"Sirius, please—"

It was dark. Everything around him was dark as he hurried down the never-ending spiral stairs into the depths of Grimmauld Place. Down and down and down he went, but he never reached anything but infinite black.

"I tried, all right?" Sirius hollered into the nothingness. "I can't stay here."

"Please don't do this." The voice floated towards him as though from a far-off tunnel, vague and ghostly.

"Take care of yourself, baby brother. And don't — don't be an idiot."

Down and down and down…

"Please…SIRIUS!"

In that vague, inexplicable way that dreams end, Sirius became aware that he was sleeping. He knew all he had to do was open his eyes and the peculiar dream would vanish, but he didn't want to wake up. He didn't want to see Kreacher hovering over him, to hear his mother shouting from the hall…

"Sirius…"

The voice echoed even across the dark void of sleep.

"Sirius!"

"Can't," he moaned, pressing his face deeper into the crevices of his pillow.

"Sirius, get up, mate. It's Christmas!"

Sirius blinked and rolled over. James was perched on the edge of his bed, clearly exercising every morsel of self-restraint he possessed not to rip off the bedcovers. Sirius peered around the room — walls covered in soft blue paper, windows draped in rich satin curtains — and the memories of the night before swept over him. He was at Potter House. He'd run away from home.

He'd actually done it.

Please don't do this…

"Well, come on," said James impatiently. "Presents!"

Sirius peered over the edge to see that there was indeed a pile of packages at the foot of his bed. Next to it was a slightly larger pile; James had evidently carried in his own haul and dropped them on the rug. He settled himself happily next to the hoard.

Sirius gawked at him. "How the hell did you—"

"One very enterprising little elf," said James with a grin. "House elf that is. Pixie's a gem."

Sirius laughed and joined James on the floor, able for at least another few moments to ignore the conflicting emotions hammering about in his head.

Sirius, please…

Peter had given them each a large box of assorted sweets from Honeydukes, which they wasted no time devouring. Sirius had a good roaring laugh when he opened James's gift, which was a large dog's collar and a chew toy. "You know," he said, chucking the chew toy at James's head, "if anyone ever finds out about this, they're going think we're having kinky sex."

"Wait, you mean we're not? Hell, that's embarrassing…"

They both got to Remus's gifts at the same time.

Sirius sniffed it. "Book?"

"Definitely a book."

Sirius opened it. It was a book. But as he peeled back the paper he realized it was a Muggle book: The Complete British Motorcycle, a glossy photo-book with page after pages of the brilliant, beautiful mechanical beasts. He dove into it, immediately absorbed, barely listening to James's happy rambles about some Quidditch-related tome, the last echoes of his dream finally forgotten.

"Mum, dad, look what Santa brought me!"

James bounded happily through the door to the kitchen where Mr. and Mrs. Potter were breakfasting. Sirius followed him in somewhat sheepishly, unsure what his reception would be. He didn't like to think how his mother would respond to a run-away teenager showing up in the middle of the night with no warning.

But Mrs. Potter merely smiled at them warmly and said, "How nice, dear. Come have some breakfast. Sirius, darling, we're so happy to see you." And then she kissed him on the cheek.

Sirius had to assume that James had already informed his parents of Sirius's arrival. Or perhaps nearly sixteen years of parenting James Potter meant simply accepting whatever breakfast threw at you with a vague, "How nice, dear," and an extra cup of tea.

Sirius had been to Potter House before, but it seemed like a lifetime ago, and he was struck anew with how informal it all was. The table had been set for breakfast, sure — they had a house elf, after all — but the china was mismatched and the spoons different sizes, and no one seemed to mind. The Potters, Sirius knew, were very wealthy. He had heard others (namely his cousins) refer to them as 'new money,' and he was sure James had heard this too, but James never seemed too bothered by the accusation. It had probably never even occurred to him to be bothered by it. James had never put much stock in arbitrary social distinctions, and besides, the money wasn't new to him.

But regardless of James's indifference, Sirius thought this particular label was probably incorrect. Mr. Potter may have made his fortune somewhat recently with Sleakeazy's, but there was nothing new about Potter House. It was, in every sense of the word, an old place. Far older than Grimmauld Place and certainly older than flashy wanna-be-ancestral Black Hall.

While Grimmauld Place strove to assert its ancientness with generations of aged portraits and the finest fifteenth-century goblin-wrought silver, Potter House didn't have to. Its oldness was present in the threadbare carpets that no one had bothered to replace for generations because, well, they still had a bit of life in them, eh? It was present in the mud-splattered Wellingtons carelessly tossed next to an antique demi-lune table by the door. It was present in the preponderance of unused rooms in the enormous house, stuffed to the brim with old furniture covered in dust sheets, while the family lived primarily in the kitchen, the drawing room, and the garden. And it was present at the breakfast table, where the ancient-looking Mr. Potter sat spreading butter thickly on his toasted fruit loaf.

"A very happy Christmas to you both," he said cheerfully as the boys sat down. Mr. Potter was tall and thin, slightly bent, his skin wrinkled and spotted with age. A sparse thatch of gray hair hovered over a balding pate and silver-rimmed specs danced on an ever-amused face. Mrs. Potter — slightly younger but still quite old for a mum — stood straighter than her husband, with a long face and a long nose framed by a sensible gray bob. Both of them radiated a sort of happiness you couldn't fake, a general sense of contentment with life, so that their very presence was soothing — far from the pent-up war zone that was the Black family breakfast table.

"Oh, we've got gnomes in the garden again," said Mrs. Potter, glancing out the window as she stirred sugar into a cup of tea. "How tiresome. Pixie can't keep up with them, poor dear. I'll have to see if Dottie can stop by again. She's so good with the garden."

"Don't see why you mind so much, darling," said Mr. Potter with a slight wheeze. "They're not bothering anything. You know, in Iceland they think they're good luck."

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Potter. "And they're pulling up my rhododendrons, look."

Mr. Potter turned to James and Sirius. "Did I ever tell you about the time I helped de-gnome the royal gardens in Bangkok? It was 1929 and—"

"Dad, you've told this story a hundred times."

"I haven't heard it," said Sirius, and Mr. Potter happily dove into his tale. James rolled his eyes, but Sirius could tell he enjoyed his father's stories, no matter how many times he'd heard them before. And Mr. Potter had a lot of stories. It seemed like he'd traveled everywhere. He told them at length about his post-Hogwarts adventures to the Middle East, and the time he and a friend embarked on a whirlwind tour around the globe.

"You boys must do that when you graduate," Mr. Potter told them. "An absolute must for any young person, yes, yes."

After breakfast, Mr. Potter disappeared for a while. James's mother said he'd retired for a little nap, but he did not return until dinner time. Christmas dinner was a fabulous feast of roast goose and stuffing, sprouts and parsnips, mince pies, and a beautiful figgy pudding.

It was without a doubt the happiest Christmas Sirius had ever spent, and the rest of the holiday was just as pleasant. Mr. Potter tired quickly, and Mrs. Potter often went to bed quite early as well, so James and Sirius spent the evenings by the fire playing exploding snap with a new deck they'd gotten from the Christmas crackers, or holed up in James's room plotting their future adventures now that they were both Animagi.

"I don't get why Remus is being so weird about it," James said one evening as they discussed the upcoming full moon.

Sirius shrugged. "I guess it's sort of private."

"But — we've lived in the same dorm for almost five years. We've all walked in on each other wanking, what can be so awful about being a werewolf? I mean, he's seen us transform."

Sirius thought James was being woefully naive, but he just shrugged again. "Well, it's Moony, isn't it? The boy got dressed in the toilet every morning until third year."

James munched on a handful of sugared almonds as he considered this. Then he said, "Do you think Pete will ever pull it off?"

"Doubt it. He's in a bit over his head."

"It'll be awful hard on him if he can't."

"He'll live," said Sirius, who didn't have much patience for Peter's ineptitudes. James began to began to polish his broomstick with a service kit his dad had given him. Sirius, who had once again reached the end of The Complete British Motorcycle, glanced around his friend's room for something else to peruse. His gaze fell on a large stack of parchment on James's desk. He stood and examined it with interest. The pages were covered in James's tidy handwriting with sections crossed out and little notes all along the margins.

"What's all this?" Sirius asked, gesturing at the mess of parchment.

James glanced up at him, then shrugged and returned his attention to the broomstick. "Just some scribbles," he said, unusually cagey.

"Parsons' Theory of Transmutation: A Philosophical Exploration," Sirius read, bemused. "How very academic of you."

"I was bored," said James with a slightly defensive tone. "And besides, I know more about Transfiguration than most of those idiots with books. We actually became Animagi, instead of just writing about it…"

Intrigued, Sirius flipped through the pages of parchment. "I'm not taking the piss, mate, I'm just interested."

"Oh," said James, sounding somewhat mollified. "Yeah, well, Parsons was the one who believed that all magic is derived from Transfiguration. That it's the most natural state of magic. Because everything changes, right?"

"Earth is stone and stone is dust and dust will fly," intoned Sirius.

"Precisely," said James. "On the whole, his theory is pretty controversial, but I like it. It makes sense."

"Mmm," said Sirius. He examined the papers some more, fascinated by his friend's diligence. James always did well in school, but he had never struck Sirius as a particularly eager academic. He liked learning magic for what it allowed him to accomplish: to win a duel, to show off in class, to become an illegal Animagus to help their werewolf friend…

"If you don't mind me asking," said Sirius, "what prompted you to write a whole essay on it?"

"Like I said, I was bored," said James. "And — I dunno, I thought I might ship it off and see if I can't get it published in Transfiguration Today or something. Thought it'd be good to show old McGee in case she gets curious as to what exactly I did with the information from The Infallible Animagus. Purely theoretical, see?"

Sirius smirked to himself as he returned the parchment to the desk. He had other theories for James's sudden interest in academia, but he kept them to himself and returned for the hundredth time to The Complete British Motorcycle while James began to trim the tail-twigs of his broomstick.

"Oh, look at that one," sighed Sirius, holding up the book to show James the photograph of a particularly handsome bike. James had never quite understood Sirius's fascination with motorbikes, but Sirius put up with a lot of Quidditch talk that didn't entirely interest him, so James had the tact to feign enthusiasm. "A bike like that," Sirius said, "is what the experts call a 'babe magnet.'"

"Like you need the help," said James, a tad petulantly. "Girls already fall all over you."

Sirius regarded his friend with some amusement. "You know, I think you're doing better in that department than you give yourself credit for."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, Alodie Blunt has been making moon eyes at you for a month. Are you honestly telling me you haven't noticed?"

"Alodie?"

"She's hot," said Sirius dispassionately. "I mean, I wouldn't date her, but that's because I don't date pure-bloods. Too much of a chance we're related."

James snorted.

"What," said Sirius, "have you got your eye on someone else?"

"No," said James, a little too quickly.

Sirius raised an eyebrow.

"I don't!"

"Okay. Just asking."

James went back to clipping his broomstick. After a brief pause, he said, "I'm not sure Alodie is my type."

"Don't you have to date at least one girl before you can develop a 'type'?"

"I could have a type!"

"Is that type redhead with the temper of an insulted hippogriff?" snickered Sirius, and to his surprise, James actually went a little pink.

"Pshh," said James. "Yeah, right."

Sirius's grin broadened. "Hey, rumor has it Evans is into you."

"Rumor had it, mate, years ago. Old news. Besides, she's dating that idiot Seeker from Ravenclaw…Acorn Nut, or whatever his name is." James picked sullenly at the tail of his broomstick. "Not that I care."

"So she likes Quidditch players. That's a point in your favor, eh?"

"Will you drop it?" said James, suddenly touchy. "I definitely don't want to date Lily Evans."

"All right."

"I mean, Merlin, that'd be like swapping saliva with Snivellus. Can you imagine?"

"Really didn't want to, thanks."

James began to laugh. "I'd probably have to go on double dates with him. There's an image. 'Lily, dear, will you pass me a scone? Snivellus, darling, do tell us all about that lovely cat you skinned for your latest dark ritual, won't you? Is it true about the blood of virgins, or is that just a myth? If yes, can you do us all a favor and sacrifice yourself?'"

Sirius was laughing now too. "Bullshit. To go on a double date, Snape would have to have a date in the first place."

"Valid point," conceded James. "Still, and I want to be clear here: Eugh."

Sirius had spent every school holiday of his life longing for it to end, so it came as a bit of a surprise to him when several days after the new year ("Nineteen-seventy-six!" James had cried, pumping his fist into the air as though this was something special), it was time to go back to school.

Mrs. Potter accompanied them both to the station, and as they stepped through the barrier to Platform 9 3/4, Sirius suddenly felt a fresh wave of anxiety. For one thing, he needed to say thank you to Mrs. Potter for, well, everything, but he didn't know how. Especially not with James standing there babbling away. And the other thing…he was terrified of running into his family on the platform.

"Let's just get on the train quickly, can we?" he muttered to James, who understood at once.

"All right, mum, must be off," said James, kissing his mother on the cheek and turning purposefully towards the scarlet steam engine.

"Have a good term, darling. Sirius, dear, may I have a word?"

"Mum, we've got to get on the train."

"You go on, darling, I want a quick word with Sirius."

"Mum…"

"It's okay," Sirius told James. "Go ahead." He couldn't exactly refuse after everything the Potters had done for him.

James shrugged and took off, throwing a suspicious glance back over his shoulder as he went. Sirius shifted uncomfortably, waiting for Mrs. Potter to speak. A solemn look had overtaken her features, which made him nervous. In Sirius's experience with adults, that never boded well.

"James told me what happened on Christmas Eve, dear."

Sirius looked at his feet, his cheeks hot. He knew James had told his parents, or at least he'd suspected he had. He could almost hear the indignation in James's voice: "They hit him, mum!"

Mrs. Potter went on: "I'm so terribly sorry. For this Christmas and for everything you've had to deal with over the years. But I'm very glad that you got out of there and away from that…mother of yours." She said the word 'mother' like she'd originally intended quite a different word in its place. Sirius glanced up at her, surprised. "I know Walburga," said Mrs. Potter darkly. "She was briefly engaged to a cousin of mine, as a matter of fact. I say briefly because he ran off and married a Muggle instead."

Sirius's jaw dropped. He quickly picked it back up.

Mrs. Potter smiled rather wickedly. "Yes, I don't suppose she's ever told you that. It was a terrible scandal at the time. One from which I gather she's never quite recovered. But never mind old gossip…what I mean to tell you is that I think you're very brave for standing up to your family. It takes incredible courage to grow up to be someone different than who our parents want us to be. I'm very proud of you, Sirius."

"Erm…thanks," muttered Sirius, looking anywhere but at Mrs. Potter. "And, er, thanks for letting me…you know…stay with you…"

Mrs. Potter laid a hand on his shoulder. "You're always welcome, darling. And I'll be here at the end of term to pick you up for the summer holidays. Off you go then. Study hard for your O.W.L.s!" And she sent him on his way with brisk pat on the back.

Sirius staggered towards the train feeling slightly overwhelmed. He climbed aboard to find James waiting for him.

"What was that about?"

Sirius shook his head. "Just your typical Potter pep-talk."

James snorted. "Sounds about right." And he led the way through the crowds of students towards their usual compartment. When they reached it, Peter and Remus were both already inside talking animatedly about something. James slid the door open and entered with theatric greetings. Sirius looked at his three friends, his hand on the compartment door's latch. He'd have to tell them all what happened at some point. Or maybe he'd let James do it. James was better at that sort of thing.

Sirius didn't know what made him look around, but the very moment he did, he regretted it. For at the other end of the train's corridor, staring at him wide-eyed and pale-faced, was his brother.

Sirius opened his mouth, then shut it again, not knowing what to say. Regulus stared a second longer, then turned sharply and all but ran the other way. Sirius remained frozen, an echo in his head, fading like an out-of-tune radio…

Sirius, please…

"You coming, mate?"

"What? Oh, yeah."

Then he stepped into the compartment and slid the door shut.