Disclaimer: This is like my little thank you letter to J.K. Rowling. Dear Ms. Rowling—God bless you. God bless your characters and God bless your creativity. Thank you for letting me play with your glorious world. Love always, Tirzah

Author's Note: Okay. This is officially my main project again. (Huzzah!) And since you have all been so wonderfully patient with me, I'm giving you what you have all been waiting for. Ladies and gentlemen (oh, who am I kidding? Ladies and ladies!), I give you some background on what has happened in the past months of the beautiful, the misunderstood, the tall, dark and handsome… Sirius Black! (Oh, and a cameo from yours truly… but I promise not to make a move on Sirius. Ani could kick my ass; I'm sure of it.) As a result this will be slightly AU, simply coz I don't really know all the details of what went on during Sirius' exile… these are just my ideas.

---

In the darkness of the cold northern forest, in the middle of a fir-wreathed clearing, on a cold, damp bed of grass, Sirius Black lay dying.

Though he had not often contemplated death, Sirius had always assumed that his would occur in his warm, soft bed while looking up at the tear-stained faces of those mourning his passing. He certainly did not envision this inglorious, wretched, lonely death.

He hadn't the strength to maintain his Animagus form, but he no longer feared discovery. What did it matter? He was dying. All he could focus on now was the slow, shallow rasp of his own breathing, wrenched and forced in the quiet of the clearing. Soon even that would fade entirely—he would die alone, and when he was found, his tombstone would read "Murderer".

We are born into this world as we leave it, his weary, fever-addled brain whispered. Ever alone.

The spare bit of reason remaining in his mind argued that, were he discovered after death, the body of a shaggy dog would receive a much more decent burial than the body of Sirius Black. So one last time he struggled to morph black into the great black creature he'd been before. It was no use, though—his magic flared briefly and then faded, a meager wisp of flame nearly extinguished by a hateful wind.

James, he moaned inwardly, too weak even to manifest the physical tears. Lily. Harry. Maybe in the afterlife they'll forgive me. I couldn't right this wrong. Peter Pettigrew still walks free. I've failed my family.

And Ani, a secret, selfish part of him—the part he'd had to fight so as not to surrender to, the part he'd had to fight against to keep from tearing the world apart to find her—whispered. Ani still believes you're a murderer.

And with these agonizing thoughts, Sirius Black surrendered to Death.

But Death did not come.

Time—an indeterminate amount—passed. Hazy splinters of memory and dream twined and pooled in his mind. He could not discern the two. He felt as though he were floating through a cold black mist. His brain and body were weak, disconnected. But through the fog one thing felt warm and solid and clear: a slender hand was holding his own.

"Can you hear me?"

He fought to answer her, but his lips simply would not respond. Instead he squeezed the long and delicate fingers with all the strength he could muster—but even he knew it was scarcely a flickering.

More time passed, and then, "Try not to move… you've been ill. Just lie there; you'll be okay."

As his consciousness started to fade, he managed to slit his eyes open. A woman's face floated in front of him—her hair gleamed red.

Lily? Had he passed into the Otherworld? Had Lily come to guide him? Was James somewhere nearby? He struggled to make sense of his surging surroundings.

Instead, he fell asleep.

---

With a sigh the old man straightened his spectacles and sat back in his chair. "He'll be fine; I think the worst is over."

The girl behind him slumped in relief. "Thank God," Tirzah said, her voice leaden with exhaustion.

"Gotten fond of him, have you?" Dr. Searles asked, tottering a bit as he rose from his seat. Tirzah moved forward quickly and took his elbow.

"I can't exactly help it," she responded wryly as they left the tiny bedroom, catching the latent disapproval in the doctor's voice. She took his coat off a peg by the front door and handed it to him. "He's so helpless; I couldn't stand it if he died."

"Well, you've done everything you could," the doctor answered. "His fever is down and the wound is healing nicely; those stitches have really sped things up. He should wake up on his own any time now—and I'm sure he'll be very grateful to you."

"I just did what I had to do," Tirzah said.

The doctor paused by the door. "You do know what we must do when he recovers, don't you?" he asked gently.

She hesitated. "Yes, I do. And once again, I can't thank you enough for your discretion when I found him—but I just couldn't turn him in."

"Well, now that he's recovering, we need to go to the authorities," Dr. Searles insisted. "I can't tell you how concerned I am about you here, alone, with a mad killer in the next room." He sighed and looked at her sternly with the air of an uncle chiding a favourite niece. "Town is so far away; if you were in danger, no one would know until it might be too late. I wish you would take my advice and have someone come and stay with you."

Her fists clenched, but Tirzah remained outwardly calm. "We agreed when I brought you here that, at least for now, the fewer people who know that this man is here, the better," she reminded him. "He's harmless right now… he can barely move. I'm in no danger. There's no need to alarm anyone else."

"Perhaps," Dr. Searles answered, ostensibly unconvinced. "But I think it would be best if, when I return to town, I call the police and let them know the situation."

"Not until he has his strength back," Tirzah insisted. The doctor sighed and she moved forward, earnest and concerned. "Doctor, please. Just a few more days. Let him heal. Then we can call the police. But not until then, please… I'm begging you, what harm can it possibly do?"

Dr. Searles sighed and pulled at the wisps of his white beard. "I don't like it, Tirzah," he said sternly. He looked at her and his pale blue eyes twinkled slightly. "But I have the feeling that if the authorities were to show up here tonight, they'd never find the lad, would they?"

Tirzah smiled. "Thank you, Doctor."

He harrumphed and reached into his bag, pulling out a small white bottle. "After he wakes, give him broth and tea… no solid foods, even if he asks for them. And as soon as he's able to keep it down, give him one of these pills every four hours."

"I will," she promised. "And thank you again."

As the doctor left the little house, Tirzah breathed a sigh of relief and locked the door firmly behind him. Finally.

She'd heard the news reports detailing the escaped murderer Sirius Black when she came to England in July for her grandfather's funeral, but her grief kept her otherwise occupied. Besides, there was no reason to be concerned: in the entire country, what were the odds that she would ever run into the murderer? She lived in New York City, for Christ's sake. If she could survive there, she could survive in England. So it was without concern that she left her hotel in London and traveled north to spend the remainder of her holiday cleaning out the cabin her grandfather had owned and visited in his healthier days, outside of a small town called Shelton that she'd visited often in her youth.

It was Tirzah's second to last day in the cabin when she found him—she'd almost finished the final scrubbing; only the furniture, which would be donated to the local parsonage, remained. She'd awakened that morning and been unable to fall back asleep, and so after making herself a cup of strong coffee, she set out on a walk in the cool early morning mist. There was a clearing she remembered from her youth very close by—she would go there.

She had just come through the trees and was blinking in the sudden brightness of the thicket when her stunned eyes fell upon the body of a man, close to her own age, lying as though dead in the grass. His skin was sallow and ashen, stretched tightly over the bones of his face. He wore tattered, colorless robes—Robes?! her bewildered mind had wondered—which were stained on one side with a glistening, sticky mass of blood.

Ignoring her shock, Tirzah rushed to him and pressed her fingers to the pulse point on his neck. It was there—but only just. She pushed back to her feet: the wound producing all that blood suggested that she not attempt to move the body. But before she could run into town, she caught a glimpse of the man's face.

She recognized the mass of black hair that spread out on the grass like a matted black carpet. She recognized the glimpse of the tattoos that peaked from under the neck of the strange robe—runes, perhaps? And though his eyes were sealed behind slightly flickering lids, she knew that if they were open she would recognize them too: shuttered and black as a starless winter night.

The escaped prisoner, Sirius Black.

Her system shrieked with adrenaline. But as soon as the initial jolt had passed, compassion and reason battled in her gut. The man was a killer; she remembered the pricking of gooseflesh she'd felt as the news anchor listed Black's final death toll. She ought to run into the village and call the police, tell them she'd found the man that they'd been searching for since midsummer.

Be that as it may, a small, secret part of her whispered. He's hurt. He may be dying. And what can you bet that they would simply leave him to die? He may be a murderer… but he's still a human being. He doesn't deserve this death.

She groaned audibly and moved back to his side. "Gods forgive me for being such a fool," she muttered. She fumbled for his hand—she wanted to stay as far from the wound as possible. She wrapped her fingers around his skeletal ones and leaned close, asking softly, "Can you hear me?"

He stirred but did not wake, and his fingers barely pressed on her own. Tirzah sat back on her haunches and observed him carefully; he was tall but as fragile as a bird, all skin and bones. She could tell by looking at him that he'd once been powerfully built—no longer.

"I'm going to try to move you," Tirzah said, feeling foolish. He probably couldn't hear a word she said. "Hold still… this may hurt."

It took a great deal of grunting and gasping, but within a half an hour Tirzah had managed to half drag, half stagger Black back to her cabin. She settled him as gently as possible and, with a faint stirring of panic rising in her stomach, surveyed the situation. All that movement seemed to have opened the wound at his side again: the black, congealed blood started to glisten red once more. Gingerly, she pushed open the slashed fabric and recoiled, her stomach roiling. Three long, deep slashes gouged the flesh—it looked as though the man had been speared with a pitchfork.

Her "orderly accountant's mind" that her grandfather had once teased her about started a-clicking. What an angle to be hit from, she thought, leaning closer for a better look. The marks go sideways instead of up and in. Why, it looks as if… as if he were on the ground already, on his hands and knees when he was struck. She sat back, chewing on her lip. That's strange.

An unbidden wave of sympathy moved up in him—stabbed with a pitchfork, honestly. Surely that had not been necessary.

Are you an idiot? she asked herself. Of course it was necessary! The man's a murderer!

From the bed Black gave a tiny, mewling moan that sent her flying for the medicine cupboard in the bathroom. "Murderer or not," she told herself sternly, "he doesn't deserve to be in pain."

So for the next few days she barely left her own bedside, cleaning the wound and sponging the fevered brow of the unconscious prisoner. Countless times she wondered if she were doing the right thing, wondering whether or not she should go to the police—and each time she wondered, she looked at her patient's face and knew that she could not give him up to his fate.

But that did not mean she didn't doubt herself. For the first few days she was certain she had failed, and that Sirius Black would die in her bed, and then what on earth would she tell the authorities? Those days he barely moved, his fever continually stabbing up in ridiculously high peaks. Those days Tirzah refused to sleep, instead focusing all her energy on keeping his waxy, ashen flesh cool and dry.

On the fourth day the fever had still not abated and Tirzah, weak from lack of sleep and by this point desperate, finally left his side and ran into the village to get Dr. Searles, the village's resident apothecary whom she'd known as a child. After desperately begging for a promise of his secrecy, Tirzah finally brought the doctor to her cabin and had him tend to her patient.

"It doesn't look good," Dr. Searles argued. "The damage may be too great already. I want to move him into my surgery, but the fact is he shouldn't be moved again. You're lucky you got him here at all."

"Just tell me what to do," Tirzah begged. "I can't just let him die."

"You may have no choice, girl," the doctor reminded her. "Sometimes these things are best left up to God."

And God let me win this time, Tirzah thought, walking slowly back into the bedroom, her eyes fixed on the dark-haired man in her bed. She sat down on her chair and watched as slowly the fringed eyelids slit open to reveal two pools of black. Now he's going to be fine. I just know it.

---

The woman was not Lily.

As his strength slowly seeped back into his damaged body and his mind became clearer bit-by-bit, Sirius managed to get a better look at the woman who woke him from his unnatural sleep every so often to spoon warm, clean-tasting broth into his mouth.

Her hair was not, as he'd originally thought, the long curtain of red that Lily's had been. It was short and sleek and deep chestnut with auburn tones that caught in the light from the window. Her eyes were brown, not green, and cool where Lily's had been fiery. She was also older—though not by much—than Lily had been when she died.

Though at first his realization of this had brought disappointment, in the end he thought it was probably best: it meant he was not dying. And as much as he might like to die, he had work yet to do.

"Don't try to get up," the young woman advised on the first day he'd felt strong enough to open his eyes to survey his surroundings. She pushed him gently back into the bed. "You've had a nasty wound and a bad fever, and you're very weak. So just lie still. You're not in any danger here."

So he did. For days he lay in the fragrant bed (the mattress was old, stuffed with sweet woodruff—the fragrance had grown stronger as the stuffing dried) and slept. Oh, Lord, he slept. And as he slept his strength and his memory came back to him, fragments at a time.

Escaping Azkaban. His heart yearning for Ani—his brain knowing that if he went to her now, he would never achieve his goal. Traveling South. Seeing Harry—his godson with Lily's eyes and James' face—in Little Whinging. Traveling to Hogwarts… Peter was there… Hiding in his Animagus form. Starving, steadily starving, sneaking into a chicken farm for food. Run off by the farmer, a wound in his side. Collapsing in the woods. Preparing to die.

And now, being saved by the young woman.

He'd opened his eyes that morning and looked around the little room: the young woman sat in a chair by the bed, a leather-bound book in her lap. She smiled when she looked up and saw him staring at her. "I'm glad you're awake." She leaned closer and studied him carefully. "Your color looks a bit better… Are you hungry?" she asked, closing the book.

Not trusting his voice, he nodded. "I'll go make you some more broth," she said, rising. "You must be sick of it by now, but the doctor has said not to give you any solid food. It'll take a few moments. Wait here, and I'll be back."

A sudden thought blazed a clearing through his foggy brain. She had to make the broth—not conjure it from a wand. She'd spoken of a doctor—not a Healer. And most importantly, the Ministry of Magic wasn't swarming the house to take him back to Azkaban. That only left one explanation.

His rescuer was a Muggle.

Before he could decide what to do the girl had returned, a steaming bowl held in both hands. She moved the chair closer to his bed and sat, lifting the spoon to his lips. Raising one brow at her, Sirius accepted the soup into his mouth. Since his infancy he'd never been fed like this—even when he laid abed with scarlet fever as a small child, his mother had never tended to him the way this girl did now. It was as if… as if she really cared if he lived or died.

Yet there was something wrong with the way she watched him.

I must know what, if anything, she knows about me.

"What's your name?" he asked her. He winced—his voice, after long disuse, had decayed to a low, guttural croak.

"Tirzah," she answered, bringing the spoon to his lips once more. He struggled to sit up; she firmly put a hand on his shoulder. "Relax: don't push it. You'll pull the stitches out of that wound."

"Where did you find me?" he persisted, ignoring the increase in the throbbing of his side. Stitches: that explained the stiffness, at least. "Where are we now?" He pushed aside the sheets and struggled to sit up. His arms shook uncontrollably; this overt weakness disgusted him.

The Muggle sighed impatiently and left the room, returning a moment later with two more pillows. "If you insist upon sitting, at least lean on these," she ordered, leaning over to prop the pillows behind his head. He caught a brief wisp of the scent of her hair: apple-scented chamomile. The smell soothed him. Sitting down again, she picked up the bowl of broth once more. "As to where you are, you're in Shelton in North Yorkshire," Tirzah answered. "I found you in the woods; you were barely alive."

So he'd fled farther than he'd thought. He nodded absently and ran a hand over his face. The amount of growth in his beard startled him. How long had he been gone from Azkaban? "May I—see a mirror?" he asked.

Confusion played over Tirzah's delicate features, but with a shrug she left the bowl and exited the room again. While she was gone he rapidly palmed his pockets—yes. The wand he'd obtained upon escaping Azkaban was still there. Relieved, he took the bowl in his hand—though her care was touching, he was not so weak he could not hold a spoon.

"This is the largest one I have," Tirzah stated as she returned. She traded him the now-empty bowl for a small hand mirror. He held it up to eye level and surveyed his face section by section. He had to repress a laugh. Ye gods, he looked wretched. The facial traces of his father that had developed as he grew older were no longer there—now there was only a skeleton.

She must have mistaken his expression, because Tirzah said, "When you're feeling up to it, I could run you a bath. You might feel a little better once you're, er, cleaner."

"No," he answered grimly, handing her the mirror. "This is fine."

Let Pettigrew see me this way… let him see what twelve years of hatred and solitude have done. Let him fear me.

He turned his gaze now on the girl. Her chocolate eyes were wary, shielded, and despite her gentle and meticulous care of him, she held herself stiffly, her body angled away from his. This confirmed his suspicion: she must know who he was.

He took a gamble. "You haven't asked me my name, Tirzah," he pointed out. "Don't you want to know your patient's name?"

Watching her carefully, his pulse picked up. Her eyes went sharp almost instantly and he knew she'd caught on to his ploy. The girl was sharp. "I already know your name, Mr. Black," she retorted, voice drenched with scorn. "I saw you on the news earlier this summer—I know who you are quite well."

You may think that, but you have no idea, girl. "So you know what I've done, then," he continued, buying time. He should have known that Fudge would alert even the Muggle media of his escape. Doddery old bastard. "And yet you cared for me still?"

"You were hurt," Tirzah replied tartly. "Was I supposed to just leave you to die? Or let the authorities do the same? Because they would have, I assure you. Mass murderers get very little sympathy from the police."

"That's no concern of yours," Sirius shot. "You said it yourself; I'm a murderer, girl. Cold blooded and ruthless, I believe is the term. You ought to have called the police and left me to my own devices."

Furious, she pushed up from her chair. "Well, you needn't worry," she snapped. "We can amend this very quickly."

Sirius blankly watched as she stormed out of the room. Idiot! She'd done nothing but care for him and he'd acted like an ass. And now she was calling the police.

Bloody hell.

He swung his legs over the bed. A wash of dizziness swooped over him, but he fought it. They'd never catch him.

---

"Ungrateful bloody cur."

Tirzah pulled hard on her cigarette and then dropped it to the ground, stamping it out in the grass. With every intention of going to Dr. Searles' and calling the police, she'd stormed out of the house. But as her cigarette—the one she kept in her coat pocket for emergencies, seeing as how she'd quit three months ago—flared up, her temper died down and she stood puffing morosely in the cool twilight.

Of course he was surly. He was going back to jail. But no matter how ungrateful he'd been to her, he was still very ill; turning him in would very likely only result in his death. The childish, ungrateful murderer would have to stay.

Cursing herself for being such a bleeding heart, Tirzah let herself back inside. The moment the door slammed shut behind her she turned into the bedroom and let out a gasp.

Black was half curled over the foot of the bed, his feet on the floor, clutching at his side and gasping for breath. Pain twisted his already warped features and his mouth worked desperately, fighting for air. His hands clutched the bed sheets like a lifeline.

"You idiot, did you think I was joking when I told you not to move?!" she demanded, storming into the room. She wrapped her arms around him and eased him back into the bed. "You've probably gone and pulled out your damn stitches!"

"Did you think I was going to sit here when you said you were going to the police?" Black groaned, but he was so weak that he scarcely protested when she settled him back against his pillows.

"Well, against my better judgment, I didn't call them," Tirzah informed him. She reached for his robes, ignoring his yelp of protest as she peeled them away from his wound. "Well, the stitches held, but they won't if you try to move again! So don't even think about it!" For good measure she gave him a thump on the arm.

Black stared at her for a long moment and then, to her very great surprise, a smile began to spread over his features. Tirzah started. It was not the manic smile she'd associated with serial murderers either—it was a smile that suggested that, once upon a time, Sirius Black had been incredibly handsome. The gesture stunned her.

When he spoke, all the scorn was gone out of his voice.

"You could have turned me in several times, and I'd have been helpless to stop you," he said. "Yet you didn't. And for that I'm very grateful to you, Tirzah." He bowed his head slightly. "Forgive me; twelve years in prison seems to have preyed on my social skills."

"Apology accepted," Tirzah answered, feeling mollified and somewhat ashamed. For a murderer he certainly could be polite—she'd never have guessed. "I have to turn you in, you realize, even if I haven't yet."

"Well, when that day comes," Sirius answered, the smile darkening in his face, "I assure you that I will be long gone."

"What makes you think you'll be able to escape?" Tirzah said boldly. "You're in the middle of nowhere, I'll remind you. They'll find you eventually."

"My dear, I've taken precautions against that, don't you worry." He laughed, a laugh she couldn't interpret. "I assure you that your law enforcers will never find me."

Your law enforcers. The odd sentence pricked her ears and sent her brain to spinning again. She asked, "What makes you so sure?"

"Girl, you wouldn't believe me if I told you," he answered dryly.

Tirzah sat in her chair and put her feet up on the bedside table. "Try me."

---

Sirius didn't know why he trusted Tirzah, but he did. And gods, it had been so long since he'd spoken to another human being that he could barely hold his tongue. As he spoke, Tirzah rummaged through a small black bag and produced six stale, short Muggle cigarettes. She stood by the window as he spoke and smoked them, one after the other after the other. She never met his eyes.

He'd flagrantly disregarded the International Statute of Secrecy. He'd told the story that no one else knew to a woman who would send him back to prison as soon as he was well. He'd betrayed his own kind. He ought to feel ashamed—he didn't.

You have revealed yourself to the enemy, an old, dusty voice sneered at him. You've exposed the existence of your kind to the very ones who sought to destroy you. You've become everything your father said you were—a disgrace.

My kind, he retorted to the voice, imprisoned me without a trial. One of my kind, whom I thought I called friend, betrayed the people I loved. One of my kind killed those same people. I owe my kind nothing.

He told her everything. He told her how the Potters were forced to go into hiding, how it had been he who had suggested that the traitor Peter Pettigrew be their Secret Keeper to throw the Dark Lord off the scent. He told her how he had done nothing but worry for their safety, night and day. He told her how one night his heart shrieked out in inexplicable pain, and how he found the Potters mere hours later: Lily and James dead, unmarked, the baby screaming in Rubeus Hagrid's giant arms. He told her how Hagrid had taken Harry—the last bit of his family—away in front of his very eyes. He told her how his heart, bleeding, had erupted into flames when he realized what Pettigrew had done. He told her how he'd confronted the bastard in the street, and how the little maggot had blown up the street with his wand behind his back and had raced into the sewers. He told her how he'd been dragged into the blackest place he'd ever been, and how every day he felt a piece of his soul die.

And then with shaking voice and aching heart, he told her about Ani. Everything he could remember. He told her about their school-children romance, about the fire of her golden eyes and the silk of her tumbling hair, about how he'd felt the final piece of the puzzle had fallen into place when she agreed to marry him. He told her how he'd watch her sleep at night, agonizing constantly that though the Potters were safe that he had endangered her by making himself the target. And, ashamed, he told her about how he'd tried so desperately to protect her by pushing her away, breaking the engagement, riding off into the night on his motorcycle while tears poured down her beautiful face.

When the story was over, he felt drained and somewhat foolish. She'd never believe him—Muggles were trained to ignore all evidence of magic that surrounded them. But he felt better, at least. Somewhat resigned, he reached slowly for the wand in his pocket—he hoped time hadn't caused him to forget the Memory Charms he'd learned as a child.

But when Tirzah turned to him, her eyes were shining with tears. Stunned, Sirius released the wand. His voice filled the quiet of the room, vibrating like the final, weeping note of a violin.

"You actually believe me."

Tirzah shrugged and fingered away the tears on her cheeks. "Why would you lie about something like that?" she asked softly. She gave a laugh. "It's too incredible not to believe, Sirius."

He nodded slowly. "You're right."

She laughed again, quietly. "You know, there was a girl that lived not too far away from me as a child. She was a bit older, of course—she used to go away for school, and of course I never thought anything of it. But I always thought she had this smile on her face, this secret satisfaction, as though she knew something we didn't—as though she were special." She looked over to Sirius and smiled at him. "Perhaps she was one of your kind. I'll never know. I haven't seen her in years."

They were quiet for a moment. Tirzah stepped away from the window and approached the bed again. She put her hand into his—her fingers were warm against his cold ones. She squeezed gently, and said, her heart in her words, "I am so sorry, Sirius."

He squeezed back. "You understand then why I'm fleeing?" Sirius asked. "You understand that I can't let him go free—he killed my family. I have to stop him."

"I know, Sirius… I know."

"So you'll let me go?" He felt hope—rare and almost forgotten—flare within him. "You'll help me?"

Tirzah sighed and squeezed his hand again. "Let's wait until you're well," she suggested. "Then we'll see what we'll see."

---

Tirzah fled through the woods back to her cottage. Her heart clamoring, she burst through the door. Sirius—looking the best he had since she'd first seen him—looked up, startled, from the chair by the fire in which he sat.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Doctor Searles called the police," Tirzah cried out. Sirius flew up from his chair and dashed to the windows, pulling the curtains closed. The room plunged into darkness. "I begged him not to, but he said he had no choice," she rushed on. "He's on his way here with several men from the village to make sure you don't escape! Sirius, I'm so sorry, I never thought—"

But she had no time to finish the sentence. Sirius flew to her and put his hands on her shoulders. The look in his eyes broke her heart. She gripped at his hands.

"I am eternally in your debt, Tirzah," Sirius said softly. "I cannot thank you enough for your kindness. Don't worry. I'll be all right." He reached into the pocket of his decrepit robe and pulled out a long, slender wand. "I'm going to modify your memory," he told her. "After the police come, they'll send for my Ministry. It will be over after that. But this way you can't tell them what I've told you—I hope this can protect you. It's all I have to offer, Tirzah. I wish I could help more, but I can't. You understand, don't you?"

"Of course," she answered. Her stomach churned—in the weeks she'd cared for Sirius she'd watched his strength return, and more and more she'd grown to care for him as though she'd known him for years. "Good luck," she whispered.

"Thank you." He raised the wand.

"Obliviate."