Sirius Black's life was, in a word, stagnant. He was quickly approaching thirty-eight, his career was long behind him, and he'd been everywhere in the world he'd ever wanted to go. Alas, all he had to show for it was an oversized house and a mild to moderate drinking problem — hardly the pinnacle of success, by anyone's measure.

He was the exact stereotype he promised himself he would never become: washed up, a has-been, someone that once was and would never be again.

Twenty-year-old Sirius would kick his arse.

Whiskey swirled around his tumbler as he contemplated this, the perfect drink to drown his never-ending sorrows.

It was a common occurrence for him to do this — to stand in the hallway, designer robe hanging wide-open, for there was no one else there to see his favorite appendage as it swung, flaccid and free. Unfortunately, he didn't feel so free. He never did when he stood in this place.

Facing him was the very thing that landed him where he was now, the thing that made him a prisoner in his own skin.

Calloused fingers traced the glass frame. Encased within was a platinum record — his last platinum record, and rightfully so. It hung upon the corridor wall, shiny and gaudy, ill-fitting against the tattered fleur-de-lis wallpaper. It was a mess of a thing, that album. The lyrics were derivative, the riffs were rip-offs from much better guitarists before him, and worst of all, there was so much cowbell he couldn't listen to more than three tracks without getting a migraine. It didn't deserve to go platinum. It hardly deserved to be on the radio.

He sighed and downed his drink, half-considering smashing the bloody frame onto the floor. Devaluing it hardly seemed worth the effort, though. He would be better off selling it for booze money. Yes, that was the wiser choice. To the right buyer, it could be worth tens of thousands, he was sure of it. The band was famous once, after all — famous enough they still had their fans out there, scarce as they were.

He'd seen them in pubs. Well into the nineties, they remained neck-deep in the decade before, still forcing their jutting beer guts into vintage tee-shirts from the London show in '82. Women with fluffy fringe and wrinkled tan-lines, men with balding scalps and rattails that hugged the napes of their necks. He'd signed many a sagging tit, even recently. Those people might buy his record, had they the money for it.

Maybe he could trade it for motorcycle parts instead.

With a heavy sigh, he returned to his bay window, tied his robe at his waist, and sunk into his overpriced wingback chair. Lord, how he detested that chair — it wasn't even comfortable, for God's sake.

It was crimson, though — his favorite color, and the reason why he bought it.

There, he planned to spend his afternoon. It was where he spent most afternoons, after all, accompanied by many a cigarette and a bottle to boot.

He set his tumbler atop a book on the end table beside him, preparing to fill it once more. There were distinct, discolored rings across the book's cover, evidence of his many months of using it as a coaster. He hadn't picked it up — nor had he picked up any book — in ages. It was just another collector of dust, another unused decoration in his ostentatious home that now meant nothing to him.

In fact, Grimmauld Place was becoming something of a burden.

The taxes were obscene to start, plus he was still paying off half the furniture. Without any tours and with fewer record sales, he would be broke before he reached fifty.

Of course, he'd never admit that. Begging his family for their wealth was beneath him even on his worst day. Besides, they'd never share their money with him.

"Nearly forty and you haven't even an heir?" his mother would say. "What in God's name do you need our money for? You've no one to pass it to!"

As much as he loathed her, maybe she had a point — not about the money, but about fatherhood. A child would mean purpose — a legacy.

He had another half of his life left, and nobody to share it with, nor anything to keep him busy.

He poured another glass of whiskey. His only friend.

CRASH!

Sirius jolted awake, blinking away the fog of sleep and inebriation. His front was wet, and his whiskey tumbler had rolled across the hardwood floor, a good meter from the puddle of liquor at his feet. He must've spilled it when he passed out.

CRASH!

The sound that woke him repeated, just as loud the second time as it was the first. Sirius shook his head and twisted his neck to get a glimpse out the bay window. Waste management services certainly weren't around on Sundays, and he knew it was Sunday because that godforsaken church carpool honked in the street for nearly ten minutes that morning.

Squinting against the sunlight, he searched for the source of the noise. His neighbor, Sybill, was fixing her wind-chimes. Young Barty Crouch was digging at his garden. The Potters were having tea on their front patio. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Until he saw her.

The girl couldn't have been older than sixteen. She sported dungarees and comically large hair, an absurd distraction from the several boxes stacked at her side. Just in front of her was a moving truck — parked illegally, and jiggling from someone fidgeting about in the back. It was undoubtedly the source of all the racket. The girl's arms outstretched with purpose as she waited by the open hatch, apparently eager to add to her collection of cardboard.

A box slid her way.

She seized it and climbed the steps to Old Man Slughorn's house — well, it was Old Man Slughorn's house. The miserable geezer had died a few months back. Sirius realized the girl must be one of his new neighbors. Inside the truck was somebody else — a parent, he presumed.

He curled his lip. If they expected him to entertain the usual neighborly niceties, they'd be in for a rude awakening. Sirius Black didn't like neighbors, especially neighbors with ratty-headed daughters that woke him up from what was a peaceful, Sunday nap.

Between that and the infernal honking, it seemed everyone was intent on ruining his day.

"Bloody people," he muttered, patting his robe pockets for his pack of cigarettes. There was nothing there. "Oh, fucking hell."

Hence, he began the search for the missing bines. They weren't on the end table, nor the dining table, or even on his unused desk. The only other place he might have left them was —

With a groan, he slid open a brocade curtain. The motorcycle on the curb gleamed in the afternoon rays, a reminder that he had taken it for a spin the night before; he'd smoked the whole time.

Hanging from the side was the leather pocket he was now almost positive contained his pack of cigarettes.

He glanced from the motorcycle to the moving truck. The hatch was still open, but there was no sign of the bushy-headed girl. Perhaps she and her family were taking a break from moving boxes. Maybe, if he was fast, he could avoid the misery of the inevitable we're-new-to-the-neighborhood shtick.

He sighed, cracked open the front door, and slipped out onto the porch, his house-shoes scuffling onto the concrete. He clambered down the stairs, his eyes pinned to the leather side pocket. If he could make it in time —

"Oi! Black!"

Sirius grit his teeth together. Arthur Weasley's voice cut through the summer air, annoyingly pleasant in a way he couldn't force himself to ignore. Sirius turned to face him.

Might as well get it over with, he thought.

The redheaded man seemed to have the opposite idea. He was standing in the doorframe of his blindingly white home, a goofy smile stretched across his face and a rolled-up newspaper tucked under his arm. The breeze caught his combover and flipped it the wrong way.

"Afternoon, Arthur," Sirius said back, his tone as cordial as he could manage. "Bloody nice day, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is!"

Arthur jogged down the stairs of his lot — Number Ten, Grimmauld Place — seemingly eager to catch Sirius in a full-fledged chat. Sirius fought off a grimace. He'd have to make an excuse to go back inside.

"Did you see we've got new neighbors?" Arthur asked, grabbing the newspaper from underneath his armpit. He put his hands on his hips and nodded across the street. "Girl around Ginny and Ron's age, it looks like."

"I did see the moving truck," Sirius sighed.

"Well, you couldn't miss it, could you? It's huge! Thought you needed a license for one of those, honestly . . ." Arthur leaned in. "Percy was doing a bit of snooping, you know. Said they had boxes all the way to the top! Can't say I'm jealous of that chore."

"Right."

"Haven't moved in nineteen years and you couldn't pay me to do it again." He elbowed Sirius. "Well, maybe if I won the lottery. Then, it'd be one-way tickets to Majorca!"

An awkward laugh was all Sirius could muster. Arthur Weasley had a way of making him regret living in the suburbs nearly every time they spoke. It was a talent, almost — or perhaps a curse.

"I wonder how many children they have, buying Slughorn's place . . . Did you know it has four bathrooms? Can you imagine?"

Sirius decided not to inform him that Number Twelve had five bathrooms, as well as a stainless steel kitchen. The man would probably have a coronary.

"I had no idea," he said instead. "Very impressive."

Arthur shook his head. "They just don't make them like that anymore, do they? Really wonder what they paid for it . . . Must've been a fortune, with the way the market is . . ."

"Couldn't tell you." Sirius pressed his lips together. His eyes darted across the street, still eager to avoid introductions — and wishing he'd avoided Arthur.

"Curious what they do, as well . . . I've seen the husband but no sign of the missus yet . . ." Arthur crossed his arms and chuckled. "Maybe they're one of those modern families, where she earns all the money. Wouldn't that be a twist!"

Sirius didn't laugh. Arthur's expression faltered.

" Ahem. Hoping they're a good lot, though," he went on. "Molly's been getting bored with the kids all being in school now. Bit of the old empty nest syndrome . . . You remember the Longbottoms. We haven't had dinner with friends since they moved."

Sirius didn't remember much about the Longbottoms at all. He didn't suspect he wanted to.

"Long time, then," he said, though he truly had no idea how long it could've been.

Arthur nodded. "Bloody sad, really . . . That's just how it gets, I suppose, once you've settled with a few kids . . ." He clapped Sirius on the shoulder. "Ah, suppose you wouldn't understand it, though, would you? You're all about that bachelor lifestyle. Must be ace, that, with all the girls and the drink and the travel — living out my teenage dreams, you are!"

Sirius feigned another laugh. He wondered whose life was worse: His or Weasley's. He had a feeling it'd be a wash.

Arthur sighed and slapped the newspaper against his palm. "Well, I suppose I ought to be going. Molly'll have my head if I let my dinner go cold. Catch up again soon, yeah?"

"Sure," Sirius said, cracking a false smile. "Soon."

Arthur trudged back towards his house. Sirius let out a sigh of relief and started towards his bike again, only for the other man to swivel on his heels and shoot one of his notorious finger guns. If Sirius was a stereotype, Arthur was the king of stereotypes.

"And if you happen to run into the new neighbors, have them give me a shout, yeah? Suspect Molly will want to make them her famous tart." He winked and pivoted back around.

Sirius waited intently, letting out a deep breath when Arthur's door slammed shut at last.

Finally, he thought.

Relieved — but feeling all the more rushed — he plodded to his motorcycle. He leaned down, steadying himself against the bike to stop the spinning of his whiskey-laden brain, hoping that the trek into the streets of this suburban hell would prove to be worth it. He pulled open the leather flap, reached inside, and pawed around until he felt the corner of the tiny, cardboard box.

A sudden sense of solace enveloped him, warm and familiar like a cozy old blanket.

He plucked the pack out and opened the top, nearly squealing in delight when he discovered at least half his smokes were left, with his lucky lighter to boot. He saw no reason to wait until he was in the house. Mid-step, he pulled out a cigarette and placed it between his nicotine-hungry lips. The lighter lingered at the end.

Flick. Nothing.

Flick. Still nothing.

Fl —

"Ow!"

Sirius stopped, his cigarette still unlit, his thumb flush against the wheel of the lighter. The feminine voice had come from across the street.

If he had to guess who it was, he suspected he wouldn't like the answer.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Just keep walking, Sirius," he mumbled to himself. "Just keep walking and pretend you didn't hear a bloody thing."

"Oh God," the voice wavered. "Oof! Ow, ow, ow — oh, you've got to be kidding me!"

It wasn't his problem. She wasn't his problem. Her parents had to be nearby, surely. They would come help. Yes, it wouldn't be long. They'd hear her and they would come find her and Sirius would be off the hook, finally smoking away, all whilst enjoying a good nudie magazine and a bubble bath.

"Sir?" the girl said loudly; her voice cracked.

Dreams of masturbating in the bath quickly faded.

"Goddammit," he muttered. He then opened his eyes, and though it was against his better judgment, he dared to shout back, "Yes, what?"

"I — I'm so sorry to bother you, but I — I fell and — and I'm afraid I can't —"

Annoyed, Sirius spun around and shoved his lighter into his pocket. The bushy-headed girl, just as he expected, was on her bottom on the sidewalk, one leg jutting outward, an untied trainer abandoned on the steps behind her. A trail of blood was running down her shin, staining the white sock she was now peeling off. Clearly, it wasn't just her hair that was messy.

Sirius wished he'd ignored her. He was not in the mood to nurse someone else's child back to health. That was her parents' job.

But they were nowhere to be found, so a miserable drunk would have to do.

"Well, don't touch it," he snapped, stomping in her direction. His cigarette was still hanging loosely from his lips, his hands ready in case the tie to his robe decided it was a good time to give way. He didn't want to expose himself to a bloody kid. He must've looked positively mad, as it was, storming about in a housecoat, making a beeline for a scared teenager. He'd be shocked if that nosy hag Umbridge didn't call the police.

"I — I think it's just a sprain," she said sheepishly. "But I can't put any weight on it."

Sirius parked at her feet, towering over her in a way that certainly wasn't going to make Umbridge any less inclined to report him. It would be best to get this over with. The Potters were already staring.

"Unless you have disproportionate ankles all the time, I'd reckon you're right," he grunted.

The girl glared up at him. Apparently, she wasn't in the mood for jokes.

"Was just trying to lighten the mood," he mumbled. He stretched out a hand and waggled it, praying to whatever deity was above that his robe stayed put. "Up with you, then."

"I just told you, I can't put weight on it."

"Well, you can't just sit on the sidewalk."

"I know that, but —"

"Hermione? Hermione, what happened?"

The new voice was raspy and masculine, the lacing of worry threaded with fatigue. Sirius whipped his head upward towards the source.

Peeking out from behind the navy door was a man — a rather handsome man, in a rugged, bookish sort of way. Cinnamon locks darted every-which-way, flecked with the grey of age and, judging by his frown lines and the scar on his cheek, a lifetime of stress. Really, he was nothing like Sirius expected, after meeting the girl. He looked nothing like her.

"Ahem." Sirius straightened his posture in the name of propriety. If Umbridge and the Potters were worth worrying about, the girl's father certainly was too. "Your daughter fell. I was er — ahem — helping."

"Oh, hell. I thought I'd heard something."

The man descended the stairs two at a time, lines of concern etching into the crow's feet around his honey eyes. They were rather nice eyes, Sirius thought to himself.

"I was just trying to grab more boxes," the girl explained. Her face was twisted with pain and helplessness as the blood on her leg began to crust over. Sirius had a hunch the girl tried to do more quite often. She reeked of self-importance and overachieving, much unlike himself.

The man crouched down, examining her affected ankle.

"Can you stand?"

The girl — Hermany? — tried again, only to wince and shake her head.

"Well, let's erm —" The man cleared his throat and held out an arm for her to take. "Let's see if we can get you up. Use my arm to — yes, that's right."

He rose up onto his feet, supporting her to hobble along with him. Sirius was glad the man showed for this part. Umbridge would've called the bloody Daily Mail had he coiled his alcohol-soaked sleeve around that girl's shoulders.

"Can you get up the stairs?" asked the man.

"Maybe if you help me."

He nodded and supported her up the first step — and each that followed. He had the patience only a father could offer; Sirius would've been barking at her the whole way up.

In fact, he wanted to, and he wasn't even doing the assisting.

Frankly, he wasn't even sure why he was still standing there. He was done, relieved of his duties. He'd signed off and the the girl's father had tagged in.

Yet he watched them the whole grueling way, even as they disappeared into the house. The man had to be coming back, after all — he left the bloody door open.

Sirius frowned. That shouldn't have mattered either.

Sirius had nothing to talk to him about. The whole reason he tried to avoid them was so he didn't have to make small talk with whichever boring suburbanites took it upon themselves to buy Old Sluggy's place.

Footsteps were approaching. Feeling suddenly embarrassed of his bad habit, Sirius tucked his cigarette behind his ear.

The man re-emerged.

"Thanks for that," he said, ambling back down to the sidewalk. He raked his fingers through his hair. "She's had a rough go recently. Poor girl can't seem to catch a break."

"Moving's always a right pain in the arse, especially at that age," said Sirius. Without thinking, he reached out to shake the man's hand. "It's Sirius, by the way."

"Remus," the man sighed, his grip loose and lazy, though Sirius suspected he was distracted, rather than weak. "I assume that's your place, across the street?"

Sirius nodded. "Yeah, good old Number Twelve."

"So you're in no way affiliated to the woman that's been staring at us since we've gotten here?" Remus jested.

"Sybill? Oh, she's got a couple of screws loose, but she's not so bad. Probably is trying to read your aura or something," Sirius replied. "Actually, I was just talking to Weasley. He's over there in that white house — just there. He wanted to get your wives together."

"Our . . . wives," Remus repeated.

Sirius nodded. "Between you and I, I'd take him up on it. Boring arseholes, the lot of them, but the wife's tarts are something else."

"An excellent offer, I'm sure, but I suspect it'll be off the table once he finds out I don't have a wife."

Suddenly feeling quite rude, Sirius wilted a bit.

"Sorry." He scratched the back of his neck. "Weasley's assumption, I'm just the messenger."

"Nothing to apologize for. Those types always seem to think everyone's the same as they are," Remus said. "Nothing I'm not used to."

It was a sentiment Sirius couldn't have agreed with more. He was rather used to it too, living in that neighborhood. As a bachelor, he was always the odd one out — and he lived right next to Sybill Trelawney, the poster geriatric for unmedicated schizophrenia.

Remus reached into the pocket of his trousers. To Sirius's surprise, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes — a brand Sirius smoked as a teenager, when he had much less money and countered the habit with much less booze. Sirius watched with interest as he placed one between his lips.

Remus stopped. "You don't mind if I — ?"

Of course he didn't mind. He was elated. He couldn't pinpoint why — he never cared what people thought about his nicotine addiction before. In fact, he usually touted it with pride.

But there was a reason he hid that cigarette behind his ear.

Perhaps, he wanted to make a good impression. That wasn't usually his style, but Remus was a likable bloke. So far, anyway.

He brandished the secret cigarette. "Only if I can do the same."

"Be my guest."

Remus flicked his lighter. Sirius mirrored him.

As he sucked down the delicious smoke of the day's first bine, he decided that, of all his neighbors, he thought he would like Remus the most.

"Your daughter will be all right, yeah?"

"She's not my daughter."

Sirius froze. The girl was just that — a girl. As mature as she tried to seem, she wasn't even out of school yet, Sirius was sure of it. Of course, he'd heard horror stories of other bands getting involved with groupies that age, but Sirius never engaged in — nor did he endorse — such an act.

"Well, I guess she sort of is," Remus amended. "I'm her guardian."

"I see," Sirius replied, not entirely sure he understood the full story, or that he bought it. He wanted to. The neighborhood was already a cesspool of normalcy. The last thing he wanted was for the first interesting person he'd ever met to be a bloody predator.

Smoke billowed from Remus's nostrils. "Her — ahem — her parents passed, earlier this year. It's all still quite fresh."

"They both died," Sirius echoed, now believing the story even less. "At the same time."

Remus nodded. "They were on vacation in Australia. Boat capsized off the coast — you might've seen it on the news. Was quite a thing when it happened."

Sirius did recall seeing something to the tune of his story some months back. "Wait, were those the dentists? From Bristol?"

Remus nodded again. "Yeah, they had a practice up there."

"Friends of yours, then?"

"Hardly," Remus snorted. "I was her teacher for a year, so I'd met them, but only a few times. Just meetings and the like." He let out a single laugh. "Her mum gave me a crown once, I suppose. I doubt she would've remembered it."

The story didn't make sense anymore. "So how exactly did you end up with her?"

"I've been asking myself that question since it happened. I assume they didn't think they'd both die at the same time. The lawyer said it's fairly common, actually, for people to just write down the first person they think of." Remus shrugged. "Apparently, that person was me."

"They can just sign you up for that?" Sirius asked, surprised. No matter the circumstance, he was just grateful that the story seemed to check out, and that Remus didn't appear to be some kind of freak. "Without telling you?"

"Well, technically, I could've denied her and let the system deal with it, but I didn't have the heart. I'm all she's got." He chuckled and took a short puff. "And trust me, mate, I'm not much."

Sirius blew a cloud of smoke out the corner of his mouth, deep in contemplation. Remus's predicament was unlike anything he'd ever heard.

"I dunno what I'd do if someone dropped a kid off on me. Shit myself, probably."

Remus laughed. "Honestly, it's not so bad. She parents me more than I do her . . . Today was a bit of a one-off." He rubbed his face. "Fucking hell, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to give you the whole life story."

"It's fine."

"I still don't quite know how to explain our situation to people," Remus continued. "It's . . . unusual, I know."

Sirius ashed his cigarette. "I reckon that's a situation that'll never get easier to explain. Best get used to it, mate."

Sirius was familiar with that feeling, being who he was, and living his life how he lived it. He was constantly explaining himself.

Remus nodded and took a long drag.

"Well, I er — I suppose I ought to go check on her. Thanks for er — for helping out with her today. I'm obviously not very good at this yet."

"Wasn't a problem," Sirius said, strangely realizing that he meant it with complete and utter honesty.

"Right, well you take it easy, yeah?"

"Yeah — yeah, you too."

And with that, Remus climbed the stairs once more. Sirius waited — almost as though he expected him to come back again — until he watched the door shut behind him. It was a final sort of slam. He wasn't coming back down, not that it would make any sense for him to.

Sirius sucked in more smoke and dropped his cigarette to the ground, smiling to himself as he stamped it out.

Maybe, he thought, the new neighbors wouldn't be so bad after all.