- Chapter One –

Ghosts of the Past

A clock struck, somewhere down a darkened hallway, but Sirius paid it no mind. He had been standing in place by hours, unable to force himself to move, convinced that if he only waited long enough, he'd find himself with Harry again. Time was steadily proving him wrong, a fact he tried to push from his thoughts, only to find that he couldn't.

He could almost hear Hermione Granger scolding him in her persistently snippy tones as his legs buckled, and despite himself, Sirius laughed, growing hysterical. 'Two years, and all I've found is a new Azkaban: a world without magic, without the Order…without Harry. What was the point of escaping in the first place? Tell me!' he screamed, to no one in particular, 'Tell me what I'm doing here! Wasn't thirteen years of hell enough? What more do I have to pay for?'

The silence of the unlit room seemed suddenly overwhelming, and Sirius wished for the ability to turn into his animagus form once again. His dog self, the chance to lose his more complicated thoughts and emotions, it was something he had desperately needed since that fifth year at Hogwarts; it was his escape. But it was no longer available to him, if Saturn, strange as she was, could be trusted.

'What, in the name of Merlin and Circe am I supposed to do now?'

Still there was no answer, aside from the hooting of a distant owl. The reminder of the life he had only just lost was too painful to consider any longer, and he let his head fall back against the wall. There simply wasn't anything left.

Light from the far window burned against his eyelids as Sirius struggled to move from where he sat, sprawled against the wall. His neck ached, and his right shoulder felt strangely tight, but other than that, he was fine. And then he remembered…

'Harry!'

Before he had a chance to so much as stand up, Sirius knew it was useless. He hadn't been able to find a way back the night before, when in the presence of someone who'd actually seemed to understand what was going on, and he certainly hadn't discovered any new means of return in the hours he had slept. The memory of the fight in the Ministry, and of his short-lived duel with Bellatrix ran in an endless loop while he tried to take in his new surroundings, and for once, Sirius could see the arrogance Snape always attacked him for.

If I'd taken the time to think about Harry, instead of just running after my bloody cousin –

Then what? The question begged to be asked, regardless of how ill-prepared Sirius felt to answer it. He knew what the veil was, what falling through it could do to a wizard. The strange meeting with that Saturn person and her Gates of Time aside, he was almost surprised someone hadn't fallen through beforehand, battling in front of the dais the way they all had. But what if he hadn't fallen, what if Bellatrix had missed? What would he be doing now, if only he had been a little bit more aware of his surroundings, or had stopped to think before rushing in after the mad LeStrange witch? Would he still be with the others, with Harry and Remus and Dumbledore – or would he simply have passed on a little later in the fight?

Feeling a small rush of the anger that had so overwhelmed him the night before, and determined not to lose control like that again – it reminded him frightfully of the days following James and Lily's murders – Sirius forced himself to ignore the questions, and focus instead on taking in his new environs. Room by room, he struggled to compose himself, his imposing surroundings making the task only slightly easier: the massive stone fireplace in the third room he checked made him remember talking with Harry by Floo; the expensive portraits that lined one hall nearly could have been completed by the man who'd painted three generations of Blacks; then finally, there was the striking black marble statue just in front of the long-dead gardens, a statue of a tall woman, with long, graceful hair, and knee-high boots, a woman with a strange toga-like dress, and a key-shaped staff.

The statue itself was enough to send him from the room, his pace quite fast enough to be considered a run, though he refused to admit as much to himself. After a few moments, he found himself standing in a library of sorts, dark and musty, windowless, with only a small fire providing any light. The sheer number of books was a wonder, more than he'd ever seen anywhere outside of Hogwarts, and Sirius was suddenly proud of himself for not wincing at the memory of the school – his school.

At once, a thousand souvenirs of what had been his life threatened to assault his mind, but he struggled against them. Never again would he let himself be caged in his memories. Azkaban should have taught him that lesson, but he'd let it happen again at Grimmauld Place. It was time he gave them up, as best he could, let them go, throw them away if they wouldn't leave on their own.

With that thought held foremost in his mind, the leather books from Saturn were stuffed in the nearest drawer, underneath a small stack of strange, thin papers, entirely unlike the parchment he'd used all his life. His robes would need to change immediately, as well, as he'd never met a Muggle dressed as he was – and come to think of it, he needed a shave and a haircut rather desperately, too. And some food, a chance at exercise, a means of income, most likely, a hobby… The list of what he was going to need was becoming a little intimidating, and Sirius forced his mind from it. There was plenty of time to worry over all that he didn't possess – only the thoughts of a shower and food mattered. Everything else could wait.

Wait it did, for over three hours, as Sirius showered twice, slipped into a robe that hung overlarge around his thin body, and wolfed down almost an entire loaf of bread that an unknown someone had left sitting on the kitchen counter.

For some reason he couldn't quite identify, Sirius had no questions as to whether or not the house was his. It was his, and so was everything in it, and that was simply the way the world worked. His logic was fuzzy, he knew, but it all worked out the same, and frankly, he was too tired to care about why. There were too many other mysteries to occupy his mind, in any case, too many meaningless questions to ponder, in the hopes that they'd keep his mind from a youth of fifteen, with hopeless black hair, winning green eyes, and a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

Shaking his head determinedly, he stood and made his way to the lawns outside the kitchen. Unlike the gardens out front, they weren't quite so dead, and something told him that what little he'd picked up in Herbology might actually be useful. After all, before they'd been allowed to deal with venomous tentaculas and the like, there had been a solid year of basic gardening and botany.

Besides, gardening looked like it could be fun. He'd never tried it before, and he had been wanting a hobby…

Two hours later, having waged desperate battle against every weed army in existence, Sirius wasn't so sure gardening was the hobby for him. Professor Sprout's lawns were always well-kempt, cooperative, really. The devious enemy right outside his kitchen door, on the other hand, was not.

Sirius moped as he soaked his hands in Epsom salt. It wasn't that he'd expected his little venture in gardening to replicate his old Herbology classes – James and Remus weren't there, after all – but he hadn't expected it to be so much work. It was almost as bad as cleaning up Grimmauld Place had been, now that he thought about it. All drudge work, and nothing to stimulate his mind, it was exactly the kind of work he most detested. Of course, it was exactly the kind of work he would have been immersed in, had he actually still been in Grimmauld Place; furious, Sirius struck the thought from his mind.

How was he supposed to do this? What had Saturn been thinking, dragging him from the Ministry to this, this place lacking everything for which he lived? There was nothing left to him; it was as simple as that. James and Lily had been gone for so long, he half wondered if they'd ever existed. And now, with Remus and Harry lost to him forever as well…was it possible he'd imagined the whole thing? Had there ever been a wizarding world, a Harry Potter, an Albus Dumbledore? The thought that he'd created such an imaginary world sickened him, and Sirius grabbed his head. He couldn't function like this – it was worse than Azkaban! It was the kind of twisted, tormenting situation Snape would have wished on him, only now Sirius wasn't so certain there ever had been a Snape to wish it in the first place. Could he have simply woken up from a particularly strong delusion – in which he was a talented and powerful wizard, godfather to an entire people's virtual salvation? Could everything he remember, every person he had ever loved, every cause he had ever believed in – could it all have been no more than his own deluded imaginings?

It was the single most terrifying thought he'd ever entertained.

Yet it gripped his mind, refusing to let go, refusing to allow him peace. He couldn't work it out, either way, and he felt that perhaps that uncertainty was worst of all. Was James his friend, closer than even his brother had been, or had both James and Regulus been names and people he's simply made up himself? And what about everyone else – Snape, Lily, Harry, Hermione, Ron, Dumbledore, Mundungus, Molly, Peter, Aubrey Bertram, that stupid twit he and James hexed that year, and what about Tonks, that amazing cousin of his? Could anyone have made up someone like Nymphadora Tonks? And what person, in creating an imaginary history, would give themselves thirteen years in a place like Azkaban?

Those thoughts were comforting, reassuring. He'd thought himself crazy before, in that forsaken prison and he'd pulled himself through it. True, only thoughts of revenge had helped then, but he would find something to help now, and he'd get through it again. He'd get through it because he had to, because he would be the one Black who amounted to something good, and he'd find a way to get back to Harry. He'd find a way if it killed him, because he was as good as dead without that godson of his, anyways.

Sirius smiled grimly, and pulled up a seat at the kitchen table. He didn't have anything even nearing a plan, and he didn't have a single reason to hope he would ever reach his goal, but he had a goal, and it was enough. If he remembered correctly, escaping Azkaban was beyond impossibility when he'd slipped out those gates, only three years previous. How much more difficult could slipping through a Time Stream be?