Chapter 63: No Crime at All

Hermione started laughing. Tiredly, Sirius glanced at her. He gave her naked side a stroke.

'What?' he asked.

'Not wearing pants,' Hermione sniggered to the ceiling of their bedroom, 'is nowhere near as bad as having an erection in front of Harry?'

'Hermione…' Sirius groaned.

'Don't grumble at me,' Hermione chastised him. 'I had a boob hanging out!'

Sirius's face relaxed. He emitted a low rumble of laughter.

'Oh yeah,' Hermione muttered. 'Now you find it funny.'

Sirius laughed harder, his eyes shutting. Hermione smacked his chest. He tried to stifle it.

'I… erm,' Hermione said, turning her head to see at him. 'I had a look in the bottom drawer of your wardrobe…'

'Mm?'

Hermione squirmed over and propped her head up on a hand.

'Do you mind?' she asked.

He didn't seem to.

'No,' Sirius answered easily, looking back at her.

'Then… I had some questions…' Sirius waited expectantly. Hermione carried on. 'The teddy bear?' she asked. 'Was that… James and Lilly who gave it to you?'

Sirius nodded.

'Lily's idea of a gift,' he answered. 'Gave it to me a few months before they died.'

Hermione had sucked her lower lip in. She'd expected an answer like that. Her finger trailed his chest.

'And yet,' she whispered, meeting his eyes again, 'you celebrate Halloween.'

The night they'd died. Hermione knew it, and she'd known it on the day itself. Sirius's face clouded a bit.

'Yes,' he responded simply.

Slowly, Hermione nodded. It meant a lot that he'd chosen to do that instead of mourn the day – it took a lot. As she knew it, Sirius had been the first one on the scene to find their dead bodies.

'You are resilient,' she whispered. She rubbed his chest, intensely proud of him. 'And… the dog tags?'

'In case I died,' he answered, both promptly and baldly, 'in a way that would leave me unrecognisable. They have my name on them. A few of the Auror trainees were doing it. I started after Chione Mbaye – she was part of the Order – was killed. Several other Order members did too.'

Hermione wasn't sure she wanted to know what had happened to Chione Mbaye.

'Wuthering Heights?' she said, moving on.

Sirius smiled.

'Another of Lilly's attempts to culture me,' he provided.

'Did you ever read it?'

'I tried,' Sirius said earnestly. The firm patches around the corners of his mouth rose. 'But the main characters annoyed the shite out of me, so I didn't get very far.'

'And… the watch?'

Sirius's eyes grew distant.

'Seventeenth birthday present,' he answered. 'From James and his parents.'

'How… did it break?'

Sirius sighed. He shook his head.

'I don't know,' he said, a bite in his tone. 'I haven't been able to fix it – none of the usual spells work, so something other than physical damage broke it. The Ministry took it off me when I was sent to Azkaban. It was working then. It was broken when they handed my stuff back.'

Hermione remembered the boxes of Sirius's belongings the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had returned to Sirius after his pardon. Some had been personal effects removed from Sirius when he'd been sentenced – the clothes he'd been wearing the day he'd been brought in. Most were items from his flat.

'What happened to your flat?' Hermione whispered.

Sirius's jaw tightened, the muscles in his cheeks stiffening, but he answered calmly.

'They sold it. It's not really protocol, but I was given a life sentence and left no will or next of kin. So they didn't bother to wait until I croaked, they'd sold it before I'd spent even a month in the fortress.'

Hermione felt her face weaken. She couldn't hide it behind pride in him this time. Sympathy built sharp inside her. And anger.

Sirius eyed her closely.

'You're feeling sorry for me,' he stated.

Pinching her lips, Hermione nodded. Sirius's fingers trailed over her hip.

'Everything you have,' he said quietly, 'fits into that trunk. That's less than what I was left with.'

'But I chose it!' Hermione moaned. 'You didn't – and I can get what I left behind back! My parents – I didn't even lose Crookshanks!'

Sirius was silent for a time. He drew a breath and met Hermione's eyes.

'I have a family, Mione,' he whispered. 'They were here, today, spying us doing something naughty in the kitchen. The official ties may be distant – weirdly interconnected and arguably inappropriate – but they're strong. I have you. I have a cat that lies on this bed every night. And, oddly enough, I even have parents-in-law, though they don't know it yet. Believe me, Hermione, I'm doing just fine.'

Hermione's fingers had found his. She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it soundly. Sirius's fingers lingered for a moment, feeling her lips, then he smiled widely.

'Oh,' he said, 'and, if I include,' he stretched his arm out straight, pointing towards Hermione's bedside table, 'Teddy Ruxpin, Aya, and Bert-Bernard, can I add Laverda too?'

Touched, Hermione chuckled. She rested her head on his chest and his arm immediately encircled her.

'Yes,' she told him.

'Yay!'

They settled in to the comfortable silence of a lazy cuddle. Lifting his head to look at her, Sirius broke it.

'Hermione,' he said thoughtfully, 'what is your surname? Or,' he clarified, 'I mean, what do you want it to be?'

It was something of a sore point for Hermione – had been, anytime she'd ever thought of taking a man's name. Largely, she was aware, because it was a conflict in her mind. One she'd previously thought she'd have a lot longer to come to a conclusion on. Sirius, though, didn't look like he was anticipating any answer in particular. He was watching her with what seemed no more than curiosity. So Hermione answered honestly.

'I'm… not sure.'

Sirius took it with a nod, resting his head back onto his pillow. Hermione repositioned her head on his chest, running a finger down along the centre of his abdomen. Her finger traversed it easily, following a shallow trench between his subterranean muscles.

Her mother had taken her father's name. Her mother had stayed home with Hermione for three years after Hermione was born, at significant cost to her career and professional registration. Not that Hermione's father was domineering, far from it. But he had an expectation that women stayed home with a child for three years – that that was what was normal. And Hermione's mother had gone along with it, for reasons not well explained to Hermione, and to her mother's increasing bitterness. It had caused a rift of resentment in their marriage for a while. One that had only settled down after Hermione's mother had specialised… and, as it turned out, ended up being the greater earner of her parents. It was a deliberate move for Hermione's mother to be able to practise again. Hermione had long wondered if it had been a deliberate move partially driven by spite.

For Hermione… her least emotional view of taking a man's name was that it was a long-institutionalised custom that women of times past had had no choice in. In her more cynical moods, it seemed the first in a list of things women were expected to give up in marriage. Give up their name, the comfort and perkiness of their bodies to children, their financial independence, their careers, at least for a time… In her most bitter moments, taking a man's name seemed to Hermione a woman's acceptance of her identity being stripped from her – giving up everything she had been, her interests and passions, to become no more than a dutiful wife and mother.

But it wasn't seeming that way now – ironically, considering Hermione had, officially, been stripped of her rights. By those Protection Papers, Sirius was legally in complete control of her; her name, without being given a choice, his. Everything she had or was: his to do with as he pleased. He didn't see it that way. Not at all. And Hermione did not feel, in any way, that she had lost her identity. That she would be expected to. Seeing Tonks as an example as well… Tonks, who had kept her maiden name as a nickname and nothing more. The grim future Hermione had feared didn't seem to be what Tonks was experiencing. She was the one more active in missions and watches than Remus.

Yet, even in an age where women could choose to keep the name they'd been born with, it didn't seem a great option. Were Hermione to have children with Sirius… what name would those children have? There was a reason few people chose to hyphenate surnames. Granger-Black was clunky, and if her child chose to marry… what name would they go for? Two generations down, a surname like Granger-Black-Smith-Lipschitz… was a mouthful that wouldn't fit on the front of a form or exam paper. Nor would Hermione be happy for her child to bear a name that wasn't, also, hers.

Logistics… cultural morays… They rather nullified choice. If she wasn't happy with the idea of not sharing a surname with her children, she could bet Sirius wouldn't be either. It was, generally, less normal for a man to change his name to his wife's. Something there may even be a sigma among men against – whether or not Sirius would care about that. And there lay two questions: whether Sirius even wanted children, and…

'Sirius,' Hermione said uncertainly, 'how… do you feel about your own surname?'

'Mm…' Sirius drew a drowsy breath. He blinked his eyes open. 'I donno,' he answered. 'Can't say I've ever loved what it was associated with… But… I guess… Well, it's only me who has it now. Might be fun to redefine it.'

Which was the last point in Hermione's consideration. She pushed herself up to see him properly. She was thinking about the Black Family Tapestry. It was quite possible he was too. The family tree that, for the first time in centuries, held a Muggle-born name – right at the bottom, linked in gold thread to the bottleneck that was Sirius: the last to bear the name. "Hermione Granger" would remain, as it was, on that tree. But any children they had… Many generations into the future, that tree of Blacks could well look like an hourglass, the portion above the central narrowing a family where "Always Pure" meant something quite different than it did for the names below. A central narrowing where two people had twisted the meaning from the sort that had caused so much strife, to a family Hermione would be proud of.

'Let me think on it?' Hermione asked. 'What… surname I want?'

'Sure,' Sirius agreed. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. 'Time to get up, I think.' He said, with rousing vigour. 'I'll fall asleep if I lie here any longer. I want to finish that corridor before the end of today.'

Hermione let him up and collected her clothes. Closing the clasp of her bra, she looked over at Sirius's, 'That reminded me…'

He was still naked. He crouched in front of his wardrobe and tugged a drawer open. When he stood back up he was holding his knife – the long, wicked-looking one he'd once terrified Ron with. Curious, Hermione watched as Sirius fit his wand between his teeth and stuck the sheathed knife, hilt-out, between his knees.

Sirius bent right over, facing his thighs, and combed his hair with his fingers until it all hung down off the top of his head. It was then that Hermione realised what he was about to do.

'Ah… Sirius?'

'Mm?'

He slid his hands through his hair until he could grip the bottom of the strands in one fist. He tugged the knife out, leaving the sheath between his knees, and put the blade to his hair just above his fist. Hermione closed her open mouth, giving up, but watching warily. In one swift slice, Sirius had cut through his black tresses. He replaced the knife in its cover, flicked it back into the drawer, and stood, thick lock of hair in his hand.

A breath Hermione hadn't realised she was holding escaped her.

'That's really how you cut your hair?'

Sirius plucked his wand from between his teeth and Vanished the product of his haircut. Even shaggier than it had been before, Sirius's hair hung dishevelled about his face.

'Yup,' he answered. 'It was getting a bit too long.'

He gave his head a shake and scooped his hair out of his face with an impatient hand. It was the shortest Hermione had ever seen his hair, the longest bits flicking out a bit below his jaw. Hermione's head tilted to the side. Standing there, naked and contemplating his jeans, Sirius looked very much like a rock star from the 70s. Just… more muscular.

'You couldn't see what you were doing,' she protested without heat. 'You may well have slit your hand open.'

'I have,' Sirius answered, not reassuringly. 'Cut right though my fingernail once. I Healed it.' He gave her an amused look. 'It was fine.' He dumped his jeans aside and went looking for his pants.

'Can't,' Hermione sighed, 'you just get someone else to do it for you?'

Sirius glanced up at her from where he was squatted, looking for his pants under the bed. He pulled a face.

'Neagh…' He uttered, going back to his search. 'Then I'd have to answer questions about style. And, despite that, they might just lop it all off – which is why I never let my mum pull me along to her salon.'

He said the word with such disdain Hermione suppressed a snicker. Her mind treated her to a great image of Sirius sat in a chair at a salon, flipping through a magazine as a stylist clipped away at his hair, achieving the same look Sirius was wearing now with practised precision.

'Remind me,' she said to him, pulling on her jeans, 'to never ask you to cut my hair. Bloody dangerous knife,' she added under her breath.

Sirius laughed at her, standing up with his pants. Apparently, they had ended up under the bed. He sobered suddenly and frowned at her.

'What are you planning to do with your hair?' he asked her.

'It needs a trim,' Hermione responded. 'Split ends…' she paused speaking as she tugged her top over her face, 'are a condition those of us without irritatingly low-maintenance hair suffer from.'

Sirius quirked an eyebrow at her.

'Do you really want me to be high-maintenance?' he asked. He affected a spoilt mien and started turning a lock of his hair around a finger. 'Could you,' he whined primly, lips pursed, 'pick up that conditioner that I loooove?' He leant into the word, cocking a hip and planting a hand on it. 'None of the other, cheaper brands are anywhere near as good! I need the unicorn horn one – else my hair won't flow!' Sirius batted his eyelashes at her. 'And I need more of the griffin hair shaving brushes – I'm down to my last twelve! And the four hundred galleon moisturiser pour homme? I'm on my second last bottle! And you know how much my face needs defending against the horror of dryness!'

He ended on a squeal, slapping his hands to either side of the face he had not shaved that morning.

Hermione was crying with laughter, holding her belly, the giggles having grown painful.

'See,' Sirius said pointedly, stepping into his trunks, 'that would be more irritating.'

Hermione gasped for breath.

'And,' she said breathlessly, 'so very not attractive!'

'What,' Sirius said ironically, tugging up his jeans, 'you don't like your men vain and demanding?'

'I go,' Hermione chuckled, 'for the strong, rarely silent type.'

The third floor corridor was as they'd left it earlier that day, with one exception. Crookshanks blinked slowly up at Hermione from atop her stack of question answers and textbooks. Hermione's quill, lying a foot from the cat, looked more ruffled than it had when she'd set it down.

'Crookshanks…' Hermione complained.

The cat started to purr loudly. It said "I'm happy and comfy here. Don't move me." The purr turned into a mew of disgust as Hermione snagged him around the chest and hoisted him off to the side.

'What is it,' she asked the disdainful cat, 'with my parchments? You could lie on anything you wanted to – but you choose to lie on my homework!'

Sirius laughed. He was watching them as he readied his painting trays, brushes, and rollers.

'He knew you would go back to the homework,' he said. 'So he was more likely to get your attention there than anywhere more comfortable.'

Hermione huffed and sat on the floor. She collected her quill and attempted to un-ruffle it.

'I'm not sure that's it,' she said. 'I think he just likes to annoy me.'

And Crookshanks did work to achieve just that. After ten minutes of Hermione nudging him away from attacking her quill while she used it or knocking his head against the corner of the textbook she was using as a writing surface, she gave him a glower, lowering her work. Crookshanks's purrs picked up and he tramped right across the wet ink of Hermione's parchment to wipe his tail across her face.

Hermione scooped him up and set him down beside her, moaning at the smudged splotches he'd left behind. Readying her fingers, she gave the persistent cat a very thorough response to the attention he was begging for. Crookshanks purred happily under her scrubbing fingers, settling himself down beside her, his eyes closing.

'Why,' Hermione asked him, 'does it have to be now, when I'm busy, that you want attention?'

Crookshanks gave her a loving blink, yawned, and stretched a paw out to hook his claws gently into the denim of her trousers.

The problem with cats, Hermione thought, was that they melted your annoyed heart the moment they turned to pudding under your scratching and rubbing hands. If Crookshanks could, he'd be grinning like a pampered prince.

Rising slowly in volume, Sirius's hums joined Crookshanks's loud purrs. Hermione looked up at him, feeling oddly dislocated from time and reality: as though the world had distorted into a singular, defining moment Hermione knew would stay with her, strong in her memory. Sirius was atop his ladder again, addressing the ceiling near the exposed wood cornice with his paintbrush. Hermione didn't recognise the tune he was humming.

Sirius's mouth opened partway through a hum.

'Time takes a cigarette,' he sang, voice low. 'Puts it in your mouth… You pull on your finger, then another finger… then cigarette.'

The tune was slow, Sirius's voice pleasantly soft. Hermione wondered whether his new two-a-day policy with cigarettes (which he was working to stick to) was becoming a strain. She didn't say anything, just listening as she stroked Crookshanks's back.

'The wall to wall is calling,' Sirius sang on. 'It lingers… then you forget. Oh ho, ho-o-ho… You're a rock n' roll suicide… You're too old to lose it. Too young to choose it… and the clock waits so patiently on your song… You walk past a café… but you don't eat when you've lived too long…'

What a depressing song, Hermione thought faintly. But she didn't interrupt. Sirius's singing had returned to humming, his body stretching to reach further along the ceiling.

'Oh no love – you're not alone!' he sang aloud again suddenly, his pitch rising with an increased pace. 'You're watching yourself but you're too unfair! You've got your head all tangled up but if I could only make you care!'

And then it was just humming again.

'That's… nice, Sirius,' Hermione said quietly.

He turned to smile at her, lowering his brush.

'It's been running around my head for about twenty minutes,' he told her. 'Great song – Bowie. Comes at the end of Ziggy Stardust's… interesting time on Earth.'

'Sing something else?' Hermione requested.

Sirius thought about it, leaning the back of his thigh against the top of the ladder, his foot moving to hook down around the second highest rung. He let his paintbrush droop in his fingers.

'I'm an alligator!' He sang suddenly, breaking into a grin. 'I'm a mama-papa coming for you! I'm a space invader! I'll be a rock n' rollin' bitch for yooooou!'

The figures of Harry and Ginny appeared behind Sirius, climbing the stairs to the third floor. Hermione was laughing, watching Sirius, who appeared to be having rather a good time with the music playing in his head. One of his knees was jerking to a beat only he could hear, his empty hand tapping it out absentmindedly on his thigh.

'Keep your electric eye on me babe!' he sang emphatically. 'Put your ray gun to myyyy head! Press your space-face close to mine love! Freak out in a moonage daydream – ooh yeah!'

Sirius didn't appear to have noticed Harry and Ginny. They'd approached, their confused expressions hilarious to see. Sirius considered the far wall for a second, then started humming something else. Hermione knew this one. Even Harry knew this one. His face was priceless.

'Do-do… dada-la-dadada… dam dam dam…'

Sirius screwed up his face comically.

'Ziggy played guitar,' he sang like a star on the stage: filled with exuberant energy. 'Jamming good with Weird and Gilly and the Spiders from Mars! He played it left hand,' Sirius started strumming the paintbrush, 'but made it too far – became the special man, then we were Ziggy's band…'

Sirius's voice was deeper than David Bowie's, his timbre rougher, but he could have rivalled the classic legend in the motion he could achieve on a ladder – without toppling the thing. He'd pushed himself away from the rungs, resting on one leg as he swung his "guitar" around like a ludicrous paintbrush ukulele, his hips gyrating as though he'd taken lessons from Elvis and Jagger both. Hermione had collapsed, her mouth in her hand, trying to avoid drowning Sirius out with her cackling.

'Ziggy really sang – screwed up eyes and screwed down hairdo!' Sirius's face took relish in every consonant, as though he was tasting them, 'Like some cat from Japan! He could lick 'em by smiling! He could leave 'em to ha-ang! He came on so loaded man! Well-hung with snow white ta-an!'

'Er…' uttered Harry, peering up at his godfather.

Sirius didn't start. He turned and chuckled down at Harry.

'Ziggy played for time,' he continued. 'Jiving us that we were voodoo! The kids were just crass – he was the nazz!' Sirius gave Harry a wink and finished boldly, 'With God-given ass!' He ended on a grin he turned on Hermione and started laughing as he saw her snorting into her fingers.

'Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars,' said Harry dryly, 'is the song you pick for a serenade?'

'Yup!' Sirius answered.

To be fair, Hermione thought, it was a reasonably appropriate song.

'What's a "nazz"?' Ginny asked.

'Erm,' Sirius took a breath, then noticed the three pairs of eyes watching him for an answer. 'Is that not used anymore?' he asked.

Hermione shook her head as Harry answered, 'No.'

'Well now I feel old,' Sirius remarked, but he continued with good humour, 'It's… like the world's most alluring person. Unbelievable sexy – cool; the best of all worlds.'

Ginny did laugh now. She sent Hermione a momentary look that wasn't lost on Hermione.

'You should learn how to play the guitar, Sirius,' Hermione told him.

It felt as though Sirius had only just closed his eyes after a good (and eventful) day when they were shooting open again, his body reacting to the shrieking wail before his mind had consciously acknowledged what it meant – flinging out of bed, his mouth shouting for their 'Wands!' Both his and Hermione's wands flew into his hand. Sirius found Hermione's hand in the dark and pushed the wand that felt like hers into it. And then they were out of the room, their feet flying down steps.

On longer legs, Sirius raced ahead of Hermione – screening her from whatever might be below. He didn't need to look back to know it had been her who had cast the Homonum Revalio that washed over him.

'Two!' she hissed breathlessly to him. 'Downstairs!'

Sirius leapt the last several steps down to the first floor.

'I'ss'okay!' Ron's voice shouted from below as Sirius swung onto the last flight of stairs. 'Muggle-born!'

Sirius slowed only as he caught sight of the two people in the entryway. The flickering lamps showed him the forms of Ron and a man Sirius hadn't seen in many years. Older, thinner, and looking the worse for wear, Wayne Onslow had slumped against the wall.

His wand held firmly at his side, Sirius's took the last steps to the ground floor quickly and watchfully.

'I forgot the spell to shut if off!' Ron shouted over the wail of the Caterwauling Charm.

Hermione clattering down behind him, Sirius stepped away from the stairs. If it was really Ron and only one unknown person…

Sirius lifted his wand and cast the spell to add Wayne to the Charm's list of allowed entrants to headquarters. The Caterwauling Charm shut up instantly.

'Ah,' Ron sighed, 'thanks!' Then he looked behind Sirius and his ears promptly went red. Breathing heavily, the older, blond man behind him looked as well.

Hermione had reached the ground floor. Hair dishevelled and dressed only in one of Sirius's t-shirts and a pair of panties, she was looking uneasy in the sudden silence. She grabbed the hem of the t-shirt and tugged it down over her bare legs.

Looking back at the two newcomers, Sirius sidestepped, blocking her from view.

'Erm…' uttered Ron.

'Sirius,' the blond man identified. He smiled a little. 'You haven't changed much.'

Sirius had liked Wayne. He didn't like the undercurrent in that statement. If they'd been shagging, he wouldn't be wearing his trunks.

'I'll…' Hermione muttered, 'be… erm… right back…'

Turning her back on them, she moved swiftly and cautiously back up the stairs. Sirius eyed Wayne.

'When did you accuse me of snogging Gillian,' Sirius asked, wand as tight as ever in his hand, 'and where did you accuse me of doing it?'

Flabbergasted, Ron was still looking between Sirius and the retreating form of Hermione.

Wayne stared right back at Sirius. The man was still trying to catch his breath. There were bloody slashes in his dirty robes. Wayne's abdomen was the worst, Sirius deduced. His old friend was bent slightly, guarding it.

'Beginning of Gillian's… and my sixth year,' Wayne answered. 'And behind the greenhouses – or, in the Gryffindor… common room, if that's what you meant. And,' he added, knowing what Sirius was after, 'when I accused you, your response… was to call over to Gillian, ask her if I was being an idiot, and when she said yes, told her… I wanted to ask her to the next Hogsmeade trip. I still haven't… worked out whether I want to curse you or… kiss you for that.'

Sirius nodded and lowered his wand – he had nowhere to stick it. That was how he'd remembered the occasion. And now he heard his old schoolmate speak, he could pick out the lingering drawl of an American accent. It was Wayne.

'Sirius…'

Sirius looked up. Hermione was leant over the balustrade of the stairs above. He held out his hand and then stepped sideways to catch the clothes she dropped down to him.

'Thanks Mione,' he called up to her and Hermione's face disappeared from view.

The door swung open and Harry stepped in, shutting the door quickly after him. He took in Sirius with only a glance before looking to Wayne.

'Led her off far enough,' he said by way of greeting. 'Then ran before Disapparating – couldn't have the Ministry thinking you'd had help.'

Sirius had tugged on his jeans.

'What happened?' he asked, fastening them. He could guess some of it. Ron and Harry had been stationed at Pratt's that night.

Sirius took the second they used to decide who should answer to pull his top on.

'We saw Wayne in the window,' Ron began. 'So I broke it, and when he came out I grabbed him and pulled him out of the Anti-Disapparition field. Pratt came running out after him. Harry Confunded her.'

'I ran in the opposite direction,' Harry continued the story. 'She followed me.'

'And I punched her,' Wayne added lightly. He shrugged. 'It gave me a second to get out.'

A second well worth it. Wayne was steadily getting greyer. He may well have died on Pratt's floor if he hadn't.

Hermione was clattering back down the stairs. The front door opened again and Remus, the first to respond, looked in, wand drawn. Arthur and Kreacher cracked into appearance behind him. It took only a glance into the entryway for the wizards to lower their wands.

'You're injured,' Sirius stated, eyes on Wayne.

Wayne smiled – in rather a pained way.

'I could do… with a bit of Healing,' he agreed. 'Or,' he added ruefully, 'a shower.'

Prompting Wayne to follow, Sirius started back up the stairs as the Order began amassing in the entry. Climbing after him, Wayne was gripping the handrail hard with every step. Sirius knew that walk. So long as Wayne could make it, he wouldn't offer to help. Opening the door to the first floor bathroom, Sirius waited for Wayne to walk in past him before entering and shutting it. A bit of privacy.

The moment the door was shut it was as though a mask of strength was dropped from Wayne. He fell onto the side of the bathtub, sitting there breathing heavily.

'Can you,' Wayne said, peering tiredly up at Sirius, 'Heal Slashing Curses?'

'Yes,' Sirius answered, moving over. 'But it's not going to leave you with much dignity.'

Wayne pulled a half smile, the skin beyond the corner of his mouth creasing with a couple more concentric lines than Sirius remembered him having.

'I don't have,' he said breathily, 'much of that left.'

His face growing a look of intense concentration, Wayne grabbed the sink and heaved himself up enough to wrestle the robes off over his head. He dropped back down again in his pants, tossing the wrecked robes aside. Wayne had the look of Azkaban about him. It wasn't just the tattoos Sirius recognised from his own chest. It was the hipbones visible on either side of his waist; the sunken abdomen and visible hollows at his temples. Bony. Wretched. The look of a person who had lost a great deal of vitality in a very short space of time.

And a fair number of slash marks. Most hadn't been deep – either inexpertly cast or done to harm rather than kill. The second was more likely. As Slashing Curses went, Pratt had chosen the least lethal of the bunch. Some were scabbed over, old enough to be healing on their own. Pratt had gone to town today on Wayne's flesh. The worst one was across his middle, the skin below it slick with blood.

Sirius flipped the toilet lid down and took Wayne by the elbow. He helped the man shuffle over onto it. Wayne's arm shook, starved muscles rising, as he gripped the side of the sink. Once he'd sat, Wayne leant back, closing his eyes briefly. Sirius took the man's previous seat on the side of the tub and got started with his wand.

The slash across Wayne's middle was accompanied by purple bruising that was already apparent around one of his sides. It was there Sirius began. Not far above it, Wayne's Azkaban tattoos marked him as a life prisoner, an imposter, a thief, and a threat to Wizardkind – a Muggle-born not killed by the Snatchers, in other words.

'So, I take it,' Sirius said once he'd removed the first wound's curse and the damage was knitting itself back together, 'Pratt is no roommate to be envied?'

'Ha…' Wayne uttered, his head leant back against the wall. 'Mad bitch.'

Sirius moved over to the next wound. Wayne sat silently through his singsong incantation.

'How long were you in Azkaban?' Sirius asked, testing the bruising on the man's side with his fingers. Wayne didn't flinch.

'Four months,' Wayne answered. His eyes rolled to look at Sirius. 'No idea how you survived twelve years.'

Sirius gave a slight smile, moving on to a gash on Wayne's shoulder.

'No one was throwing slashing curses at me,' he answered.

Where Sirius's Dercóir Bhar, tattooed in the centre of his chest, held three horizontal lines intersecting the upper extent of it, Wayne's had none. For an Azkaban prisoner, three strikes indicated the highest severity charges for one or more crimes. To bear the symbol for life prisoner, as both he and Wayne did, one needed to reach those three strikes. What the Aurors had indicated in marking Wayne without a single strike was that he had committed no crime at all. It was only the Aurors who could read their markings. This one tiny act of defiance against the Registration Commission and their decisions… was a pathetic one.

'Mione,' Wayne whispered. 'Does she have the tattoos?'

Sirius met his eyes.

'I saw the scar on her arm,' Wayne explained. 'She's Muggle-born.'

'Hermione,' Sirius corrected. It was only him who called her "Mione". 'No, she doesn't. She avoided Azkaban.' And Sirius was very grateful for it.

Wayne's lips were chapped. His self-deprecating smile cracked his lip open.

'Cleverer than me, then,' he acknowledged. 'You're married?'

Sirius's ring glinted in the light as he tugged Wayne's shoulder to indicate he lean forward.

'I am. To her.'

'The Muggle-born Marriage Act?' Wayne guessed astutely, propping his elbows on his knees and leaning against them. 'You're about as pure as blood comes.'

'Initially,' Sirius answered. He gazed down Wayne's scarred back, wand hovering. 'She's my wife,' he finished quietly and significantly.

Wayne chuckled, the sound raspy.

'I take it back then,' he said. 'You have changed. Does she know the Sirius Black doesn't go younger?'

Sirius smiled.

'Sort of,' he answered. 'Doesn't feel like it matters now.'

'No,' Wayne agreed. Almost whimsically, he added, 'Once you've got her, little else does.'

Sirius finished his latest round of the spell.

'When was the last time you saw Gillian?' he asked.

'August… the… thirteenth.' Wayne swallowed. 'We thought we had all the time in the world… Get remarried… A nice big celebration with our two sons. Turned out we only had about three months. And I spent the first one laid up in bed. My kids had already started to forget their own father…'

It had been Sirius's guess. He wasn't surprised to find he'd been right. And he wasn't happy for it to be confirmed either. It was a difficult sort of bravery: to cut yourself off so completely from your own family – from your wife and children – to protect them. But Wayne had always been a great man – better than Sirius. He'd have divorced the love of his life faster than Sirius would have to make sure she would be fine.

'How old are they?' Sirius asked.

Wayne breathed, the sound rough, for a minute.

'John's ten,' he answered, his voice tight. 'And… Luke's seven. He'll… be eight in a month.'

'At that age,' Sirius said, 'there's no way they'll forget their dad.'

Wayne made a cough Sirius suspected hid a sob. It didn't remain a singular sound, though. Sirius gripped Wayne's shoulder as Wayne shook, coughing hard into his hand. Sucking a rattling breath that reminded Sirius of Dementors, Wayne straightened, pressing his hands into his knees. He cleared his throat.

'I can't contact them at all, can I?' he asked.

Sirius's teeth clenched.

'It might,' he answered quietly, 'make things bad for them. The best option we can give you is to transport you over the Border to our friends on the Continent – tonight, before anyone really gets started looking for you. We've done it before. You'd be safe. Get a chance to recover before you can see… your family again. And it's best if they have no idea about it.'

Wayne nodded, eyes trained on his hands. For all his hands were bare, the mark his wedding ring had left on his hand was more lasting than Sirius's. Sirius got up, opened the door a crack, and Summoned Blood Replenishing Potion and Essence of Dittany.

'You can do that?' Wayne asked. 'Without alerting the Ministry?'

Sirius shut the door, the bottles in hand.

'Yes,' he said, setting the bottles on the sink top. He instructed Wayne to drain the bottle of Blood Replenishing Potion as he mended the last two slashes on Wayne's legs. He looked into Wayne's face once he was finished. The man opened his eyes, looking back.

'I'll take your offer,' Wayne told him. 'I'll lie in wait wherever you send me. You'll have me back soon, I think. Could always trust you, little troublemaker.'

Sirius gave a small smile. For as long as he'd known Wayne, he'd been a solid half a head taller than the man. It had never stopped Wayne teasing him.

'Can you jump up and down five times and spin around both ways?' Sirius asked.

Wayne cracked a smile.

'Sobriety test?' he asked.

'Ability to fly test.'

'Do you want me to demonstrate?'

'No,' Sirius said. 'I'll take your word.'

'I think so,' Wayne answered. 'Is it a deal breaker if I fall over?'

'It isn't,' Sirius said. 'But we'd like to know.'

Plaintive, Wayne stared back at him.

'I might fall over,' he admitted.

Sirius nodded and got to his feet.

'Go ahead and shower if you want,' he said, stopping by the door. 'I'll grab you a change of clothes. Use the Dittany,' he nodded to it, 'after. It'll stop your skin splitting open again.'

Wayne stared at Sirius from the toilet. Sirius had seen the man vomit into one. He'd rather be watching that.

'Do you think,' Wayne whispered, 'you could… stop by – check that Gillian and the boys are… alive at least?'

Sirius wished he could shut his eyes. He didn't want to see what was in Wayne's. Shut his ears. He was so tired.

'I can't personally,' he said regretfully. 'I… need to keep out of… the riskier things. But I will make sure someone in our group does. We can let you know how they're doing.'

Wayne nodded.

'I understand.'

'We will let you know,' Sirius promised, pulled the door just open enough for him to slip out, and glanced a parting look at Wayne.

'Thank you,' the man said, the words following Sirius as he shut the door.

Sirius stood outside for a protracted moment. That had affected him more than he'd expected it to. Never before had Sirius been so glad for his pure blood. He shook it off and darted up the stairs.

His own clothes would be too big for Wayne, but Regulus's old ones… And a cloak.

"Do not enter without the express permission of Regulus Arcturus Black". Sirius stared back at the sign. Grabbing the handle, he pushed the door open, and the sign swung backwards into a room as different from Sirius's teenage one as his brother's could be.

'Hope you don't mind, Reg,' Sirius said to the empty room, 'I'm going to hand some of your clothes over to an escaped Muggle-born… By the way,' he added, heading for the wardrobe, 'my wife – weird as that sounds – my godson, and some third cousin of ours – or something – defeated Voldemort. Ron smashed the locket with the sword of Gryffindor.' In Sirius's head, that part Regulus would have liked.

A set of robes… pants, for good – at least clean – measure, if Wayne wanted to use them… Socks, cloak… and a pair of shoes.

Sirius paused at the door, the clothes in his hands. He looked back into the room dressed in emerald green and silver livery.

'Thanks for the dittany, Reg,' Sirius said softly, then pulled the door shut. On a thought, he left the clothes and shoes on the landing and sprinted up to his and Hermione's bedroom. From his bedside drawer he collected a couple handfuls of galleons and stuffed them into a small purse. At least this way Wayne could buy himself a replacement wand. Surviving was easier when you had a wand.

Gold stuck in a robes pocket, Sirius tapped on the bathroom door, opened it a crack at Wayne's, 'Yeah?' and handed the clothes over, telling the wizard they'd be downstairs.

Sirius turned for the stairs. He could hear the Order amassed below. He took the steps slowly.

Years ago the Dementors had been promised his soul. Unlike Azkaban, it was a fate Sirius hadn't experienced. Shut up in there again… he could survive that. Maybe. Hermione… might not survive what they could do to her were his name not able to protect her. And if he'd been left with no rights the moment the tattoos had been spelled permanently into his chest… It would be so again were he convicted of anything.

But then, were Sirius convicted of anything, he probably wouldn't be locked up. The Dementors weren't forgetful. His body would be an empty shell that would take no more than a week to die.

Pratt had used her husband's lifetime incarceration to dissolve their marriage. That was why Wayne was in Sirius's bathroom. That was what Sirius was worried about. He'd taken far too many risks. Not just today, racing down the stairs toward unknown intruders, but while he'd been searching for Mundungus as well. All Sirius could do now was thank his lucky stars nothing had happened.

And with every watch they took – every new fugitive Muggle-born they harboured and smuggled over a Border that had a Ministry eye kept on it… Perhaps Umbridge didn't care much about one Muggle-born, then another, and another, escaping the strange new captivity they'd been kept in. Perhaps they were small fry in her big picture. And, perhaps, the Order was being sneaky. Keeping their heads ostensibly down and their voices out of the papers. But at some point… when might Umbridge see fit to stop playing nice? He and Hermione had already walked straight into the noose she'd placed on the ground for them.

Music suggestion for the later half: The Curse, Agnes Obel

Dear Emma,

I am glad about that. Very, very glad. I wish that song could instantly pop out of the screen for the entire time a person reads that scene! :D