PART I

Prologue: Bittersweet

31 August 1993

4:30 PM

In the village of Old Sodbury in South Gloucestershire, there was a quaint little establishment called the Dog Inn. It was run by a round balding gentleman named Lyle Blakely. Mr. Blakely—as he insisted he be called by anyone who he did not count among his friends—had apparently taken over running the place twenty years earlier when his father died, who had taken over the place when his father died, and so on and so forth all the way back to its humble beginning as a tent for King Edward IV to rest his head before fighting Margaret of Anjou at Tewkesbury.

Junior Auror Nymphadora Tonks was not certain this was the true history of the place, but the particulars hardly mattered to Mr. Blakely in light of the shattered lantern on the front step.

"This inn—is an institution—one of the oldest—in the country—been in the family since antiquity—and you—!" Mr. Blakely jabbed a trembling finger into Tonks's face. "You've destroyed our lantern, you—you—chav!"

"Oo, what's a chav?" asked Tonks curiously, once again lamenting that her Muggle Studies class at Hogwarts had hardly prepared her for the important things like the vast array of muggle insults she would one day endure.

"It's what you are! With that unnatural hair, wearing those ridiculous clothes—fingerless gloves!" he spluttered.

Tonks glanced down at herself. She thought she looked rather cool in her burgundy dragon-skin robes. And the gloves were functional! You could never know when you'd need to draw your wand.

"What kind of Constable dresses like that?! Or like him, for that matter?!" said Mr. Blakely, pale blue eyes twitching erratically between Tonks and Proudfoot.

Gaius Proudfoot was one of the oldest Aurors on the force, nearly the same age as Moody. He had old-fashioned notions like that one needed to dress in tailored business robes every day. Mr. Blakely seemed to regard his dress as a countercultural statement rather than the adherence to tradition that it was.

Proudfoot straightened his robes stiffly. "I won't take a muggle's opinion on what is or isn't proper attire," he said, sneering down at Mr. Blakely's puffy cabled jumper.

"Who are you calling a muddle?!"

Tonks winced. Mr. Blakely couldn't have known the Obliviators would repair the lantern before wiping his memory after the Aurors were done with him, but Proudfoot certainly did. The man was notoriously arrogant. He could not be reassuring to save his life, let alone to save an interview.

That she and Proudfoot were the first Aurors on the scene did not bode well for the investigation. She wasn't too modest to admit she was a fine Auror, but she also wasn't too stupid to deny she was a terrible klutz.

Upon arriving at the Dog Inn, Tonks ran up the front steps in her hurry to greet the witness and ended up tripping over the welcome mat. In an unthinking move, she went to grab the nearest thing to right herself, which was a ladder propped up beside the door. The ladder slipped off the inn's slick brick walls and bumped the creaky iron lantern hanging over the door off of its hook, sending it crashing dramatically onto the front step. The questioning spiraled down from there.

"We just have a few questions about the man you saw," started Tonks, but Blakely cut her off.

"Are you really from the CID? Or are you having me on?" he questioned suspiciously. "I'll have you know, I won't be made a fool—"

"Is there a problem here?"

Tonks nearly closed her eyes in relief at Shacklebolt's calming low tone.

There were few who would deny that the most effective Auror currently on the force was Kingsley Shacklebolt. He was relatively young—only 28 years old—but wielded such respect and authority that there were already rumblings he might replace Scrimgeour one day as Head of the Office. He was a natural Auror—calm, perceptive, intuitive, resolute. He could also be a very convincing muggle policeman if the way Mr. Blakely gravitated to him was any indication.

"I am Detective Inspector Kingsley Shacklebolt. You are—"

British to the core, Mr. Blakely shook Kingsley's extended hand automatically, "Mr. Blakely, I own the Inn. Did you see what happened?! The lantern over the door! That pink woman knocked it down! Shattered it!"

"You will be compensated for the damage done to your property in the course of our investigation, Mr. Blakely," Kingsley reassured him.

The bald spot on top of the man's head turned puce with rage. "Compensation?! It's a century old! It's utterly priceless! No amount could possibly be enough!"

Nodding sagely, Kingsley withdrew a pad of paper and a muggle pen from the inside of his coat. "How long ago would you say you saw the man you reported outside of your Inn?"

Mr. Blakely blinked once, disrupted by Kingsley's imperturbability. "I—er, well… I suppose it was about 30 minutes ago. I was taking some rubbish out to the bins in the alley. Mostly from the lunch rush, see…"

Kingsley nodded, scribbling that down. "What did he look like?"

He blinked again furiously. "He… well, he had long black hair and ratty clothes on. I thought he was a tramp at first…"

Kingsley glanced up from his pad of paper. "What made you think he wasn't a vagrant?"

Mr. Blakely wrung his hands on the apron around his waist. "I—I don't know, honestly. We don't really get tramps—er, vagrants, in Old Sodbury. This is a village, you understand. Everyone knows everyone here."

"And you didn't recognize him?"

"I might've," said Mr. Blakely. "I'm not sure if I did."

Around the corner, Tonks heard three faint pops indicating new arrivals. Two tall, slim Oblivators in brown muggle suits that made them look like overgrown bowtruckles emerged out of the alleyway. Proudfoot pulled them aside to speak with them in hushed tones.

The third figure was shorter, in a crisp navy suit similar to Kingsley's with a dark grey duster slung over her shoulders. Kingsley gestured to her when she stepped beside him.

"Mr. Blakely, this is Detective Chief Inspector Daria Durant." As was her way, Durant nodded sharply in acknowledgement and said nothing.

Blakely glanced moon-eyed between Kingsley and Durant. "Good Lord. A Chief Inspector? You lot must really think it was him, then? That Serious Black chap?"

Durant fixed him with a penetrating stare. Kingsley replied, "Anything is possible. Given the circumstances, we would hate to leave any stone unturned."

Blakely went from purple to very white in moments.

"Good Lord," he repeated faintly, mopping his brow with his apron.

A hoarse voice said, not unkindly, "You have nothing to fear, Mr. Blakely. Please start at the beginning."

Mr. Blakely's head whipped to Durant at the sound of her harsh voice, so incongruous with her crisp appearance. Durant simply stared back, idly running her finger around the strange gold necklace that always adorned her neck.

With the black eye (no pun intended) Black's escape had inflicted on the Ministry, Fudge himself impressed upon them that Black's capture was the Ministry's top priority. As such, the best and brightest of the department were assigned to the case. One would think it would be simple enough to assemble a task force of brilliant Aurors given how rigorous the application process was. One might be correct in thinking that in any other period.

But now, only twelve years since the end of the Great Wizarding War and its aftermath, the choice of competent Aurors was rather more difficult. A rough third of the Auror department of the British Ministry had been killed or otherwise incapacitated.

The best third, really. Edgar Bones: murdered. Luthor McKinnon: murdered. The Prewett brothers: murdered. The Longbottoms: tortured into insanity. Many others simply left, so traumatized by the horrors of that war that they could not stand it another moment in it.

The loss of manpower was so great that for a few years after the War had ended, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement lowered the notoriously high barriers to entry into the fold. The result was a sudden glut of unimpressive Aurors filling the ranks and this class still gummed up the wheels of the office.

Savage was one. Not a terrible Auror, but a bit more absent-minded than he should've been. Williamson was another; the bloke was scared of his own shadow. Striker, Tonks's awful supervisor, was lazy. Griffith was too narrow-minded. There were others too, each as unimpressive as the last. As a general rule, those Aurors who had been with the department for eight to twelve years were subpar.

The exception that proved the rule was Daria Durant.

For someone who had been an Auror for a relatively short period of time, Durant was a legend. Even Mad-Eye Moody, who was not one to offer praise lightly, had nothing but grudging respect for her.

"I've known a lot of Aurors in my time. Loads came from families of Aurors. Nearly all of them have gotten better marks, done better in training, better on the examinations. Some, like you—" Mad-Eye had nodded at Tonks, "—have rare abilities or natural talent for the job. But no one—not a one still alive—has the fire in their belly and ice in their veins like Durant has got."

Tonks had heard the rumors about her. That Durant's family was murdered by Death Eaters, that she hunted Death Eaters to slake her unquenchable thirst for vengeance. If that was true, Durant hid her thirst well. For all intents and purposes, she was a cold automaton that appeared to have no desires at all, let alone a burning desire for retribution.

None of this was here or there. In this uncertain climate of fear, the only thing that mattered about Durant was her record.

This was the Auror who proved that Nott and Mulciber were Death Eaters of their own desire, not controlled by the Imperius curse. This was the Auror who nearly died arresting Crabbe and Avery. This was the Auror who killed Evan Rosier.

They said half the cells in Azkaban were filled thanks to Mad-Eye Moody. Certainly half the Death Eaters in Azkaban were there because of Daria Durant.

It was no surprise when Fudge hand-picked Durant to lead the hunt for Sirius Black. If there was anyone who could calm a nervous public by her mere appointment, it was her.

Daria extended her hand to Mr. Blakely. Tonks shook her head, scolding herself for spacing out during the testimony. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Blakely," said Daria.

His eyes lifted and met hers. For an oddly long moment, like a deep breath before a plunge underwater, Blakely stared back—immobile, utterly transfixed by Durant's gaze.

Tonks exhaled when Mr. Blakely began to move again.

Whatever Durant had said during their interview, Blakely was completely charmed by her. He shook her hand with feverish intensity. "Thank you, Chief Inspector. I hope you catch the bloody bastard."

She inclined her head once in a somber nod.

They turned away to let the bowtruckle men get to their grim business. Proudfoot joined the Aurors' huddle.

"Was it Black?" Kingsley asked her lowly. Durant nodded curtly.

"How do you know?" blurted Tonks.

The three senior Aurors looked askance at her. In a mocking tone, Proudfoot said, "She looked into his head and saw him. Ever heard of Legilimency, girl?"

Tonks bristled. "Yes. I just didn't know Durant could do it… without a wand," she corrected quickly.

Even with a wand, Legilimency was a tricky business. Without one, only with precise focus and determination could one peer into another's mind without inducing irreparable harm to the Legilimens or the subject. As far as Tonks knew, only witches and wizards either born with innate skill for it or had exceeding magical aptitude could perform wandless Legilimency. Wizards like Albus Dumbledore—or You-Know-Who.

"Proudfoot. Shacklebolt."

Both wizards stiffened. Durant withdrew her wand and slashed an "X" in blue light at their feet.

"North and south quadrants. 7 mile radius. Report back here in three and a half hours. King—"

Kingsley anticipated her next words. "Two Hit Wizard squads are on standby—"

"—been on standby since July—" Proudfoot muttered sardonically.

"—should any of us encounter Black," he finished, casting a dry look at Proudfoot. "As a reminder, none of us are to engage Black alone."

Proudfoot rolled his eyes. "Naturally. Though I'd certainly have more confidence if we had dementors instead of those meat-headed fools as back-up—"

"Enough." As haughty as Proudfoot was, Durant's order shut him up at once.

With an uncharacteristic flash of fire in her eyes, she began to speak coldly. "Every word out of your mouth today has been utterly useless. You have done nothing to advance this investigation in a meaningful direction. Now you will not speak unless directly addressed. If you fail to comply, you will be stripped of this assignment and formally reprimanded. Am I clear?"

Proudfoot gaped at her, silent. Durant snapped, "If you cannot follow simple directions, I'll strip you of this assignment for gross incompetence. I repeat: you will not speak unless directly addressed. I directly address you: am I clear?"

"Yes," spat Proudfoot. He glared at his feet, looking rather more like a chastened school boy than a highly experienced Auror.

Durant waved her hand. "Dismissed."

When they had gone, Durant turned a cold eye on Tonks. "A word."

Tonks stuffed her hand in the pocket of her coat to hide her trembling fingers.

They retreated into the alley where Mr. Blakely had said he'd seen Black. Garbage bins were still overturned from Black's hasty escape. Murky water—a mixture of rainwater and rubbish—rushed down the middle of the alley and into a storm drain. It wasn't particularly noisy, but the empty stone walls on either side echoed it like they were in a gorge. In her effort to avoid rubbish juice, Tonks instead clanged into one of the metal bins.

In spite of the cacophony, Durant did not flinch as she met Tonks's gaze. Ignoring the throbbing pain in her shin, Tonks quickly averted her eyes. She frantically tried to recall basic Occlumency lessons from Auror training. Clear your mind…

"He's your cousin."

Tonks swallowed. She had worried Durant pulled her aside to chew her out for upsetting the witness, but this was far worse.

"Yes… I mean, he's my Mum's cousin—"

"Andromeda."

It was no surprise that Durant knew who Tonks's mother was and her connection to a fugitive mass murderer, but Tonks couldn't help the shiver that ran down her spine. She nodded, growing a bit defensive, "I never met him. I was just a kid when he went to Azkaban. He and my Mum weren't very close either; I don't even think Mum was asked to submit a statement at the time—"

"No one who knew him was asked to submit a statement. All statements in his file were testimony from muggle eyewitnesses. It was damning enough to send him to Azkaban for life." Durant's lip curled. "A pity."

"I… I suppose so?"

Durant exhaled through her nose in an exasperated sigh. "A pity, because all the friends Black had when he was arrested have had twelve years to forget things that would help us find him now. Or they've had twelve years to die, or hide any embarrassing connections, or be arrested themselves."

Tonks could have smacked herself for not understanding Durant's meaning at once. "Right. Of course."

"It is no pity when a Death Eater gets what they deserve," continued Durant, shifting a diamond that had gone askew on her necklace. "Though perhaps this incident indicates life in Azkaban is not the proper punishment for Death Eaters. Much less final than we thought. Speaking freely, death is too kind an end for them."

Durant said this all bloodlessly, the fire in her eyes that she'd had when blasting Proudfoot well extinguished now. Tonks felt a rush of pity for the Senior Auror, though she wasn't quite sure why.

"Family connections are all we have now," said Durant quietly. Tonks nodded in agreement for a moment. Then she realized Durant meant her family connection to Sirius Black.

"Oh."

Durant caught her gaze again. It wasn't quite as discomfiting as it was before. "If you have nothing to add, take the east quadrant. Search out a 7 mile radius from this spot. Report back anything you've found in three and a half hours."

"Yes, ma'am."

31 August 1993

8:00 PM

Mrs. Bradley was kind enough to pick Clara up from fencing practice and watch over her before her mother returned from work. But one hour locked in Mrs. Bradley's sitting room with her four grumpy cats had Clara ready to climb out of her own skin. She had told her elderly neighbor she'd be back before sunset, climbed on her bike, and rode it down to the White Cliffs outside of Dover to see her friends one last time before she returned to Hogwarts the next day.

The sky was pink by the time Clara Durant's bike skidded to a halt in front of Mrs. Bradley's house, the sun having set fifteen minutes earlier. She wasn't terribly worried about getting in trouble with Mrs. Bradley, who was old-fashioned but spunky in an old lady sort of way that made her somewhat lenient with what she regarded as 'youthful indiscretions.' But she was very nice and easily troubled, so Clara hated making her worry.

Clara abandoned her bike on the grass. She didn't bother locking it or even setting up the kickstand (her bike looked very tired laid out on Mrs. Bradley's lawn), sprinted up the brick walk to her front door, wrenched it open, and shouted, "Mrs. Bradley?"

"In here, dear!" a voice called from the kitchen.

Clara nearly toppled over one of Mrs. Bradley's enormous cats rolling around in front of the kitchen door, but managed to right herself quickly and crashed into the room, exclaiming, "I'm so sorry, I just lost track of time and—"

"—and what?"

Mrs. Bradley sat in her breakfast nook with a garish flowery tea cup in her hand. Sitting across from her, sipping from an identical tea cup, another one of Mrs. Bradley's gargantuan cats purring contentedly on her lap, was her mother.

Daria Durant raised her eyebrow at Clara expectantly.

"Well?"

On instinct, Clara beamed and lurched forward to embrace her. Then she remembered she was supposed to be quite cross with her. Instead, she crossed her outstretched arms and tried to look stern.

"You're late."

Clara's mum merely took another sip, clearly hiding a smile behind her cup. "We have that in common."

Clara frowned. She was in no mood for her mother's teasing. "I'm only fifteen minutes late. You're really late. You promised you'd be back at five today. It's nearly eight now."

Clara's mum sighed, the sound particularly ragged this evening. Mrs. Bradley quickly jumped to her defense.

"Don't be too hard on your poor mother! I expect plenty of bobbies all up and down the country are running themselves ragged looking for that Serious Black fellow."

Mrs. Bradley was a muggle and thought that Daria worked in law enforcement, which was correct in a wrong sort of way. Daria was really an Auror with the Ministry, a rather Senior one from what Clara could gather.

"It's alright, Camille," Daria told Mrs. Bradley quietly, prising the cat's claws out of her navy trousers and helping him down so he didn't splat on the floor. His grey fur stood out prominently on her suit, though it hardly seemed to bother Daria as she slung her coat over her shoulders.

"Clare, we'll talk at home. I picked up your favorite curry."

"But you said you'd cook!" protested Clara.

Clara might have felt a bit bad at the weary grimace her mother gave her if it wasn't the same one she'd gotten all month.

"I'm sorry, love. If I started now, we wouldn't eat until late and you need to get up early tomorrow to make the train to London on time."

"Which, as a reminder, I'll be dropping you off for!" interjected Mrs. Bradley unhelpfully.

"Brilliant," Clara muttered under her breath unthinkingly. Mrs. Bradley didn't seem to hear her sarcastic comment, but her mother certainly did. Under her mother's freezing glare, Clara quickly said, at a normal volume, "Er—thanks, Mrs. Bradley."

Mrs. Bradley blustered, "No need to thank me, dear, no need at all! You girls are so dear to me, you know; as dear as my own daughter and granddaughter, if I had either…"

It took them another ten minutes to get back to their own home next door. Mrs. Bradley loved to chat idly about rather silly topics and had just launched into a somber discussion of the poor health of one of the Queen's corgis before Daria put a swift (but polite) end to it.

After changing out of her dirty clothes, Clara skipped into their kitchen to find her mother plating up their dinners. She was disappointed her mother wouldn't be cooking for her final night before she returned to Hogwarts—her mother was an amazing cook—but she had to admit the take-out smelled wonderful.

Daria was still in her work clothes, a tailored navy blue suit with smart black high heels on her feet. Her garish gold necklace was still around her neck as well. That never came off.

"So why were you late?" said Daria, spooning orange tikka masala over rice. She didn't sound upset, simply curious.

Clara sat down at their kitchen table and pulled one of her legs up under herself, wincing at the pleasant soreness in her limbs from practice.

"Well, since you were late picking me up and Sam and the Amys," (these were Clara's fencing cohort and formerly her classmates at the muggle primary school), "had invited me to hang out at the Cliffs after practice, I went to hang out with them."

Daria placed a full plate in front of Clara before turning back to prepare her own dinner. "And did you have a nice time?"

Clara grinned. "Really nice! The girls and I just talked the whole time about all the stuff that's coming up for them. There's that tournament in Bath in October, I wish I could go… Oh, and Sam's cousin Jenny something was there as well; her family is visiting from Blackpool. She's a bit younger than us, but she was really sweet and she told us about the new puppy their family's just got—"

Daria took a long time to sit down with her own dinner. When she did, she nodded along to Clara's story at the right moments, taking small bites of food here and there, saying nothing all the while. Clara's mother was a woman of few words on a good day.

But she seemed quieter than usual tonight. Maybe she was tired, or sad. It was always hard to tell.

Trailing off in the middle of a story about one of the Amys' new step-father, Clara put down her fork.

"Mum," she said slowly. "Did something happen at work today? Was it about… about Sirius Black?"

Daria lifted her eyes from her food. Clara didn't know who her father was, but she knew she must have looked just like him. While Clara had boring grey eyes, Daria had unusually pretty hazel green-blue eyes that seemed capable of peering into one's soul. When she was little, Clara thought they gave her mother the power to see through lies, for Clara was never able to get away with any mischief.

Clara, with her non-magical grey eyes, could not tell if her mother was lying to her when she nodded slowly.

"Really?" Daria nodded again. "What happened?"

Her mother sighed, "Clara."

"What?" she asked indignantly. "You've been gone all month, even since that bloody fire-call and that stupid Black—"

"—Clara—"

"I think I have the right to know what's going on when it's taking you away," she said, crossing her arms and frowning.

Daria smiled softly, indulgently. "Mon coeur, you're twelve years old. You have every right to be angry with me, but—"

"I'm only angry with that stupid Black," she said tetchily. "What'd he have to go escaping Azkaban for? He killed all those muggles; he deserves a lot worse than dementors—"

Daria interrupted sharply, her eyes narrowing, "How do you know about any of that?"

Clara shrank, confused by the sudden ice in her mother's voice. She supposed she should have only known that Sirius Black escaped Azkaban, but nothing about why he was there or what was in Azkaban itself.

"I… read it in the Prophet. And—um, Pippa mentioned it in one of her letters," she mumbled the second part very quickly and quietly. "I mean, it was the fire call, really."

The fire-call in question was the one that occurred a month earlier, on a pleasantly warm summer evening at the end of July. Daria and Clara had spent the afternoon making a sumptuous mixed berry tart with light whipped cream on the side. After a lovely supper under the fairy lights in the back garden, they were just about to tuck in when they received a fire call.

She should have known at once that something had happened that night. A fire call to their home was already rare. Most of Daria's colleagues feared her wrath too much to call her at home for anything less than a double homicide.

Her mother excused herself to tend to the caller. Clara knew better than to eavesdrop (Daria would likely assign her a two foot essay entitled 'Why Eavesdropping is Wrong' if she caught her), but she was curious and slightly annoyed at the interruption. One listen couldn't possibly hurt. She crept up to the door separating the kitchen and the sitting room, cracked open the door, and peered through.

"—come in immediately, I really can't say over Floo—"

"I'll be there in half an hour."

This was apparently an unendurable length of time. "Durant, this is a catastrophic emergency! You can't be faffing about while—er, well, you'll see!"

Her mother's voice was ice. "I cannot leave my daughter alone at 8:30 at night, Minister. As a father you understand my concern."

With a jolt, Clara realized that the now chagrined face in the fire was the Minister of Magic's, Cornelius Fudge. "Ah, well, yes, of course—"

"Half an hour, Minister."

Clara spent a restless night at Mrs. Bradley's house, tossing and turning and wondering what on earth was so urgent that the Minister of Magic himself would call on her mother—her mother, who worked a lot, certainly, but also did Mum things like bake tarts and braid Clara's hair with daisies from their garden and lay out on the grass for hours with her...

When the next morning came and went and her mother had not returned, Clara was determined to find out exactly what was going on by herself.

Sneaking out of Mrs. Bradley's house while the older woman was watching the local news, Clara extracted that day's Daily Prophet from beneath The Guardian and The Times. On the front page was the same man Clara had just seen on Mrs. Bradley's morning news, blinking slowly beneath enormous black letters that read: 'MASS MURDERER SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPES AZKABAN.'

"Shit," Clara whispered and began to read. It wasn't a long article.

An inmate at Azkaban for 12 years…

…killed 13 people with a single spell that destroyed an entire city street…

…laughed as authorities took him into custody…

…You-Know-Who's most trusted lieutenant…

There was a letter, too, on the kitchen table with Clara's name in loopy handwriting that she recognized as Pippa's. She tore it open.

…He's a traitor too, that's what Dad says, though he won't tell me why…

…What sort of person laughs when they kill 13 people? I'm so worried for your mum, Clare...

…Dad says Sirius Black was already mad when they locked him up in Azkaban…

It was Pippa that had first told Clara what Azkaban was. Though Clara's mother was a witch, she had kept Clara out of her world right up until she started at Hogwarts. Most of what Clara knew about the magical world she'd learned from Pippa. When Hagrid, the gamekeeper, was taken to prison the year before, the first year Gryffindor girls (excluding Ginny Weasley, who had been reticent all year for reasons that would not come to light until the end of term) listened intently as Pippa enlightened them.

"Azkaban is a prison in the middle of the ocean somewhere. Its location is really secret; Dad says even he doesn't know where it is."

Mr. Hornwood was a member of Wizengamot, the Wizarding high court of law. If he didn't know something, it was certainly a highly classified state secret.

"Surely the guards know," said Indira Chandra. She was muggleborn and usually asked the most sensible questions of Pippa's more outlandish claims.

"Azkaban's guards aren't human. They're dementors," said Pippa ominously. "They're dark creatures that suck all the happiness out of you, leaving you with nothing but your worst memories. And if you're really terrible, they'll suck out your soul!"

She finished with a dramatic growl. Aoife O'Brien, the timid fifth Gryffindor girl in their year, squeaked and threw her duvet over her head.

"Dad says the inmates there go mad within weeks. It's a really horrible place. Nobody has ever escaped. You have to have done something really awful to get put there."

"Hornwood," her mother muttered darkly under her breath.

Clara snapped out of her thoughts with a frown.

"She's just worried, Mum. I am, too. Black's completely mad—"

Daria abruptly stood from the table. "It's late, love. Time for bed."

"Mum, please don't blow me off—"

"Clara." Her tone left no room for argument. "Tomorrow, you'll be off to Hogwarts. It's the safest place in the country. You won't have to worry about this anymore."

"I'm not worried about me; I'm—"

"Bed. Now."

As Clara laid in bed that night with her eyes closed, pushing feelings of annoyance with herself for ruining what should have been a pleasant last night with her mother, she found herself unable to get the image of Black's demented face, laughing over the body of her mother on a ruined street, out of her head…

31 August 1993

11:30 PM

Remus Lupin knew it would be best to get some sleep, but he found himself far too anxious to even lie down and try. Tomorrow, he would be boarding the Hogwarts Express once again, a prospect that made him both profoundly nostalgic and deeply apprehensive.

Instead of sleeping, Remus reviewed his initial lesson plans once more. In an attempt to make Remus's transition into instruction smoother, Dumbledore gifted him with the previous Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's old lesson plans and class notes. Remus read three pages before binning the lot. He had never held a very high opinion of Gilderoy Lockhart, not since he'd accidentally read the synopsis of Wanderings with Werewolves. His self-obsessed lesson plans ("5 Sept.: Defense Against the Dark Arts Essential Knowledge Test;" attached was a 54-question exam on everything Gilderoy Lockhart) did nothing to change his opinion.

Thus, Remus's task as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was daunting. In some ways, he didn't mind; Remus didn't think he'd been intellectually challenged in at least a decade, not since the Order disbanded. His jobs, when he actually managed to be employed, were about as stimulating as brewing a cup of tea. By contrast, writing up lesson plans not only allowed him to revisit old subjects like they were old friends—they forced him to consider how to approach old concepts in ways that were exciting and informative. Once Dumbledore had promised Wolfsbane potions for every full moon, Remus was practically giddy to get to work.

But on the advent of his departure, he was no longer excited, but nervous. It did not help that his new start was on the heels of a full moon. A rough transformation always knocked back whatever confidence he'd built up in the days between moons. Suddenly, all of his hard work didn't seem nearly good enough.

Sighing, Remus flipped to the general year-long curricula he'd mapped out. Everything was all wrong here, too, it seemed. Surely, fifth year students already knew how to perform shield charms? Hadn't Remus learned that in his fourth year? And were Grindylows too easy for third year students?

Abruptly, a vision of a messy-haired 13-year-old boy with bright hazel eyes and a Grindylow swinging from his neck flashed before Remus's sight. He grinned fondly. Remus and his friends had certainly not thought Grindylows were 'too easy' when they encountered the Black Lake's population. It had taken all three of the other Marauders to pull the creature off of James, who very nearly choked to death. Being teenage boys, they promptly forgot the fatal aspects of their misadventure in the Lake. For the rest of term, Sirius kept them entertained with an amusing impression of James's panicked flailing.

Remus felt his grin fade. Old subjects and old friends. Remus rarely reminisced about his time at Hogwarts, though it was a sweet, sun-drenched interlude in his dreary life, because those memories invariably led to the pain he'd felt the night James and Lily had died, followed quickly by the loss of Peter and Sirius's betrayal.

Sirius. He was still at large, a month after his escape. Remus was one of two people still alive who knew Sirius could transform into a black dog. Sirius must have been relying heavily on his animal form, if only because he'd been sighted so infrequently. Since Black's escape, Remus found himself tortured by guilt; wracked with fear that someone else would die because of his silence.

Should I tell them he's an Animagus?

When Dumbledore had found Remus to offer him the Defense position, he'd very nearly confessed everything—about James, Sirius, and Peter; those reckless full moon nights; how Remus betrayed Dumbledore's trust… But in the end, he said nothing about it. In fact, they didn't discuss Sirius Black at all.

Remus was grateful, but guilty. Once again, it seemed, he would betray Dumbledore's trust.

He pushed all thoughts of Animagi and Dumbledore out of his mind and dove headfirst into his work.

It was around 11 o'clock that his head slipped out of the cradle of his palm and plonked onto a helpful chart of defensive spells for N.E.W.T. students. Rubbing his nose (which bore the brunt of the impact), Remus reckoned now was a good time to retire. He stood up, stretching, then turned about and saw Daria Durant gazing at him from his favorite armchair.

He swore loudly. "Can't you knock?" he exclaimed.

"I did. You didn't answer."

Remus knew that was not true. Whenever she had come to visit in the last twelve years, as rare as that was, Daria apparated directly into his house. After her third surprise visit, he considered putting up an Anti-Apparition Jinx to thwart any future attempts. In the end, he decided against it. Her visits were so rare that he found himself rather happy to see her appear, even if it never failed to shock the doxies out of him.

But since Sirius's escape, Remus dreaded her inevitable arrival. He was only surprised it had taken her a month to show up.

"Bit late to call, isn't it?" he asked. "Could've been asleep."

Daria tipped her head towards him, a knowing look on her face. "You can't sleep. You're nervous. I heard about the new job. Congratulations."

He didn't ask her how she knew. Since she had become an Auror, Daria seemed to know all sorts of things she'd never known before—where he was working; how to disapparate without a sound; who in the Ministry to talk to about wage theft by an anti-werewolf employer…

"Thank you," said Remus, warily. That was not the only reason she was here, surely not. Sirius could not have been heavier on their minds if he'd been there in the room, knitting a jumper in the corner.

In spite of this, somehow Remus found his manners. "Tea?"

She nodded once.

He escaped to the kitchen, glad for the momentary reprieve from her probing gaze. Unfortunately, making tea required only a few waves of his wand. A minute later, he had to return to the sitting room. Daria accepted the ugly, chipped mug of tea with all the grace of a queen.

In unison, they took long drinks from their cups.

Remus studied her closely. She didn't look tired. There were no dark circles under her eyes, her skin was as clear as ever… yet there was a tremble in her fingers as she ran them round the rim of her cup. Daria had many talents; foremost among them was her ability to glamour a good face on.

As always—or ever since the accident, anyway—that peculiar gold necklace dripping with diamonds and alexandrite stones encircled her throat, glinting with the candles' flames. It had to have cost her at least three years' worth of his current salary. Remus supposed the galleons she spent were worth it to her. He knew better than anyone that no ordinary glamouring spell could truly mask the dark magic damage that corrupted her neck.

"You know why I'm here."

Remus took a sharp breath. Daria did not have Dumbledore's restraint. The years may have changed everything aesthetic about her, but she would always be a subversive at heart.

"I won't help you."

"I don't expect you to." Her eyes flickered.

How, how could she make him feel guilty when she was the one asking too much? Was this visit—this one, after Sirius's escape—was this what she'd been building up to, all these years? Was she finally calling in the debt of lost hours in his depressing company, those visits that he cherished and knew she did not feel the same?

(Some deeper, more honest part of his mind sneered, You're so desperate for her affection that you're guilty when you don't give all of yourself. She plays you so well.)

"Do you remember what I told you?" she asked quietly. Her voice was almost gone from a full day's use. Every other syllable dropped as though he was listening to her through a bad telephone connection. "About saying anything?"

A cold sensation trickled down his spine. "Yes."

"Tell me."

He met her eyes. In the dim candlelight, they were as fathomless and cruel as the sea. "If I say anything… about what you think happened, you'll tell everyone I'm a werewolf. Everywhere I go, I'll always be known as 'The Werewolf'."

Her head tilted. "And?"

Remus swallowed. "If… if I try to kill you, you'll come back and haunt me until time runs out."

I'd sooner die than try to kill you. They both knew it. The conversation was a formality by now, a script they'd been rehearsing for the last 12 years.

His stomach began to churn. "Daria… are you—are you the one who they've—"

Daria nodded. "I've been tasked to lead the search for Sirius Black."

"You can't!" he exclaimed, shooting to his feet in a burst of agitated energy. All weariness left his body at once as he began to pace the threadbare carpet. "No, no, it can't be you—"

She watched him silently as he buried his face in his hands, groaning. Always a witness to his pain. Never, as he would have liked, a balm to it.

"Daria, he is a murderer. He killed 13 people, he betrayed Lily and James, you mustsee that—"

Her eyes glittered. "Faithless."

The accusation held no sting, not now. "I have tolerated this… farce for 12 years. But if you throw this investigation out of an insane belief that Sirius is—bloody hell, I can't even say it—I'll have to say something. People will die because of it… Daria, I must say something…"

Remus hadn't seen Daria smile since the day she first warned him to say nothing about her misguided beliefs. It was only ever the little shadow of a sardonic smirk, like the one that crept across her face now.

"Do it, then. I'm so bored of hearing this. If it bruises your conscience so, go to Scrimgeour and tell him his Senior Auror believes Sirius Black is an innocent man. I will not do it. My conscience is clear. I have not been faithless."

Remus squeezed his eyes shut so tight he saw stars beneath his lids.

How can I love a woman so deranged?

"I can't," he replied weakly. "I can't do that. Damn me, but I could never do anything that would hurt you. You're the only friend I've got left."

The word 'friend' was bitter on his tongue, but the sight of her stubborn mouth softening took away the bite. "And you are my oldest, truest friend, Remus. Thank you."

He couldn't help but smile at the sound of his name on her lips. Merlin, I am such a fool.

His smile turned into a grimace as he said bitterly, "I don't know if you think anyone is your friend."

Daria said nothing. Only stared at him.

Daria had never been what Remus would call a great beauty. She was rather too short, too round-cheeked, and too sour-faced to be anything but modestly pretty. But anyone who met her could not deny that her eyes were extraordinary.

"It's late," said Remus, avoiding her gaze as he made for the front door. "You should be going."

"I mean it."

He halted with his back to her. Daria awkwardly cleared her throat. The sound was grinding and awful.

When she spoke again, her voice was softer than he'd heard it in a long, long time. "I did think you were my friend. However reluctantly." With a gentle tug on his arm, Daria guided him to face her. "You showed me more kindness than I deserved."

Remus argued, "You were kind to me."

"I was awful to you."

"You didn't care that I was a werewolf," said Remus. He felt himself grow agitated again, though now he could not say why.

Daria lifted her eyes to his at last. "You're owed more than basic human decency," she said earnestly.

His breath caught in his throat. She was so close. He could kiss her if he just bent his head. Even in the darkness of his sitting room, Remus could mark precisely where the hazel of her irises melted into blue.

"—and she's got the most beautiful eyes in the world…"

"You're off your trolley, mate. Lily's eyes are emerald. Emerald."

"Shut up, Prongs; the sun doesn't rise and set on Lily Evans. Daria's eyes are blue and green and bloody gold. They're like—like a shallow sea… or something—"

"Fecking poet laureate over here—"

"Shut UP, Pettigrew—"

"Oi, Moony, get a load of Padfoot's poetry—"

He blinked hard.

Old subjects and old friends.

"Do you still love him?" he asked, shutting his eyes. He couldn't bear to look at her when she answered in the affirmative.

But when there was no reply and he opened his eyes again, she was gone.

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