mini-plot that I'll speak of more when we get to the place where it would have been.

This book adds the last of our main characters into a main character role.

Chapter Seventy-Six: The Newest Squatter of Privet Drive

This summer was definitely shaping up to be very different from that preceding second year. The Dursleys grit their teeth, but conceded that he be allowed to send messages to his friends, even, which was greater freedom than they'd ever allowed before. They were forced to cut back on their list of chores, and to ease up on their restrictions which made it impossible for him to do his homework, even, without going behind their backs. He still had chores, but they were now more manageable, because the Dursleys were acutely aware that they could no longer starve him, lock him in his cupboard, or keep him in line with threats of violence (or actual violence). Sirius Black was watching.

For the first time ever, the Dursley residence came close to being a place of, albeit limited, freedom. He had more options than he could ever recall having in his entire life spent there.

In short, he had no idea what to do with himself.

The continuing influx of news about a genocide in Africa he'd missed hearing about whilst at Hogwarts reminded him of his purpose, whilst underscoring the tendency of life to throw these sorts of things into his life, even in passing. He had enough self-awareness to realise how arrogant it was to hear of suffering on another continent, and even briefly entertain the idea that it was anything to do with him, but he knew that it was unfortunate instances such as these that had helped to foster the mindset of himself as world-liberator/saviour. Almost, he understood, when he heard such news.

He took to thinking deep, and rather brooding, thoughts about Thanos, and the coming war, which was inevitable. He'd set aside his plans for it at some point, perhaps second year, and had come back to work on it, now and then, in the wake of Ron's revelation…but it was still something that could barely be considered even a sketch. All the gaps in his planning let him know, with the force of being hit in the head with a hammer, just how little he knew of the future.

Come to Earth, cause trouble in New Mexico, go back home, Fall, be turned inside out, and then try to take over the Earth. Adapt superficially, now and then, enough to not attract unwanted attention. Know at least enough of the rules not to arouse dsuspicion. Where did any of that knowledge come from? He didn't know.

That there were still gaps in his memory was quite unfair, and rather unnerving. That this realisation had taken so long to hit him made him think that he might be overestimating his own abilities at reason and logic, or even his own intelligence, not something he liked considering.

And the future…how would he learn about that? He could learn more about Thor's friends, the Avengers, from Thor, himself…that was the other hurdle (although that knowledge was also limited). But how could he start to plan without knowledge of how long they had—how far away was Thanos? Why hadn't he attacked Earth while it was still recovering from the Chitauri Invasion? Just when had Thor gone back in time? But back then, Thor had viewed time in a purely Asgardian fashion—he didn't know that, himself.

All Harry's analysis told him that, regardless of consequence and circumstances he didn't know—no matter what the after held—the Chitauri Invasion had to happen. And that meant that everything that preceded it had to happen. Although it might be in his power to prevent the shattering of his not-so-dream-family, although he might be able to save his past self, although to do otherwise would hurt both Ron and Thor, he had no choice but to let it all play out as it had. Because that was the event that had brought the Avengers together.

More importantly, it had called attention to the threat posed by other worlds…validated Fury's plans, perhaps, but shown that extraterrestrials were more than mere Urban Legend, that there were genuine threats outside of the Earth, from which it needed protection. And perhaps Fury would be less ready to listen to him after such an Invasion—particularly if he knew that Harry was aware that it was going to happen, decades in advance, before any of the participants. But that distrust paled in comparison to the necessity of showing even Fury just what he was up against.

Ideally, he'd already be placed in America by then, and with a ready alibi, and the ability to gain the Avengers' trust. Ron could help with that. And Hermione, when she knew. And Sirius. And maybe Remus. If they were out, across the sea, in New York, for the Invasion, they might be able even to mitigate some of the damage that had been done. And they'd be ready to help with…what came afterwards? That lack of knowledge made planning impossible. He needed to talk to Thor.

When all of this planning began to seem hopeless wandering in circles, and he wasn't busy writing his essays and memorising facts (and recipes for Potions), he turned his mind to the idea of how to help Sirius. He'd talk about it to Hedwig, if nothing else. He'd used her as a sounding board before. She was a smart girl, even if she didn't understand the intricacies of his theories. Mostly, however, it was just for someone to talk to. He thought of what Mother had taught him of healing, which was almost certainly his best recourse: there was nothing in wizarding history quite like Sirius's case. He'd look in Flourish and Blott, anyway….

He started taking notes on muggle paper, because…why not? It had been years since he'd used a paper and pen, and they seemed strange in his hands. He sighed. His other memories weren't helping with that, either. At least ballpoint pens didn't need to be dipped in ink…and they were less messy….

It occurred to him that there were few ways that he could take notes on anything, anymore, without the risk of Sirius finding them. He came up with a sort of code, and spent the first part of his summer painstakingly translating what he was going to use of his original notes into this code. Conspicuous? He hoped not. There were runes in there, and symbols he came up with, himself, things that he thought would be memorable, that would make sense to him. He didn't bother writing down a translation of the code anywhere.

Infuriatingly, this exercise felt familiar to him, although he couldn't place the memory. Perhaps something of the gaps?

Sirius seemed to have an instinct for when it was best to approach Harry, and when to leave him alone. He seemed to spend far too much time goading the Dursleys, but, as he explained to Harry, he was bored.

As the summer progressed, he occasionally disappeared for days at a time, and returned with things Harry had never seen before—potions ingredients that must be quite rare, and certainly not available in the school supply cabinets, or on the list of school materials; books written in languages Harry didn't recognise, which Sirius seemed to treat as curiosities; and now and then mysterious…things that Harry couldn't even begin to guess at. Most of them kept in small boxes.

Sometimes, too, he returned with old robes, old clothes, personal belongings…even a few photos and letters. And he was always game to answer any of Harry's questions, although not always coherent enough to do that very well. He loved talking about his time in Hogwarts, and about Harry's dad, James, and grandparents (why had he never given them a second thought before?).

He related some of the pranks that the Marauders had pulled, and, after one occasion in which Uncle Vernon had had a bad day and was ready to take it out on Harry—a day in which Sirius was absent, for which he apologised profusely—he finally confessed some of the nastiness of his own past. He seemed to feel that he owed Harry that.

But Harry told him that the Dursleys' current behaviour was nothing as bad as he was used to, and that Sirius needed to live his own life ("Why don't you go back to St. Mungo's for treatment? I'll be fine. If you're bored, perhaps I should be paying more attention to you."). Somehow, none of this reassured Sirius, who seemed to feel that he was thrice a bad guardian, and resolved to keep an even closer eye on Harry after that…and murder the Dursleys. Harry quietly suspected that Ron had first dibs on that.

Hearing about the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black was a horrifying experience—Harry would readily say that Sirius had had a worse childhood than he. But he couldn't help reserving judgement on the younger brother of the two Black siblings, not just because of how Sirius sort of reminded him of Thor, with his impulsive recklessness and anger-management issues on top of a fierce loyalty…it wasn't just that Regulus was the younger brother, assumed evil, slain young.

Okay, maybe it was. Still, he didn't like the uncertainty hidden in the narrative of that story. No, no one had ever found the body. But his name was crossed out on the family tapestry, and he certainly hadn't been disowned (and Mother burnt the names of those disowned from the Black family off the tapestry with a special spell). Rumour abounded; even in Azkaban, they told of how Voldemort had ordered his execution. That had to make it official.

Kreacher, the evil house-elf, still adored Regulus, still followed Walburga Black's blood purity madness. Sirius shouldn't have left Regulus to fend for himself in that snake's nest…he surely would have been able to keep Regulus from going to the bad….

Harry shivered at the comparisons he kept making, and subtly changed the subject. He suspected Sirius caught his discomfort despite that (he seemed to notice everything), but he didn't mention it. Doubtless, he was confused, noticing how the puzzle pieces didn't seem to all mesh together. That was hardly surprising, as Harry was a mishmash of two different puzzles, and the dementors had really roughed up the metaphorical edges of those puzzles' pieces. And then you had to add in both Thanos and Voldemort….

One of these days, he was going to have to tell Sirius the truth. But he had to understand him better, first. Ideally, it would be after Sirius recovered…but who knew when that would be?

Ron showed up out of nowhere towards the end of July, in his typical fashion. He gave Sirius a bit of a fright, appearing at the window as he did. If Harry had known that Ron was going to pay them a visit, he would have warned his new roommate about protocol. As it was, Sirius, always swift on the draw, had his wand aimed straight at Ron's face before he could even realise who it was.

"It's alright, Sirius," Harry said, rolling his eyes as he crossed to the window. "Ron does this whenever he visits. I'd love to say that's what the bars are there for, but you can probably see the grooves in the sill where three of them got pulled out in the summer of my second year, so I doubt you'd believe it."

He threw open the window. "This is becoming something of a tradition, by now. I suppose you took the Knight Bus. I must reimburse you for taking your life into your own hands. No matter who or what you are, I doubt the Knight Bus is good for anyone's health. Come in. Don't just hang there. You'd think you'd know by now."

Ron carefully eased his way around the bars into the room. He paused when he noticed Sirius lowering the wand.

"You have a worthy defender," he said to Harry, who just smiled.

"Now, I've gathered everyone inclined to be overprotective of me into one room. I suppose I shall spend the rest of the summer locked up here… for my protection, this time?"

Ron paused. "Ah. No. I came to warn you that Dad has seats for the Quidditch World Cup, and is sending a rather unusual letter to your…guardians. They may not appreciate the number of stamps Mum used."

Harry wanted to see that envelope, now.

"If you intend to join us for the Quidditch World Cup, you should start packing soon. I also feel that I should inform you that they plan on arriving via floo powder. That did not seem to agree with you the summer before second year…."

Harry frowned. "Ah…yes, that was embarrassing. I don't think I want to end up in Knockturn Alley, again."

"'Knockturn Alley'?" Sirius repeated. "How did you end up there?"

Harry grimaced. "Thank you for the warning," he said, turning back to Ron. "It is good to see you again. How have I survived this much of the summer without my overprotective big brother watching out for me?"

"Harry, I have said before—"

"—that I shouldn't make light of my own death. I remember." He looked down, frowning and turning to Hedwig's empty cage.

"Damn right you shouldn't!" Sirius cried, apparently wide-awake now. Out of force of habit, Harry flinched, winced, opened his mouth to suggest that he keep it down, please.

Ron and Sirius both saw, both understood. Sirius looked incredibly guilty. Ron clenched his fists tight, but at least electricity wasn't gathering in them. He seemed to have gotten that pretty much under control. That was a relief: Harry had no idea how he'd explain to Sirius that Ron's "accidental" magic always seemed to manifest as lightning.

"Are you alright, little brother? Have the Dursleys treated you well?"

Harry smiled, spreading his arms wide. "As if they'd dare harm me, now."

"And what of last week?" Sirius interjected, frowning. That was quite a reproachful frown. Of course, Sirius had to bring that up. Harry glared at him.

"I'm fine," he retorted. "Really, for the Dursleys, that was tame. They're holding back—"

"Then what do they usually do, Harry?" asked Sirius, with deadly calm. Harry paled. He didn't want to think of what Sirius's reaction would be if he ever learnt the true extent of the Dursleys' mistreatment of him. Restraint only got you so far with someone like Thor.

"So when should I expect this letter?" he asked. Sirius glanced his way, and his expression said that this discussion was far from over. It was one of his rare moments of maturity. Why did one of them have to show up right now?

"Harry," said Ron, who was far less likely to even let the matter sit for a while.

Harry sighed. "Look, I know you're smart enough to read between at least some of the lines in my behaviour. But they didn't leave that many scars. It was mostly starvation and locking me—in my room, I mean." He shot Ron a meaningful look. One that said that Sirius had yet to learn about the cupboard under the stairs. "I already told you the most important things. Can we return to the reason for your visit, now?"

Because lying would never avail him in such situations. Sirius was sure to find out everything, sooner or later, and there were few important details missing from his account of the Dursleys that he'd given Ron years ago…back when Ron had just been Ron. Or rather, back before he'd known.

"Bastards," Sirius snarled. "I should kill them—"

"I'm pretty sure that Ron has seniority on that," Harry said, in a deliberately light tone, cutting him off. "He learnt about it first, after all. But if you do that, I'll lose the protection of my Mother's love—the thing that's kept me alive at least twice since I've come to Hogwarts. It's the reason I survived first and second year."

"And just what happened first and second year?" Sirius asked, eyes narrowed. Ah. Yes. He knew he'd forgotten something. Harry glared at Ron, as if it were his fault.

"Hey, Ron, do you feel like a sleepover? I've never had one of those. We can swap stories, and you can ensure Sirius doesn't murder me for getting into so much trouble…."

Because talking about the first two years, even in summary, was sure to take a long time. It was Ron's fault for bringing this up, anyway.

It took hours to tell the entire story to Sirius, of course. He didn't seem to know how to react. Had the items in this room not all been either Harry's belongings, or highly dangerous…things he'd brought from Grimmauld Place, he would likely have broken a few things, thrown a few others, and punched a few holes in the walls. Were it not for his understanding that any misbehaviour on his part would reflect onto Harry, he would likely have shouted. Instead, he cast a silencio on himself, shouted a bit, and took to pacing the room.

His anger, worse, had no ready outlet—he could hardly fault Harry or Ron for the situations they'd been drawn into; only the incident involving the troll was anything like their fault, really. The rest of the time, they'd been the victims of inflated circumstance and statistical improbability. He wanted to blame Dumbledore, but knew that the old man was hardly omniscient. He'd believed Pettigrew to be dead, had believed that Sirius to be a traitor, had never realised that the Marauders were animagi. Dumbledore was the most likely target, however.

In the end, the emotions had him drained and worn out. The dementors fostered negative emotions, draining out the positive. It was hardly surprising that anger at the injustice of what Harry had gone through, and fear of the future, were easier to reach than the joy and relief that Harry had survived, that he'd lived long enough, despite the odds, to meet Sirius, for them to reach this point. Sirius knew that he should just be grateful that Harry was still here.

A basilisk? A mountain troll? A three-headed dog, guarding the legendary artefact known as the Philosopher's Stone? What was next? Grindelwald?

And the thought of Harry facing off against Voldemort, two years in a row. Whoever decreed people's fates—if there were any, and he'd had his phase of researching such things—must have it out for Harry. But he knew that his presence here in Harry's life took away the threat of the Dursleys—they and no other. It wasn't protecting Harry against Voldemort. And that prophecy… it suggested that the two would keep being drawn together, again and again, until the prophecy was fulfilled.

He ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair (hey, he'd tried short hair; it didn't suit him). He tried not to make Harry worry about him. He knew that Harry often did, that they seemed to be co-dependents. Harry looked after him, with that strange, almost understandable advanced maturity he had, and he looked after Harry.

Although, it seemed Ron'd done a much better job of that than he, over the years.

And where were you? he kept asking himself, as Harry's tale progressed. But he was powerless to change the past. All he could do was help Harry from now on. Harry had to be his priority, as he should have been, that Hallowe'en night. He couldn't make up for his past failures, but he could make sure that he never failed Harry again.

Are you sure of that? asked the echo of a voice he hadn't heard in…years. Decades. Damn, his mind was messed up….

He sighed, sinking his head into his hands. He couldn't promise that he'd always be there; he'd already failed Harry once this summer. But….

"Just let me know what I can do to help you," Sirius begged. "You know I'll do anything for you, kiddo."

Harry blinked, staring at him as if thrown off-balance, as if he'd never expected anyone to say anything like that to him, and that hurt. It was an actual, physical ache in Sirius's chest. "Come on, kiddo, you must have known that before."

"And I," Ron interjected, shooting Harry a look that Sirius couldn't decipher. Something else that they'd kept from him, but Harry deserved his secrets, and, although Sirius'd shared some of his own past, Harry deserved his privacy. Sirius knew how it felt to be vulnerable, to be laid bare, defenceless. It was not a good feeling. He'd pushed Harry too hard. He'd been like all the other adults in Harry's life.

"Sorry, kiddo. But look, you can tell me anything, and I promise not to judge you."

Harry looked as if there was something he wanted to say. But he opened his mouth, closed it, and ended up saying nothing at all.

But Sirius knew that he was listening, and that was all that mattered.