Chapter 8: Similar But Not the Same

"Oh, Aletha, she's beautiful," sighed Alice Longbottom, cradling the three-day-old in her arms. "Look, Neville, see the baby?"

"Bee-bee?" repeated Neville from his father's arms, craning his neck to look at what his mother was holding.

"That's right. Baby. Her name is Meghan Lily Black."

Neville considered trying to repeat this, but settled for a little more wide-eyed watching of the tiny girl, who had chosen this moment to open her eyes and begin to fuss.

"Oh, she's probably hungry," said Aletha from her chair, holding out her arms. "Here, I'll take care of it."

Alice handed Meghan over and pulled up a chair for herself as Frank set Neville on the floor. "So how are you holding up?" he asked, sitting down on the sofa and looking at Aletha carefully.

Aletha had been expecting this question, or a variant of it, and was ready. "I'm doing all right," she said. "I got my results back yesterday, passed all my tests, so I'm a full Healer now." She stopped for the Longbottoms' congratulations. "And everything's fine here at home. Nothing unusual happening, nothing going bump in the night."

"Well, if anything should, you know you can call on us. Night or day."

Aletha nodded. "I will."

The Ministry was eager to avoid any more bad publicity – Dumbledore's hadn't been the only reputation the Daily Prophet had Bludgered after Sirius' escape – so they had more or less forced Aletha to accept Aurors watching her house. She didn't mind terribly much. As long as Sirius was careful not to change forms anywhere near a window, what would they see? A woman going on with her life, getting ready for her baby, taking care of her dog. Nothing unusual in that.

It was only now that Meghan had been born that the Ministry was relaxing. If Sirius were going to kidnap Aletha, the reasoning ran, he would have done so before she gave birth. If he tried to abduct her now, he would have to do something about the baby, and newborns were generally not good traveling companions. She noticed they were ignoring the evidence (misleading, true, but still evidence) that Sirius was a cold-blooded killer. Maybe they thought he'd make an exception for his wife and daughter, where he hadn't for a friend. She didn't care what they thought, really, as long as they didn't figure out the truth.

Namely, that the supposed criminal slept in her bed every night.

"But what about you?" she asked. "After that scare in February?"

"Oh, we're just fine," said Alice absently, smiling at the toy Neville was showing her.

Frank shook his head. "But we wouldn't have been, if Dumbledore hadn't warned us. How does he do that?"

Aletha shrugged. "Wish I knew."

Dumbledore had sent a message to the Longbottoms' home one February evening, warning them of a possible attack that coming night. It had reached them just as they were preparing to go to bed. Forty-five minutes later, four Death Eaters had entered their house, bypassing all the charms laid on it and coming in silently. Had Frank and Alice not been warned, they would have been asleep, helpless. Instead, they were awake and ready to fight, with several friends from the Order beside them.

The Death Eaters hadn't stood a chance.

The thwarted attack had meant changes at the Ministry, since one of the captured Death Eaters was Bartemius Crouch's son. Crouch had been ruthless, sending his son to Azkaban for life, and the magical public had been outraged. It really was a case of six of one, half a dozen of the other, Aletha thought without much sympathy. If Crouch had been so focused on his career that he hadn't noticed his son going Dark, maybe he was a little too focused.

"I did ask him," she said, recalling. "How he knew they were coming after you. He just smiled in that way he gets and said he had an anonymous tip, which he chose to act upon."

"I'm damned glad he did," said Frank bluntly. "And I hope I meet whoever tipped him off someday. I'll shake his hand and buy him a drink."

"Or she," said Alice, checking Neville's nappy. "It could have been a woman."

"So it could. Or she." Frank was a fair man.

The subject of his anonymous tipster was also much on Dumbledore's mind, as he studied the latest missive he'd gotten from the person. Or persons. He suspected more than one was involved.

They were written in large, scrawling letters, as if whoever wrote them wasn't used to writing. In the same vein, they were very terse. The first one he'd gotten, in February, had been only three words long – "Longbottoms danger tonight". They had been getting slightly longer and more informative, but there was still nothing to tell him who might be sending them. He had never seen the owl which brought them, which led him to believe he might recognize the bird.

But, of course, he might be overthinking. It was a trap to which he was prone.

He laid out the three letters side by side. The first one, about the Longbottoms, went on the left, followed by the next one, which had come in April, and which read "Investigate hideout Russell Square". Aurors had inspected the houses in Russell Square and found Igor Karkaroff hiding in the basement of one of them.

And now this latest.

"Increased danger werewolf attacks Edinburgh, esp. children."

He had written a discreet letter to the Auror Office branch in Edinburgh, and to a few families that he knew in that area, including asking Minerva to spread the word. He had also informed the relevant branches of the Ministry, but he doubted they would do much of anything until after the fact.

So, that taken care of, he was left with the same problem as before.

Who was sending the letters?

He could think of three possibilities. One was that the letters might be bait, to make him think he had a juicy source of information, and eventually to lure him, or another, into a trap. But it seemed unlikely. If the letter about Russell Square had come first, with its relatively low payoff of Karkaroff, he would have suspected this more. But the first letter had netted the Ministry Bellatrix Lestrange, along with her husband and brother-in-law, and they were, as far as Dumbledore knew, some of the highest ranked Death Eaters around.

Bait for a trap was therefore unlikely. The second possibility was that one of the Death Eaters, or a friend or relative of theirs, had turned. But why not simply come to him, or to the Ministry, now that Voldemort was gone and the Death Eaters mostly captured or driven underground? As the case of Karkaroff proved, if one told enough names and stories, the Ministry might let one off quite lightly, which a Death Eater relative would not to any of their family caught telling tales.

That left only the third possibility.

Dumbledore sighed. He didn't like the third possibility at all. But it was the only one that fit all the facts.

How he wished he had some way to reverse the process by which these letters came to him. Some way, any way, to send a message in return.

He sat up a little straighter as an idea came to him.

Perhaps there was a way.

At the park, Petunia Dursley read a women's magazine while Dudley shoved the other children in the sandbox. She didn't seem to notice it, or that her nephew had drifted off to the nearby grass, where he was chasing a large black dog around, laughing wildly. Neither boy nor dog minded. Oblivious was the way they preferred Petunia.

Both Dudley and Harry would soon be two years old, but only Harry looked it. Dudley was so enormous that most people guessed him more around three or four, and so stupid that he might as well still have been one.

And if we'd let him stay in those bags of clothes they keep giving him, Harry would look more like a one-year-old than he already does, Sirius thought, dodging a rush by his godson. Thank goodness for magic.

Magic could shrink Dudley's old clothes to a size where they would fit Harry, and Petunia always just thought they'd shrunk in the wash. Magic could also make the old, patched jacket Harry had worn this past winter as warm as Dudley's expensive down snowsuit, and keep his feet dry when his boots developed holes and his uncle and aunt didn't notice or didn't care.

And magic had worked wonders on Harry's "bedroom". Sirius growled a little at the thought of the place, stopping where he was.

"Gotcha, Padfoot!" yelled Harry gleefully, jumping on the dog.

Oof. Sirius spent a moment recovering his breath, then gently nosed Harry and pawed at the ground. Point to you, kiddo. Ready for another round?

"P'ay 'gain!" insisted Harry.

Sirius nodded and braced himself.

"Weady, go!"

Sirius took off running at Harry's yell, going near his top speed for a moment to get a head start, then slowing down so Harry would have a chance of catching him.

Now what was I thinking about? Oh yes. That damned cupboard.

Aletha had been livid when she'd realized what it meant that Harry was afraid of the cupboard in her hallway. Sirius had had to stop her from marching off to turn the Dursleys into ants. They'd had a good laugh afterwards about role reversal.

Then they'd sat down and figured out what they could do about it.

The Dursleys went on vacation in the second week of February, leaving Harry behind in the house, with Aletha to house-and-baby-sit. She had insisted that was the way it had to be, "to keep from disturbing him too much". In reality, of course, Harry would have been much happier sleeping in the guest room at number seventeen. But the Blacks had their orders.

"You may see Harry as much as you wish during the day, short of taking him in the morning and returning him at night. I leave that to your best judgment, save that he must never cease to regard number four as his home." Dumbledore's face had been grave. "But I cannot stress this next point enough. Harry must never spend a night away from both the house and the Dursleys. If they take him on a holiday, that is safe enough. If they leave him behind in the house, with you to mind him, Aletha, that is also safe. But you must never bring him to your home to sleep there. It would seriously compromise the wards, possibly even making them fall. I do not wish to take that chance."

Personally, Sirius thought Dumbledore might be a little too safety-minded. But the precaution, in this case, had given them the opportunity they needed. Later on the day the Dursleys had left, with Harry watching in fascination from a conjured playpen in the hall, Aletha and Sirius had turned the little cupboard under the stairs inside-out. Almost literally.

They had expanded it in wizardspace, making it as large as Dudley's bedroom upstairs (Sirius had run up to check). A magical window like the ones at the Ministry of Magic (expensive, but what was money for?) had gone into one wall, tuned, like the ceiling of the Great Hall at Hogwarts, to mimic the weather outside. Sirius had transfigured Harry's battered old crib into one as comfortable as the one Aletha conjured for him when he took naps at her house, and Aletha had decorated the walls with broomsticks and Quidditch balls.

A few other items of furniture, like a table and chairs in Harry's size, a bookshelf filled with his favorite picture books (both the magically cleaned and repaired ones he'd gotten from his relatives and the new ones the Blacks had bought him), and a small toy chest with toys which were his and his alone, completed the room. They had placed the final touches on it – enchantments to ensure that no Muggle could see their improvements, and ones to keep Harry's new toys in the room so his aunt and uncle wouldn't wonder where he'd gotten them – then formally presented the room to Harry.

The little boy had bubbled over with joy, jumping up and down, clapping his hands, running around his room eagerly, touching everything as if unable to believe it was real. He had showed them the books and toys happily, explaining about each one very carefully, though Sirius only understood one word in ten. His favorite, predictably, was a Golden Snitch which really flew. He'd released it immediately and started chasing it, jumping at it when it fluttered too high for him.

It would all have been pointless, though, if Harry hadn't already proved that he could climb in and out of his crib at the age of eighteen months. Which he could. The boy was as fearless as his father, Sirius thought proudly, and going to grow up to be twice as smart...

He hit the ground hard, tackled from behind.

What do I mean, grow up? He's twice as smart as James now.

Sirius rearranged his paws into a more comfortable pose and allowed his godson to climb on top of him, enjoying Harry's delighted laughter.

I will never understand how the Dursleys manage what they do. How can you see that darling little face and not fall in love with it?

It was the same thought that was in his mind later that night, after the Longbottoms and Harry had gone home, and he was alone with his wife and daughter.

Daughter. That's so hard to believe. Me with a daughter.

But Meghan was everything he could have wanted. She looked like Aletha already, except for her eyes. They had turned a silvery grey within twenty-four hours of her birth. A birth for which Sirius had been able to be present.

It had taken some maneuvering, but wands were incredibly useful tools. Sirius had been able to change his appearance temporarily, get into the Muggle hospital unobtrusively, and manufacture the proper identification to convince the nurses there to let him in, all with nothing but his wand.

It was nice of Dumbledore to make sure I got it back.

He had to smile, thinking about that day. He hadn't known what to expect when the Aurors showed up at his cell halfway through the day with a Portkey, which brought him back to the Ministry. He'd been a little worried when he saw Dumbledore – who, besides being Headmaster of Hogwarts, was the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot – but he hadn't expected Dumbledore to stare into his eyes and, basically, speak to him in thought-images.

He had seen what looked like cartoon drawings of himself and Dumbledore going through the motions Dumbledore desired – him striking Dumbledore to the ground and taking his wand, Stunning the older wizard, removing another wand from Dumbledore's robes – at this point, Dumbledore broke contact to show Sirius the grip of his own wand, in an inside pocket of his cerulean robes – and Stunning the Aurors waiting outside the door, both of whom seemed remarkably unnoticing of the events within. There was a final, fleeting image of an owl, and the contact was broken once again.

Sirius hadn't been entirely sure that this was a good idea, but he had spent his adult life trusting Dumbledore, and the old man had never failed him yet. Experimentally, he had made a fist and pulled it back, and Dumbledore had given him a minute nod.

He knew he actually had to hit Dumbledore, or no one would believe the story, but he tried to make the strike as light as he could and still keep it creditable. Dumbledore helped him a great deal by turning to present a good angle to his fist, and putting up no fight at all as Sirius took the wand from his hand to Stun him with it. He had a suspicion about the Aurors outside the door as well, since, true to the visions, they didn't notice a thing as he slipped his own wand-tip through the bars on the door and Stunned them both, then let himself out.

I wonder if they owe him, or if he Confunded them?

Whichever, he was now free, in possession of a wand, and with no idea where to go. Then he recalled the last image, the owl. Obviously, Dumbledore would contact him soon with further instructions or suggestions. All he needed now was a temporary home.

The cave outside Hogsmeade where the Marauders had sometimes picnicked occurred to him, and he Apparated straight there, thankful that he hadn't splinched himself on the way. He had thought he would be more tired, since nightmare-filled sleep (the only kind possible with dementors around) was hardly restful, but for some reason that he couldn't quite recall, he seemed to have slept well the previous night. Food was more of a concern.

He caught a rabbit in dog form, then changed back to human to clean and cook it. He had just finished it off, wishing there was more, when a large brown owl swooped into the cave, carrying both a package (containing food and clean robes in his size, he was happy to see) and the expected letter, telling him both where to go and why.

No escaped prisoner in the world, he was sure, had ever been so nicely provided for.

And that was one hell of a welcome home Aletha gave me, a couple days later when she showed up and "adopted" me...

But why was he thinking of the past, when such a lovely piece of the present was sleeping in his arms at this very moment?

The present and the future, he amended. His beautiful Meghan would shape the future, a future without Voldemort. She and Harry and Neville Longbottom and all the other children of their generation would grow up free from fear.

Except Hermione. Sirius sighed, lowering his head to brush his lips against Meghan's forehead. Poor baby. She would have loved having a little sister.

"I'll just have to spoil you twice as rotten, to make up for it," he said aloud, but quietly, so as not to wake her.

Sirius kept his promise, although tempered by Aletha's guiding hand. Days turned into weeks, months into years, and Meghan and Harry grew, older, taller, stronger, and smarter. Neville and the Longbottoms continued to be frequent visitors, as did one of Aletha's friends from work, Anita Lovegood, and her daughter Luna, a year older than Meghan. The children would play, and the adults would talk, and Sirius would listen from under the table, wishing he could take part in the conversation.

Someday, he told himself. Someday. When we find Wormtail – he's got to be out there somewhere, he didn't just lie down and die. Someday.

He often wondered whether it would be smart to reveal his secret to someone else. The Longbottoms might well trust him, they'd known him for years, and knew Aletha well, and loved Meghan to pieces, they'd surely believe him...

But it wasn't safe. What if they didn't? What if they went to the Ministry instead? The life he had was too happy, and too precarious, to endanger that way. He'd just have to survive with his loving wife and children. Poor him.

He and Aletha kept writing their letters to Remus and Danger (they held burning parties every Sunday evening), and he began to have dreams in which he got letters back from Remus, polite and chatty, giving details of a totally imaginary life, since obviously he and Danger, even if they'd lived, would never have been able to have a child at all, let alone twins, and they would certainly never have named them Reynard and Griselda. But he liked the letters. They were as authentically Moony as his memory and imagination could make them.

Death Eater attacks grew fewer and more sporadic as time went on. The Dark idiots seemed to be giving up hope that their master was simply bluffing and would soon return in all his so-called glory. Sirius was very glad of it.

Because if there was ever anything that screamed "target", we're it.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, looking out the window without really seeing what was beyond it.

So. This is the answer. This is the answer to everything.

His mysterious correspondents had indeed received the letter he'd left on his desk for them, adding a short PS to that effect to their note telling him not to worry about the werewolf attacks any longer. They had been writing back and forth for nearly two years now, the missives growing gradually longer, the handwriting firmer and smaller, as time went by. Finally, now, they were starting to be able to send him more than just the necessary information of the moment.

Now they were sending him some of Voldemort's darkest secrets.

Severus had never told him what was contained in this letter. Undoubtedly because Severus did not know. Voldemort was not a trusting man by nature. He never told anyone anything unless he had to, or unless it would hurt them to know it, and could not hurt him.

Or so he thought.

Dumbledore smiled.

Voldemort's foolish gloating to those he thought without recourse might yet save them all.

But there is a great deal of work ahead of me before that can happen.

He began to make plans.

There should be several spans of time each year when the school can do very well without me.

"What's for dinner?" asked Sirius, dangling Meghan upside down by her ankles to hear her giggle.

"Boiled Harry, if he doesn't get off the table." Aletha made a grab for the boy.

"You can't boil my godson, you witch!" Sirius flipped Meghan over, dropped her onto her feet, and scooped Harry up instead. "Watch it, or I might repudiate you!"

Aletha frowned. "Repudiate?"

"Magical equivalent to – oh, what's it called, dinorce? Where you end a marriage?"

"Divorce. I didn't know there was any magical equivalent."

"Well, it's not like the Muggle thing. Only men can do it..."

Aletha rolled her eyes. "Nice."

"Hey, I never said magical law was fair. It's got a lot of patriarchy left in it. But anyway, a man can repudiate his wife if she doesn't live up to the terms of the marriage contract."

"Marriage contract?"

"Pureblood thing. Hardly anyone bothers with it these days, except the snotty families no one wants to be around anyway."

"Like yours?"

"Like mine." Sirius was now holding both children at the same time, Harry in his left arm and Meghan in his right. "Want to take one of these?"

"Oh, why not." Aletha slid an arm around Meghan and removed her from Sirius' hip. "You know, we really have no right to be this happy."

"Says who?"

"Says the magical world that wants you dead. Or back in Azkaban."

"No thanks," said Sirius lightly, holding Harry out in front of him and letting his godson do backward flips with his own arms as the bar. "I'd rather not."

"I'm sure." Aletha swapped Meghan to her other arm and took out her wand, opening the oven with it and hovering out a dish. "And as for dinner, here it is."

"Casserole. Yum yum."

"I can always give you dog food."

"Casserole's fine," said Sirius hastily as Harry laughed.

Narcissa Malfoy sat alone in the study, reading over a scroll, although she knew perfectly well what it said, having read it many times before.

I would have failed in my duty, I who have never failed before.

But I did not.

Thanks to them, I did not.

A peal of laughter caught her ear, and a pale-blond boy ran past the door of the room where she sat. "Zelda, no fair!" Narcissa heard him shout. "Give it back!"

He was such a beautiful child, she thought distantly. Lucius had been exceedingly proud the day he was presented with a fine son, and grew prouder daily, as the boy proved his intelligence and cunning to be above average.

And he prides himself on making certain of his son's safety. What would he do, I wonder, if he realized what the child has done to circumvent his plans? What I have done to the same end?

But she did not regret what she had done. Far from it. She had entered into a deal willingly, a deal that profited both sides. As long as Lucius could be kept in ignorance of it, just so long would their family's prosperity last.

And just so long would that little boy's happiness.

So she had dedicated herself to making sure that, should Lucius ever discover what she had done, he would be powerless to harm anyone involved.

Including herself.

It would hardly have been Slytherin to do otherwise.

(A/N: A little shorter than usual, but don't fuss – I'm setting up for the big ones to come. Get ready for Anne's Edited Canon, coming soon to a screen near you... :grin:

I'm taking the angst category off this. It really doesn't count anymore. Straight drama describes it pretty well. Or maybe mystery.

And yes, I am working on a new chapter of LwoD. Tomorrow night or Thursday, I think. Remember, I write faster with encouragement! And thank you everyone for using spoiler space on group! Those who haven't finished the book thank you even more!)