Lost: One Godson, Answers to Harry

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"Sirius?"

He looked up swiftly from his papers, with the manner of someone who had been hoping for a distraction from his work. For a moment there, Sirius had thought it was Lupin rousing him. It took only a moment to recognise the baritone voice as Kingsley's, but the disappointment did not show. He'd imagined such things several times in the past few days.

He sat in the kitchen at Grimmauld place, working at the long wooden table with a cup of coffee within reach and a number of fresh quills. Bills of law, letters of consent, notices of consultation, copies of the will…he hadn't realised that matters of inheritance took so much work. He had waded through the legalities of Lupin's affairs in a kind of numbness. Dumbledore had been right – doing something helped.

Kingsley was standing in the doorway, his hand on the shoulder of a short, plump woman in a worn cloak and a brightly patterned woollen scarf. Her expression was apprehensive, almost frightened, and she was clutching something in her hand – a scrap of paper?

"Sirius, this is Molly Weasley," Kingsley said formally. "Arthur's wife."

Sirius gave a polite nod of acknowledgment, unable to quite remember whether he'd met the woman before. She wasn't officially a member of the Order but she contributed to it in various ways. Molly Weasley granted him a tender smile in return, though her heart didn't quite seem to be in it. She stepped closer until she was standing directly across the table from him.

"Mr Black," she said apprehensively. "This came for you," and she laid the scrap of paper on the table and pushed it across to him. "I've already told Dumbledore everything my children found out," she said in a rush. "He's put Mr Shacklebolt on the case at once," her voice sounded on the verge of giving way, as if she could barely bring herself to make this report.

Glancing curiously at her, Sirius picked up the ragged piece of paper and ran his eyes down it.

He read it three times before he moved. Then he stood up so suddenly the chair legs screeched on the stone floor and Molly Weasley caught her breath in surprise. Sirius's face was bloodless as he hurried around the table and took a hold of her hand.

"Where did you get this? Where is he?"

"My children. A muggle man visited them, saying Harry had sent him," Molly said shrilly. Sirius had a mad sheen to his expression, a dangerous set to his mouth. He was looming over her, more than a head taller, and clutching her hand so hard she could feel the bones moving in her knuckles. "But he was under an enchantment and he went away without telling them where Harry is. They still don't know."

Kingsley appeared beside him, possibly alarmed that Sirius was on the verge of doing something crazy, and said, "I've contacted Arthur and we are both trying to track the man down. I have his name but so far I cannot find him. We're working on it."

Sirius looked from Kingsley to the letter and then to Molly. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth, and then suddenly he had his arms around Molly's shoulders and was hugging her, his face full of her home-knitted scarf, rocking a little the way her children used to rock on her lap when they were very small.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Gingerly, glancing helplessly at Kingsley, she patted his back and replied. "We haven't found him yet."

"Doesn't matter," Sirius said, his voice still muffled by her scarf. "Any news is enough."

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Neville slept the entire journey, only waking as the great scarlet steam engine pulled into the Hogsmeade station and the rocking compartment shuddered to a halt. He'd entered the compartment alone and it was still empty when he awoke and wandered off the train, pushed and nudged from all sides by the mass of students streaming onto the platform.

He rode in a carriage with several jabbering second-years until they reached Hogwarts and crossed the lawn up to the castle, where he glimpsed the back of Hermione's bushy head in the entrance hall. He called after her, but she couldn't hear him over the noise and scramble of the students heading for the feast. Neville was swept along in the general crush and found Hermione and Ron sitting at Gryffindor table. They were both looking at the staff table in silence, as all around them people greeted their friends and the cheery voices rose and fell.

"Hello," Neville said brightly as he took his seat. At least, he'd tried to sound bright. Hermione didn't seem to notice. She glanced at him and replied, "Hello," in a gloom-laden voice. Ron didn't even look in their direction.

Gradually the noise died down as McGonagall entered, leading a line of first-years. The sorting was quick, as there were fewer first-years than there had ever been in Neville's memory. Perhaps it was the attack on the muggle orphanage that had prompted more parents to keep their children at home, or perhaps it was just a general trend of the war.

By the time the sorting finished, Hermione and Ron had still not made any attempt to speak to Neville, although they had whispered something to each other when two new Gryffindors joined the table. Neville was starting to feel that their mood was contagious, as he began to wonder grimly if he had done something to offend them. He noticed that across the table, Fred and George Weasley were also unusually quiet, and Ginny Weasley was fiddling with her fork in a distracted manner, though this was the first sorting she had attended as a spectator. Percy Weasley had not even puffed out his chest to show off the shining Head Boy badge pinned to his robes.

Did I somehow make myself an enemy of the whole Weasley clan? Neville wondered. He followed Hermione's gaze at the staff table and finally realised who she and Ron were looking at – Professor Jones, sitting beside tiny Professor Flitwick. Her normally rosy cheeks were pale and she was staring determinedly at the cloudy ceiling.

As the last new student took their seat, Dumbledore got to his feet, raising his hands for silence. His dark red robes did not seem to suit the man who always gave such an impression of great energy. But there was something grim about Dumbledore's stance as well: a tense line of his body, perhaps – and his usual twinkling smile was absent. Neville noticed curiously that he kept his right arm close to his body, with the sleeve covering his hand.

"Another year, another feast, and I am glad to see each of you has returned safely from the holidays with your minds sufficiently corrupted by sun and silly antics," he said, but the humour that normally filled his voice seemed thin and forced. "Normally, of course, I would ask you to tuck in at once, but tonight, I would request you wait a few moments for me to speak first."

A few people fidgeted impatiently, and the rumbling of bellies was almost audible, but everybody sensed the seriousness in Dumbledore's voice and even the Weasley twins did not dare groan aloud.

Dumbledore raised his chin a little. "This year, I am pleased to say that Professor Hestia Jones will continue in the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. However…" and suddenly a swift chill seemed to clutch at Neville's chest. Complete silence had smothered the Great Hall: no one moved or whispered, "…though I welcome her back, it is not without regret. Professor Lupin, whom all of you who have returned this year should remember fondly, was to have resumed his post as our resident Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher after his absence at the end of last term. But that is not possible under current circumstances. It is with the greatest remorse that I must bring you the news that Professor Lupin is no longer with us."

Finally the silence broke, and the faintest gasps rippled across the tables. Dumbledore raised his voice to speak over them. "Professor Lupin was taken by force from his home three weeks ago and all evidence suggests he is no longer alive. I would entreat you, please, to refrain from asking the staff your much-desired questions about the manner of his death, as none of us know the precise details and do not wish to recount what little we have been told. It is without a doubt that he was taken by the forces that the Ministry fights so hard to keep at bay, and taken not because he was a threat to them, but out of the pure and loathsome desire for revenge. Such a thing is a waste: a waste of time, a waste of hate, a waste of a good man's life."

Here he paused to look out over the sea of pale faces. Some shocked or disbelieving, but many merely curious. Dumbledore lifted his chin a little and continued. "A memorial service for Professor Lupin will be held this weekend in the village of Hogsmeade, and the staff and I have set the first Hogsmeade weekend to correspond with this date so that you may attend, if you so wish. However you choose to remember Professor Lupin, I hope that you do so with fondness. He was proud of you, those who knew him. And remember that he was brave, and enduring, in every fight which he fought, including the last."

No one spoke as Dumbledore bowed his head and waited. A few seconds passed. Up on the staff table, the rest of the Professors sat rigid. McGonagall's face was white and her brows were knotted. Sprout had her eyes closed and her hand was entangled in her flyaway hair. Flitwick had his head bowed and his hands clasped in front of him. Professor Jones was still staring at the ceiling, and her hands resting on the table in front of her were balled into fists. Snape, however, show no signs of remorse – he was sitting with his arms folded, looking merely bored.

Neville sat, feeling numb. Professor Lupin, who had always been kind to him, who had always been so patient and intuitive…this seemed impossible. Out of the corner of his eye, Ron was shaking his head hesitantly. Around them, people seemed to be swaying, looking at each other, uneasy looks on their faces.

At last, Dumbledore raised his head and said. "Now, the feast may begin."

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"What do you mean, you're not going?" Hermione asked.

Neville was slumped into a large armchair in the Gryffindor common room, staring miserably at a spot on the wallpaper. Ron stood just behind Hermione, trying to use a cleaning spell to get some stains out of the hem of his robes, but he had looked up at the sound of her voice. Around them, students were filing out of the portrait hole, chattering quietly to each other. Down in the entrance hall, Filch would be ticking off names on his list of those with permission to go to Hogsmeade. Everyone had made an effort to look sombre, although as their school robes were black anyway, this wasn't difficult.

Neville plucked at a dangling thread in the arm of his chair. "Professor McGonagall took me aside after the feast on the first day. She says I'm not allowed any Hogsmeade trips. Dumbledore has decided it's too dangerous for me."

"Dangerous?" echoed Ron, sounding awestruck at this new level of incompetence from his teachers. "What on earth is dangerous about it? You'll be among about a thousand other kids! Who's going to have a go at you, a seagull?"

"I don't know," Neville shrugged, pulling the thread out of the chair and rolling it between his fingers. "Death Eaters, I s'pose." He did not sound in the least bit convinced that Death Eaters might be lurking behind the lampposts of Hogsmeade, waiting to ambush him.

"But you have to go!" Hermione said shrilly. "It's Professor Lupin's f-f-funeral!"

Neville shrugged again and flicked the bit of thread onto the carpet. There was a hard lump in his throat that suggested he would probably cry if he tried to speak. He had not been able to believe it when McGonagall had come and told him the news. If it hadn't been such a serious topic (and if it hadn't been McGonagall, who rarely made jokes), he would have laughed, sure she was kidding him.

"You should have told us earlier," Ron said. "Maybe we could have talked to her."

"There must be something we can do! They can't be serious!" Hermione added, still sounding horrified.

"It's alright," Neville plucked at the next thread in the arm of the chair, wondering if he could unravel the whole thing before Hermione and Ron got back that evening. "I'm used to it. Dumbledore's been pulling this sort of stunt since I was four years old," the thread he was pulling snapped and he grimaced. "Making me and Gran move house. Setting us Auror bodyguards. Pulling me out of muggle school to have me home schooled." He tossed the second bit of thread aside and started on a third.

Hermione still seemed unable to believe her ears. Ron was looking mutinous. He glanced over at the portrait hole where the last of the students were just disappearing. Fred and George, their heads bent together in conversation, were about to step through.

"Oi!" Ron whistled, and the twins looked back. "You two! Mind giving us a hand?"

"With what? Your shoelaces?" Fred called, but the two of them turned away from the portrait hole and came over to the three younger children.

"What's the matter?" George asked, taking in the three sour faces.

"Do you know any way to get into Hogsmeade without going past Filch?" Ron asked, folding his arms. Neville glanced up hopefully.

Fred and George looked at each other. Fred cocked his head in query, and George nodded seriously. "Little brother," he said to Ron, "you should really ask these questions more often."

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A small hillock lifted the Shrieking Shack above the rest of the village. Even though it was a sunny summer's day, the dilapidated old building seemed to drain its surroundings of colour. With its collapsing eaves, mouldering grey walls and the weeds gnawing at its foundations, it had a sense of death about it – and yet looked like the last place on earth for a funeral.

Most of the students in Hogsmeade had been shocked to hear that the memorial service was to be held outside the Shrieking Shack. Many of the more superstitious among them had considered not attending, but their friends had convinced them that nothing was going to happen in broad daylight in the middle of a crowd. So now the Shrieking Shack, which had stood lonesome and unoccupied for so many years suddenly had more visitors than it had ever remembered.

It was rather a squash. The boarded-up windows overlooked a sea of black hats and cloaks, spreading out from an open circle of ground in the yard outside the shack. Some of the Hogwarts students had even climbed nearby trees to get a better view. For the older guests, about twenty chairs had been set in the centre of the crowd, circling a square headstonestone set into the ground, but fewer than thirty adults were in attendance, in contrast to the three hundred children who had decided to come. And to Neville's surprise, it looked as if all the school houses were equally represented – even the Slytherins, who had unabashedly mocked Lupin's shabby appearance when he had been a teacher, had turned up to wish him goodbye.

Hermione felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see Neville, panting slightly as if he had run a long way.

"I made it," he said. "Fred and George's secret tunnel worked. It comes out underneath Honeydukes."

"Thank goodness," Hermione said, pulling him further into the crowd. "Keep your head down, Neville. All the Professors are here, and if they catch you, McGonagall might just explode."

Ron was standing on tiptoes, trying to figure out whether anything had happened yet, but even with his height he was having trouble seeing over the heads of the students. "Come on, let's get a bit closer. No one's going to notice Neville among this lot," he said, beckoning to the other two. The three of them circled around the outside of the crowd and slipped between a group of sixth-years until they could just see the circle of adults at the centre of the mass.

A man was just standing up in front of the Shrieking Shack, and was waiting for the chatter and whispers to die down. He was a tall man, but he looked exhausted and there was a gauntness showing on his face. His dark hair was tied back from his face with a black ribbon.

"That's Harry Godfather, Sirius Black," Hermione whispered to Neville. Her voice was croaky and he saw that she was wiping the corners of her eyes with her sleeve. "Harry said he and Lupin were really close. Oh," she sniffed, leaning towards Ron, "Professor Lupin won't ever see Harry again…" Ron patted her shoulder with an awkward look on his face.

Neville craned his neck to see over the heads of the adults sitting down in the centre of the circle. In the middle was a square stone set into the ground and etched with words that Neville couldn't read from this angle. He looked up as the man, Harry's Godfather, cleared his throat and began to speak.

"I think a lot of you are wondering why we've chosen this location for today's," he seemed to struggle with his words for a moment, "assembly. I don't think I could explain why the Shrieking Shack meant something to Remus, as you probably wouldn't believe me. I know he'd understand the humour of it. Thank you for coming."

He sat down quickly after this short speech, looking faintly lost.

The proceedings were short. Several people spoke about Professor Lupin, though Sirius Black did not stand up again. Professor Dumbledore was the last to rise and say a few words, but they sounded strangely hollow. His speech on the first day of term had been more passionate. He bade Remus farewell and dismissed the congregation.

Hermione, Ron and Neville waited as the black-garbed crowd separated. Some filed past the stone in the centre to drop a flower on the ground beside it, then began to trickle back down to the village. Most of them still looked solemn, though a few had broken the mood and were smiling or laughing to their friends. Many of the adults got to their feet but stayed where they were, turning to each in conversation.

"There's Tonks," said Ron sadly, indicating a young woman still sitting on the chairs. She had a mass of frizzy black hair that surrounded her head and drooped over her eyes like a veil. She was bent over almost double, while Professor Jones rubbed her shoulder and spoke quietly to her. "Mum said she and him were…you know…involved. She's…hey, Hermione, where are you going?"

Hermione was hurrying across the yard towards the milling adults. The two boys followed her, Neville hanging behind Ron in a vain attempt to stay out of sight. A number of the Professors had left with the students, but Dumbledore and Professor Jones had stayed behind.

"Mr Black," Hermione called. Harry's Godfather, who had been standing idly looking down at the carven stone and its little heaps of flowers, glanced up and watched her approach without a hint of interest. He looked dazed, as if he was walking around half-asleep. Hermione stopped a few feet in front of him as if afraid to go closer. "Mr Black," she said breathlessly. "I'm Hermione Granger. I don't know if you remember…"

"Yes, I do. From the hospital wing last year," he nodded. At least his voice didn't sound asleep.

Hermione nodded, looking at the man's chest to avoid his eye. "We were…wanted to know…have you found out anything? About Harry?"

Black turned his head away quickly as if she had feigned a slap at his cheek. He shook his head quickly. "We haven't got enough information," he said bitterly.

"We're sorry," Ron said at once. "It's our fault. Frank Bryce brought us the letter and we shouldn't have let him leave."

Black shrugged. "No apologies. Ron Weasley, isn't it? Your father's helped out a lot with the muggle investigations. I'm very grateful. And I'd like to hear how you two met Harry when he came to Hogwarts. I never got time to speak to him before he was taken…"

His eyes turned towards Neville, who had been silent up until now. A pained look flashed across his face, and Neville thought he saw the man's eyes flick up to his forehead where his fringe concealed a lightning-bolt shaped scar. "Neville Longbottom," he said. "I thought I heard Dumbledore say to Minerva that it was too dangerous for you to come today?"

"Um," Neville could not think of anyway to reply to this. Was Black reprimanding him?

"You'd better be going before he sees you," Black added, and looked back at Ron and Hermione. "I meant what I said about hearing about Harry. I'm staying at the Three Broomsticks for a couple of days to sort out some more things, so if you could get into Hogsmeade tomorrow you'd be welcome to come and see me."

"We'll try to do that," Hermione managed a faint smile. "If you do find anything, you'll owl us, won't you?"

"Of course," Black replied.

The three of them moved off behind a group of fourth-year Hufflepuffs who were just heading back to the village. Neville looked back over his shoulder and finally got a clear look at the square stone around which everyone had gathered.

REMUS JOHN LUPIN
1959 – 1993

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Sirius watched the three children's retreating backs until they disappeared among the rest of the black-clad students. How strange, that Hermione and Ron, whom he had heard were the ones to have befriended Harry during his fateful two weeks at Hogwarts, had now adopted Neville into their group. As if the roles had reversed. If things had been different…Sirius could almost see Harry walking down towards Hogsmeade, laughing with his friends, just another ordinary student. But Neville, he reminded himself, was not ordinary either.

He glanced across at the dwindling group of wizards and witches who had stayed behind. Tonks was standing a little way away, staring at the ground with a corpse-white face and red-rimmed eyes. Hestia was making some attempt to talk to her, but did not look as if she was having much luck. Sirius's brows frowned as he glanced at Hestia. He had barely spoken a dozen words to her since he had found out she had reported their excursions in search for Harry to Dumbledore. He knew he was being stubborn, that as a member of the Order Hestia reported everything to Dumbledore, but he still felt angry that she hadn't at least told him.

He turned away to greet another well-wisher, a small, bird-faced wizard with a pair of pince-nez perched on his nose. Sirius been greeting people all morning, shaking hands and making small conversation, listening to memories of Lupin as if he was nothing more than some book they had all read and were now eager to discuss. It was starting to get dull.

"My name is Myron De Witt, Mr Black," the bird-faced man was saying as he shook hands, though Sirius was already beginning to tune out to his dry voice. "I've been meaning to introduce myself. Remus spoke of you so many times, with so much regret. I was glad to hear you had rejoined the Wizarding World and the two of you had reunited."

"Uh-huh," Sirius nodded automatically. So this man had known Lupin during the years that Sirius had taken Harry into hiding.

"He was a truly selfless man," De Witt continued, tucking his thumbs into the pockets of the large grey waistcoat he was wearing over his robes. "Even when he knew the risks, he was still dedicated to supporting us…" he began to drone on about bravery and modesty but Sirius had already lost the thread of conversation and simply nodded and made agreeable noises every now and again.

"…it was so difficult for him to talk about the accident when he mauled that child. Your Godson, wasn't it?" De Witt peered at Sirius in concern. "How is the boy? Coping well?"

"Yes," Sirius suddenly cottoned on to what the man had said and backtracked hurriedly. "Did you say when he talked about the…er, accident?"

"Indeed, I'm sure you understand the guilt he went through. But part of our research meant we had to know the details of his past struggles with Lycanthropy," De Witt nodded wisely as if he knew exactly what it was like to be a werewolf.

" What type of research did you say you worked in?" Sirius asked, frowning.

"Ah, I apologise, I do forget to explain sometimes. I'm a potions master, Mr Black. I was working with a team of international potions researchers for many years. One of our most difficult projects was a study into a possible Lycanthropy cure, a permanent one."

Sirius forgot his boredom in an instant. "You found a werewolf cure?" he asked, awed.

De Witt sighed and shook his head. "Unfortunately, it was never perfected. But Remus was an endless help. Without even knowing the details, he volunteered himself as a test subject, as well as providing his own blood for sampling. It is so difficult to get werewolves willing to cooperate with Wizards, so we wouldn't even have made it as far as we did without him…"

"Why? Why was the cure never completed?" Sirius interrupted.

"Ah, a cruel tragedy," De Witt said, straightening his pince-nez. "The head of our research team, Horace Slughorn, was murdered by Death Eaters. Very much like poor Remus, now I think of it. They found his house burned to the ground with the Dark Mark set in the sky…" a shiver passed across De Witt's face, "no body to be discovered, but there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he was surely dead. He had refused to cooperate with the Death Eaters – offended the wrong people – and his murder was also a warning to his contacts in the Ministry," De Witt sighed. "After that, the research team just fell apart. We needed Slughorn's charisma, and his brains, though we didn't like to admit it," he sighed again.

Something clicked in Sirius' brain. He had been listening, rapt, to De Witt's story. Now he licked his lips and said curiously, "The cure you were devising. It wouldn't, by any chance, use the herb Moly in great quantities, would it?"

De Witt's eyes widened. "It did, actually. We found it was necessary to keep the patient's mind human. Did Remus mention it to you?" he asked.

"Yes," said Sirius absently. "Yes, he did."

In his head, he could hear those last words Lupin had said as he had gleefully told Sirius that he had made a breakthrough, moments before the Werewolves had broken into his house. "A heck of a lot of things would make sense if I am right. It's the Moly Essence, and Horace Slughorn…"

"Excuse me," said Sirius, breaking off De Witt's new sermon on why Moly Essence was necessary for a werewolf cure. "I've just realised I have to go. It was nice meeting you."

And even before De Witt could register that he had been dismissed, Sirius had Disapparated.

From across the yard, Hestia saw him disappear with a crack. After a moment to make sure Tonks was in safe hands, she excused herself and slipped down the path where she vanished as well.

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Hestia went to Sirius' London flat first, and then to Lupin's house, which had a large For Sale sign staked onto the lawn. A quick inspection concluded that Sirius was at neither of these places. Hestia allowed herself a melodramatic sigh and then Apparated to the kitchen of number twelve Grimmauld Place. It was empty, but a fire had already been lit in the oven. She headed up the stairs, listening for the sounds of occupation. Not many of the Order had been here since Lupin had disappeared, because you were apt to meet Sirius roaming the corridors in semi-trancelike state, glowering at anyone who stood in front of him and tried to talk to him. It made for a depressing atmosphere.

Hestia had tried to talked to Sirius several times, but he had avoided her as surely as if she had been diagnosed with the plague. At first she thought he was just brooding, and as she felt like doing the same thing herself, she took no offence. Then, when she had had enough of trying to comfort Tonks on her own, she had gone upstairs to where Sirius had been holed up, looking through Lupin's journals, and demanded that he stop ignoring her. Sirius had slammed the door in her face.

Hestia realised that he was not just ignoring her. He was snubbing her. She could not understand what she had done until she finally thought about when Sirius had actively begun avoid her, which was right after he had had a chat with Dumbledore. What the Headmaster had said, Hestia couldn't be exactly certain of, but now Sirius thought she was a spy for Dumbledore or something like that and it made her feel even more ill and miserable.

So when she saw him leave the funeral in a great hurry she followed him under the pretext of curiosity, but mostly just because she hadn't spoken to him for a week and now seemed to give her as good an excuse as ever.

Sirius was in the hallway upstairs, levitating cardboard boxes out of one of the bedrooms. As each box came out of the room, Sirius would slice it open with his wand, check the contents, then push it aside in favour of the next box. Hestia stared at him for a minute before she asked cautiously, "What are you looking for?"

Sirius looked up in surprise, registered her, and returned to the latest box. "Just following me around now, are you?" he asked in reply. "Or were you doing that anyway?"

Hestia took a moment to answer because she had to swallow a hard lump in her throat. "Yes," she said weakly. "I liked following you around. What is all this?"

Sirius ripped open the next box, scowling venomously into its depths. "It's the stuff we brought from Moony's house," he said finally. "But I can't remember which box has the…here we go," he knelt and peeled back the flap. Hestia stepped forward to see what was inside.

The box was filled with old copies of the Daily Prophet. The story on the top one looked like it was dated at least three years ago. Prewetts 'Died like heroes' the headline of the top newspaper proclaimed. Sirius picked it up and threw it onto the ground. He took the next paper, leafed through it very briefly, and then cast it down as well.

"Can't I help?" Hestia asked timidly, sitting down across the box. Sirius picked up the next paper.

"I can read," he answered coldly.

"Yes, but you're only looking at the first few pages. You're probably missing stuff," Hestia picked up the next newspaper on the pile. "I repeat, what are we looking for?"

Sirius threw another paper aside and said grudgingly, "Horace Slughorn."

They sifted through the newspapers for a few more minutes, sitting in an awkward silence.

"Here," Sirius cried so suddenly that Hestia jumped. He was holding out the second page of a yellowed newspaper. "Another blow struck – notable Potions researcher killed by Death Eaters."

For a moment, the enmity between them was forgotten in the excitement of discovery. Sirius and Hestia leaned over the newspaper article while Sirius scanned it through it. "It's dated in early November last year – three weeks after the Death Eaters invaded Hogwarts. This was what Moony was going to tell me, Hestia! Everyone thought Horace Slughorn was more use to the Death Eaters dead, but Moony must have decided he was alive…!"

"Why? What use is Horace Slughorn…?"

"He was devising a cure for lycanthropy," Sirius explained hastily. "That's why Malfoy ordered about a tonne of Moly essence – because Slughorn needed it for the research they must have been forcing him to continue. Look, read this article – Slughorn's house was burned to the ground. It's not a regular thing for Death Eater to torch their victim's houses, is it? It's because they had to cover up the fact that they didn't just take Slughorn, they stole all his research notes and equipment as well."

"But Sirius, why? You think they wanted to cure Harry? So much effort…what's the point?"

Sirius faltered. He lowered the newspaper. "I don't know," he said quietly. "Maybe Moony knew," he added bitterly. His face had grown gaunter and thinner over the past weeks and when he frowned his features looked cruel and angry.

There wasn't much Hestia could say to that. She realised how like a pair of young children they must look, sitting on the floor with their good dress robes getting crumpled, surrounded by piles of old newspapers. She stood up and began to levitate the boxes back into the bedroom where they had been stored. "Do you think," she mused, "that maybe they'd need to test a potion that potent before they used it on Harry? They can't risk him being hurt, after all."

Sirius, who had gotten to his feet and was brushing dust off his knees, glanced up at her. "What are you getting at?"

"Well," Hestia said, not meeting his eye because she was afraid she was saying something incredibly stupid, "they couldn't test it on one of Fenrir Greyback's followers, could they? Not if You-Know-Who wants the werewolves as his allies. They'd have to test it on a werewolf who wasn't friendly with others of his kind. And if they wanted to keep things secret it would have to be someone whom they already held a grudge against, so that people wouldn't ask questions when he was kidnapped."

She forced herself to look at Sirius' reaction. He was goggling at her with a disbelieving expression on his face.

"And," Hestia plunged on, dropping the last box in the doorway, "they'd have to keep him alive for at least a month, to make sure that the potion really worked."

"God. No, it can't be possible," Sirius whispered, hunching forwards like a dog bristling at the scent on an intruder. He opened his mouth to say something else, but at that moment there was a huge, crunching BANG. The vibrations seemed to roll under their feet.

"What the hell was that?" Sirius barked.

"You don't think someone's trying to break into the house?" Hestia squeaked, gripping her wand and scrambling over the remaining boxes. The two of them dashed down the hallway towards the front door. The Black Family Portraits that had not yet been removed began to screech and wail.

"Be careful!" Hestia cried as Sirius grabbed the doorhandle and pulled it open, brandishing his wand before him. He strode out onto the steps and stopped when a strange sight met his eyes. Hestia looked over his shoulder.

"Who is that?" she hissed at him.

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TBC

A/N: Whoops, I underestimated again. My previous claim that the story was definitely going to be twenty chapters has now been revised to twenty-one. No difference really.

Thanks, reviewers!

Next Chapter: Neville is both terribly brave and extremely foolish.