The following morning, a pair of soot-stained Ministry workers knocked on the front door of the Evans house.

Lily opened the door, expecting the postman. Her heart nearly stopped at the sight of the two wizards standing in the middle of her sleepy Muggle street. Had they come to deliver more bad news? Maybe Hogwarts had been attacked this time — or Hogsmeade, or Diagon Alley…

"Lily Evans?" asked one, a middle-aged wizard whose brown goatee was stained grey with ash. He flashed a badge pinned to his robes at her. "Dilwyn Gritworth of the Floo Network Authority."

"Oh," said Lily, relieved. They weren't Aurors, then. Just normal Ministry employees. But what were they doing in Cokeworth? Maybe they had gotten lost. "Can I help you?"

"We're here to have a look at your fireplace," said Gritworth. "Been told you require a connection with St Mungo's."

Lily relaxed. Madam Pomfrey must have written the Ministry about her apprenticeship. She ushered Gritworth and his partner inside and shut the door quickly behind them. Hopefully the neighbours hadn't noticed the strange men who had just Apparated into plain view.

"The sitting room's this way," she said loudly when Gritworth lingered in the foyer, gawping at the lightbulb affixed to the ceiling. She wondered how often Muggle fireplaces were connected to the Floo Network. Probably never. Her mum didn't seem bothered by Gritworth's staring; she was ogling him with a similar expression, mouth slightly ajar.

In the sitting room, Gritworth was immediately taken with the Muggle photographs atop the mantel. "These don't move at all, then?" he asked Lily as his partner poked and prodded at the fireplace.

"The one on the end does if you stare at it long enough," lied Lily, which earned her a disapproving look from her mum. Gritworth nodded solemnly and spent the better part of the next hour keeping one eye on the photograph while his partner did most of the work.

"Well, you're all set," said Gritworth cheerfully once they had finished. "Shame I didn't see that photograph move, though. Surely if we stay five more minutes..."

"Er, think I saw it waving earlier," said Lily. "You must have missed it, sorry..." She held the front door open for them, and Gritworth craned his neck to get a view of the first-floor landing as they left.

Lily shut the door gently. She rolled her eyes at her mum. "Some professional demeanour they had."

Her mother was busy examining the bag of Floo powder the workers had left on the mantel. "Oh, Lily, there's no need to take things so personally. I'm sure they were just as interested in us as we were in them." She took a pinch of Flood powder and rolled it between her thumb and fingers.

"Careful with that," said Lily. "One wrong syllable and you'll end up in Barcelona instead of Birmingham."

"Wouldn't that be a shame," said her mum, sighing wistfully. Lily grinned.

That Thursday, Lily had her first shift at St Mungo's. At precisely half-six in the morning, she stepped into the green flames crackling in her fireplace. "St Mungo's," she said, stifling a yawn. The flames roared, and her stomach lurched violently as she spun downwards, into the Floo Network.

Floo Powder was technically Lily's favourite means of travel by magic, but that didn't mean she enjoyed it. She didn't see why every magical method of transportation had to feel like you were riding a particularly unpleasant roller coaster. After a dizzying amount of twists and turns, she stumbled, coughing, into a large waiting room.

The room was packed with witches and wizards, all sporting an astonishing array of ailments. Some sat quietly in the many rows of wooden chairs, while others paced about the room, wailing. In one corner, a whole family of partially-Transfigured Veela huddled together, blinking their birdlike eyes and clawing at their beaks. Healers in lime green robes strode from patient to patient, examining them. One woman appeared to be made of snow, and several Healers were placing blocks of ice around her in an effort to keep her from melting.

Lily tried not to stare as she made her way through the waiting room. As she approached the front desk, she nearly unbalanced a wizard whose bottom half had been replaced by a large spinning top.

"Sorry, sorry…" she said, steadying him. The man responded in a language she didn't understand. Lily gave him an apologetic smile and turned to the front desk, which was marked Inquiries.

Behind the desk sat a bored-looking witch with slightly pointed ears. She was taking notes as an elderly wizard who had nothing obviously wrong with him explained his predicament.

"… Me back was never the same after that, which is why, in sixty-two—"

"Nineteen sixty-two?" interrupted the pointy-eared witch.

"Eighteen sixty-two, marm. Anyway, it all started on me brother Mydan's birthday — t'were an unusually rainy day for summer, I'll tell you that, I still remember…"

The pointy-eared witch noticed Lily and quieted the man with a bored wave of her hand. "Can I help you?"

"I think so," said Lily. She glanced at the emblem of St Mungo's — a wand and bone, crossed — that was pinned to the witch's robes. "I'm Lily Evans, I'm supposed to be apprenticing with Healer Fenwick. Did Madam Pomfrey send an owl?"

The witch shuffled through a stack of papers sitting on her desk. "Lily Evans… yes, I think I remember, Poppy mentioned an apprentice over the Christmas holidays…" She ran a finger down a piece of parchment. "Right, here you are. Everything looks to be in order, then. This week Fenwick is covering on the second floor — Magical Bugs, where we treat infectious diseases, you know… Look for the Camille Grenoille ward, it'll be on the left."

"Brilliant, thanks," said Lily. As she slipped away from the desk, the elderly wizard at the front of the queue continued his monologue, oblivious to the sighs of the people behind him.

A rickety staircase, lit only by the occasional brazier, led to the second-floor corridor. Massive oil paintings of formidable-looking Healers lined the walls of the corridor, occasionally interspersed with doors leading to funny-sounding wards. Lily passed a door covered in lichen marked Fungal Fevers. Further down the corridor was another door, which was bolted shut and bound with many sets of chains. At last, she arrived at a plain-looking door marked Camille Grenoille Ward: Contagious Diseases.

Lily tried the handle, but the door was locked. As she lifted her hand to knock, the door swung open, and a tall, gangly figure peered down at her.

Lily's first thought was that she was being examined by an astronaut; the figure wore a puffy white suit, complete with boots and gloves, and an enormous helmet made of reflective material circled his head. It looked like the outfits she'd seen Americans wearing on the telly.

"Er," said Lily. "Healer Fenwick?"

"That's the one," said a voice from under the helmet, sounding pleased. "And you are?"

"Lily Evans, sir," she said. "Here for an apprenticeship."

"Here to double my work, more like," said Healer Fenwick jovially. "And there's no need to 'sir' me. Not unless you want to make me feel old." He removed his helmet and stuck out a gloved hand for her to shake. His tan face was just as stretched out as the rest of him, and all of his features seemed lopsided. His nose was bent in several places, and even the smile he was giving her was crooked.

"It's a pleasure," Lily said, shaking his hand. "And I hope I won't slow you down that much."

"Oh, you shall," said Healer Fenwick happily. "As the Healer Solomon Shem once said, show me an apprentice who merely triples my work and I will kiss the hem of his robes. Or hers, as the case may be." He jerked a thumb towards one of the portraits, where a rotund Healer with patchy blond hair was glaring pointedly at Lily. The plaque under the portrait read: Solomon Shem, 1609-1687, Responsible for Both Creating and Resolving the Healer Shortage of the 1600s. Lily waved at the portrait, which responded with a rude gesture.

Healer Fenwick laughed. "It's a good thing you were born in this century, eh? Anyway, to business…" He pulled out his wand and conjured a set of emerald green robes, which he handed to her. "There's a changing room at the end of the corridor. Take a right at the portrait of Dilys Derwent."

In the changing room, Lily took a couple of seconds to admire herself in the mirror. With the lime green robes, she looked every bit as professional as the Healers she had seen in the waiting room. Just below the emblem of St Mungo's on the front of her robes were the words Lily Evans, Apprentice Healer.

Healer Fenwick nodded approvingly as she rejoined him. "Much better. Want a protective suit?"

Lily looked sceptically at his outfit. "Do I need one?"

"Depends on who you ask," he replied. "The Healers on this floor are so used to magical bugs that they barely blink when a patient with Loser's Lurgy is admitted to the ward. As for myself, I'm not looking to come down with a hideously disfiguring case of Spattergroit — hence the protective gear."

Lily peered through the window set into the door of the ward. Inside, all the Healers and orderlies were dressed in their normal green robes. There were even a few visiting family members milling about in casual dress. "You don't think the spacesuit is… overkill?"

Healer Fenwick shrugged and jammed the helmet back over his head. "There's a reason I normally work in Artifact Accidents."

"Because you're afraid of germs?"

"Quiet, you," said Healer Fenwick as he ushered her into the ward. "My ego's fragile enough without your help."

As they entered the ward, one of the orderlies nodded at Healer Fenwick. "Your apprentice didn't want a suit, too, then, Benjy?"

"I refuse to be shamed by the likes of you, Shufflebottom," replied Healer Fenwick.

The orderly winked at Lily. "By the way," he said, addressing Healer Fenwick, "Wilhelma Widdershins says she's begun to grow pustules again, if you wouldn't mind taking a look…"

"Gladly," said Healer Fenwick. "Ready to learn, Evans?"

Lily followed behind him as he clomped down the ward. He looked like a scarecrow in a spacesuit. "Er," she said, with a look around at the beds, most of which were occupied by sleeping patients. "Sorry, but this is an infectious disease ward, right?"

"Unfortunately," responded Healer Fenwick. He came to a halt beside a bed where a woman with a painful-looking pattern of boils across her face was lying. "Why do you ask?"

"I assumed the patients would be quarantined, if they were infectious."

"Ah," said Healer Fenwick. His helmeted head turned towards Lily. "No, quarantine is an outdated Muggle concept. You must be Muggle-born, then? Or a half-blood?"

"Muggle-born," said Lily fiercely, "and if that's going to be a problem —"

"Not at all!" said Healer Fenwick, sounding positively alarmed. "Sorry, sorry, should've had more tact. I'd just assumed Poppy — Madam Pomfrey — she didn't tell you…?"

"Tell me what?" Lily braced herself for another disappointing revelation about Muggle-borns. Maybe St Mungo's only hired pure-bloods. Maybe she wasn't allowed to treat certain diseases, on account of her heritage —

"Well, there's no need to look like that," said Healer Fenwick. "I've had duel training, that's all. I'm both Muggle physician and Healer, you know."

Lily's mouth dropped open. "What?"

"Yeah, I had integrated training," he said. "Doesn't exist anymore — too dangerous, the political climate being what it is — but having admitting privileges at the local Muggle hospital comes in dead handy sometimes. I'd assumed Poppy had told you. That's why most Hogwarts students apprentice with me, to learn a bit about Muggle Healing."

"Oh," said Lily. Her mind was still catching up to Healer Fenwick's revelation. "Well. I guess I understand why Madam Pomfrey wanted me to do my apprenticeship with you, then. I wonder why she didn't tell you I was Muggle-born?"

"She probably didn't think it was relevant," said Healer Fenwick. He spoke so casually that Lily felt something warm in her chest. Her blood status was always relevant. To hear him say otherwise… It felt like hope.

"Is that where you got the spacesuit from, then?" she asked. "From the Muggles?"

Healer Fenwick winked. "Trade secret, Miss Evans." He bent over the woman with the boils and drew his wand. "Now. To answer your earlier question, wizards don't use quarantine. We have spells that work better than that." He gestured towards the patient, and Lily realized that the woman's mouth and nose were covered with a translucent film, like a soap bubble, which fluttered in and out as she breathed.

Healer Fenwick grinned at Lily's expression. "Flu Filtration Charm. Excellent for illnesses that spread through the air. We also use it when the germs are coming out the other end, but you don't want to see that. And of course, blood-borne diseases don't need any special precautions, provided the patient isn't actively bleeding. How're you feeling, Mrs Widdershins?"

The woman in the bed stirred, blinking blearily up at them. "Like I've been trampled by a hippogriff."

"Excellent, coming along well, then," said Healer Fenwick. He produced a clipboard from thin air and scribbled something on it, though he seemed to have a hard time holding the quill with his gloves on. "I'll be back this afternoon with your Pustule-Popping Potion, alright?"

The woman didn't respond; she had already fallen back asleep.

"One consult down, thirty-one to go," said Healer Fenwick happily. He was already moving to the next bed, where a man with purple skin was reading the Daily Prophet. "Alright, Mr Rackharrow? Coughed up any blackberries this morning?"

Lily followed Healer Fenwick as he worked his way down the ward, slightly in awe. She wished she had thought to bring some parchment to take notes with.

As they came to the last two beds on the ward, Healer Fenwick threw out an arm, bringing Lily to a halt. "Right," he said, "remember how I told you wizards don't use quarantine?"

The air around the two beds was shimmering. Lily could recognize a protective charm when she saw one, and judging by the haziness of the air, these beds were surrounded by a lot of protective charms. "I'm guessing you used a simplified explanation so I wouldn't get confused."

"Precisely," said Healer Fenwick. He made sure the neck of his suit was fully zipped. "Unlike Muggle doctors, Healers don't lock patients up in single rooms as if they're in Azkaban. But there are certain diseases — generally very rare and extremely deadly — that are spread by touch."

Lily squinted, trying to get a better view of the two patients behind the protective charms. Both looked to be elderly, and they were lying so still in their beds that at first Lily thought they were dead. As she looked closer, her stomach churned. The patients barely seemed human; their skin looked like it was sloughing off, and their faces were covered in green scales.

"We're calling it dragonpox," said Healer Fenwick, his voice suddenly much more serious. "The first cases appeared in Hungary a few centuries ago, but it's only recently made its way to Britain. It's extremely contagious — the scales are infective, see. Deadly enough when a young person gets it, but at their age… "

"Oh," said Lily in a small voice. She had only seen true sickness once, with Regulus Black. Even with her lack of experience, she could tell that these two patients were very ill indeed. "Can they — I mean, is there a treatment?"

"There is, but it only works if you take it before symptoms appear," said Healer Fenwick. "These two didn't know they'd been exposed until they started belching smoke, so treatment wasn't an option for them. All we can do now is try to keep them alive until they shed the scales."

"That's it?" asked Lily. She'd always thought Healing magic could work miracles. "There's nothing else you can do?"

"Not in this case, unfortunately. There are a few potions that can speed up the process of shedding the scales, but the side-effects are… unpleasant, to say the least. Not appropriate for these two, what with their advanced age and all."

"How long until they recover?"

"'Recover' isn't the right word," he said. "If they survive… at their age, the best we can hope for is a temporary remission. But the dragonpox will always come back, and each time it does it will be more deadly."

Lily bit her lip, her eyes on the unmoving patients. "I see."

"I'm hoping one of them will pull through," said Healer Fenwick. "At least for a while longer. They've got a son, and no other living relatives to take care of him." He sighed heavily as he gazed through the protective charms. "But then, they've never been a large family, the Potters."

James had no news from St Mungo's until the following Monday when the face of a Healer with a crooked nose and tan skin appeared in the kitchen fireplace during breakfast.

James nearly choked on his toast as he scrambled to get up from the table, but Lottie the house-elf reached the fireplace first. "Good morning, Master Healer," she squeaked, her voice trembling with emotion. "Does Master Healer bring news of the Potters?"

"Yeah, what's going on?" asked James, kneeling next to Lottie. "Are they alright?"

"'Alright' is a stretch," replied the Healer, who sounded far too flippant for James' taste. "I've got good news for you, though. Your father has begun to shed his scales, and we're predicting your mother will do the same within a few days."

"Well that's — that's great, right?" asked James. Sirius bent beside him and put a hand on James' shoulder.

Green flames licked up the sides of the Healer's head as he nodded. "If they continue to improve, I daresay you'll be able to visit within the week. Your parents are made of strong stuff."

"Of course they are," said James proudly. "They're the best."

Lottie wiped away a tear, an expression of relief on her tiny face. "Master Healer will tell Lottie when we is allowed to visit?"

"'Course," said the Healer. His eyes roamed over the table, which was laid out with breakfast. "I don't reckon you can spare any food to feed a growing Healer, can you?"

"Master Healer can have whatever he wants!" squealed Lottie, and she pushed an armful of sausages into the fire.

The Healer, looking pleased, glanced down at something they couldn't see. "Cheers, thanks." There was a popping sound as his head vanished from the fire.

A couple of days later, the Healer reappeared in the fireplace, true to his word. "Come on over," he said, smiling crookedly. "It'll be another week or so before they're well enough to leave, but they're awake and no longer contagious."

"Oh, thank God," said Sirius as James and Lottie hugged each other. "I'll get the Floo powder, yeah?"

They managed to Floo to St Mungo's within the hour. They tumbled into the packed waiting room and bypassed the queue entirely in favour of rushing up the stairs. "This way, this way!" urged Lottie as they reached the second-floor corridor, and James followed her without hesitation. House-elf magic was so different from human magic that James was certain that Lottie somehow knew exactly where his parents were.

Lottie skidded to a halt next to a large painting of a fat blond Healer and rapped on the door of the adjacent ward. "Lottie the House-Elf, James Potter, and Sirius Black!" she cried shrilly. "We is here to see Fleamont and Euphemia Potter!"

The door swung open, and Lottie raced inside. James followed her at a jog while Sirius brought up the rear, his hands in his pockets.

"Potter, did you say?" asked an orderly with four blonde pigtails that stuck out of her head at odd angles. "They'll be the beds at the end, there…"

James nodded his thanks and continued to jog down the ward. Lottie had somehow reached the beds already and was speaking earnestly to a female Healer with dark red hair who was examining James' father. The Healer glanced up as James approached, and he froze mid-stride.

"Evans?" he asked as Sirius collided into his back.

Lily looked guilty for some reason. "Erm, Potter, hi…"

"Do you two know each other?" asked Fleamont Potter from his bed. He propped himself gingerly on his elbows, wincing, and Lily adjusted the pillow behind his back.

"Yeah, I — we —" spluttered James. "Dad."

Fleamont Potter smiled, and James rushed forward to hug him. His father felt so frail under his arms — it was like he was made of parchment and bone. He felt so old.

"I love you," muttered James as his father's thin arms encircled him. "I'm so glad you're alright."

James' father stroked his hair, which did nothing to smooth it down. "I love you, too, son."

Sirius and Lily exchanged glances. "Er," said Sirius awkwardly. "Hi, Fleamont."

Fleamont Potter looked up. "There's my second son!" He gestured for Sirius to join the hug.

Lily cleared her throat. "I'll, erm, leave you to it. If you need anything, Fleamont, I'll be — or someone will, anyway — you can just call, and…" She ran off before finishing her sentence.

James wasn't paying attention; he was too busy examining his father critically. "You've lost weight. Are they feeding you? Do the house-elves here know how you like your breakfast?"

"Lottie will speak to them!" said Lottie sternly. "Lottie will be very cross if they isn't taking care of Master Potter how they should —"

In the other bed, Euphemia Potter sat up slowly, bringing her legs cautiously over the side of the bed. "The food here is fine, Lottie," she chided as James ran into her arms. "How are you, my son?"

"I'm fine." James' voice was muffled. His mother still smelled like vanilla. "How're you? You're what's important, that nutter of a Healer said you nearly died —"

"Oh, tosh," said Fleamont Potter, shaking his head dismissively. "We're just fine, aren't we? A few more days and we'll be right as rain."

"We've been more concerned about you," said Euphemia. She held James at arm's length, looking him up and down. "Are you sure you're alright? Lily told us about what happened on the Hogwarts Express —"

James blinked. So his parents were on first-name terms with Lily Evans, now? "That — that was nothing, not compared to what you've been through —"

"Nothing?" said his father loudly. "That's not what Lily told us."

James flinched. "What did she say, exactly?"

"She told us that you saved her life," said Euphemia, taking his hand. "She said you hid her and another Muggle-born girl under the Invisibility Cloak when the Dark Lord's followers were searching your compartment."

"Your ancestors would be so proud," added Fleamont. "Ignatus Peverell himself couldn't have found a better use for the Cloak. Hiding from Death, indeed!"

James shoved his glasses roughly up the bridge of his nose, not sure what to say. He was used to his parents doting on him — that was their default relationship — but this was different. They were looking at him as if he'd done something incredible. Something heroic. "It's nothing," he managed at last. "You would have done the same, both of you."

"Let us hope we never have to find out," replied Fleamont.

Euphemia squeezed James' hand. "How are you feeling, otherwise? Lily said you were quite shaken by the ordeal."

"Healer Fenwick has excellent contacts in the Psychic Damage ward upstairs," added Fleamont. "He has assured us it would be no problem to have you examined, if you feel —"

"That's not — I'm fine, I promise!" said James. "There were Healers who examined us after — while we were still on the train, I mean... I had to take a couple of potions for a while, but I'm fine now. Really."

Euphemia looked like she didn't believe him, but wasn't going to argue the point. "You'll let us know if you feel something is wrong, won't you?"

"Of course," said James. "Sirius, tell them —" He broke off, looking around. Sirius was nowhere in sight.

Fleamont frowned. "I didn't notice him leave…"

"Probably went for a smoke," said James. "Bad Muggle habit of his. I'll go find him. You two stay put." He gave his parents a stern look, as if they were plotting to vanish the moment he turned his back.

He nearly bumped into Lily as he was leaving the ward. "Erm, sorry, Evans," he said, steadying her. "You haven't seen Sirius, have you?"

"Yeah, I have, actually," said Lily. "He was muttering something about needing a fag."

"Brilliant," said James. "Thanks."

"That's quite alright," said Lily. Her voice sounded very high-pitched and not at all like her usual self.

They looked at each other for a moment.

"Actually —" said James, at the same time Lily said, "I meant to say —"

They paused.

"Go ahead," said James.

"No, that's alright. You were saying?"

James let out an exasperated sigh, glancing around the ward. At the far end of the room, his parents were very obviously watching them. "Alright, come on, then," he said at last, and he grabbed her by the sleeve and dragged her out of the ward and into the corridor.

Lily snatched her sleeve out of James' grasp as soon as the door swung shut behind them. "What's this about, then?"

"Why'd you tell my parents I saved your life?" countered James.

"Er," said Lily, "because it's the truth?"

"No, it isn't."

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Lily. "I didn't realize there was another term for when you keep someone from being killed."

"Come off it," said James. "When you put it like that, it sounds —"

"…Ridiculously selfless, like something James Potter would never be capable of?"

James didn't smile. "Exactly."

Lily's expression softened. "I didn't mean to make you feel bad. I wanted to thank you."

"No need." James shrugged a shoulder. "You would've done the same for me."

Lily shook her head. "No. I wouldn't have."

James snorted. "Yeah, right. Do you honestly think you would've sat idly by while a bunch of lunatic Death Eaters hunted me down?"

Lily looked like she wanted to cry. "Maybe."

"Don't tell yourself that, because it's not true," said James firmly. "We might not be best mates, but I know you better than that. You would've gone after me if the situation was reversed. I'm sure of it."

Lily bit her lip. "Well. Then. Thanks for doing what anyone would've done, I suppose."

"That's more like it," said James, and the tightness in his chest eased up a bit. He wasn't sure he could have taken much more of being treated like a hero. "And thank you, I guess."

"Thank me? For what?"

"For being there for my parents when they were ill. Seems like you took good care of them."

Lily flushed. "Oh, no — I'm only an apprentice, I don't do anything important…"

"You keep telling yourself that, Evans," said James.

"I'm not telling myself anything, it's the truth —" Lily broke off. "Why are you smiling like that?"

"I'm not," said James innocently. "You're cute when you're trying to be modest, you know that, Evans? Haven't seen that side of you very often, considering you're always showing off at Hogwarts during lessons —"

"'Showing off'? That's rich, coming from you. Who was it that jumped on his desk during History of Magic and shouted about how he could recite A Ballad of Goblin Warfare by heart?"

"I did, obviously," said James. "But you were the one that corrected my second verse, as only a true show-off would —"

"It was the third verse, actually, but that's only because no ancient goblin ballad would rhyme 'grassy knoll' with 'bung —' "

There was a rap on the window set into the door, and they sprang apart. Healer Fenwick was grinning at them on the other side of the glass. He pointed to Lily and James, then formed a heart with his hands.

"I don't like that Healer," muttered James.

"You don't like him?" said Lily, whose face had gone scarlet. "He's the reason your parents are alive —"

Healer Fenwick pointed at Lily and tapped his watch. Then he turned and vanished into the ward.

"Looks like duty calls," said James. "I should go, too. Need to keep Sirius from polluting his lungs."

"Right," said Lily, her blush fading a little. "I guess they'll be needing me back on the ward. See you later?"

"Count on it," said James. "I'll see you around, Evans."

Sirius was on the tube, sandwiched between a man with a long beard and an overweight woman in a floral dress, when he felt a burning sensation coming from the pocket of his jeans.

He sighed loudly, earning him a disapproving look from the woman, and pulled the two-way mirror out of his pocket. "Yes?"

"Pads." James' face in the mirror was backlit by the braziers that lit the corridors of St Mungo's. "Where are you?"

"Went for a smoke."

James squinted, shoving his glasses up his nose. "Really? 'Cause it looks to me like you're on the tube. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, fine," said Sirius brusquely. "Look, don't worry about me, okay? Enjoy your time with your parents. I'll see you in a bit."

"A bit," repeated James. "How long, exactly, is a —"

Sirius shoved the mirror back in his pocket. The woman in the floral dress was watching him warily, as if she suspected he was mentally unbalanced. He supposed he had just been having a conversation with a mirror.

As the train slowed to a stop, Sirius pretended to lunge at the woman, and she flinched. Satisfied, he jumped onto the platform before anyone could reprimand him. He ducked into a nearby alley to transform into Padfoot and paused just long enough to dig in a dustbin before trotting north.

The sun had nearly set by the time he arrived at Grimmauld Place. It looked exactly as he'd remembered it, save for the layer of fluffy snow that blanketed the garden. He slipped quietly through the bars of the cast-iron fence and slunk up to the front door. He sniffed apprehensively. From the smell of it, his parents had left not long ago and had yet to return.

There was a light flickering in one of the upstairs windows. To get on the roof, Sirius had to shift back into human form. The snow crunched beneath him as he knelt on the sloping roof, and he shivered as he tapped on the window.

After a moment, Regulus appeared at the glass. When he saw Sirius kneeling on the roof, he let out a huge sigh. Sirius gave Regulus a small wave and mimed opening the window. Regulus crossed his arms. Sirius looked at him a moment, then shrugged and drew his wand.

Regulus threw open the window and pulled Sirius inside before Sirius could blast it open.

"Finally," said Sirius, "I think I've got frostbite on my —"

"Kreacher's nearby," said Regulus, and Sirius' mouth snapped shut. Regulus pointed his wand at his bedroom door, and several clicks sounded as the door locked itself. "What're you doing here?"

Sirius strode across the room, glancing over the cutouts from the Daily Prophet that were plastered on the walls. He threw open Regulus' wardrobe, searching for the good furs he'd inherited from their grandparents. "I'm moving back in, little brother. Where's the mink stole? I'm telling you, I think the cold damaged my —"

"Moving in," said Regulus flatly. Sirius could have hugged him; he'd missed his brother's composure. "Why? What changed?"

"Well," said Sirius as he wrapped himself in the mink stole and flopped onto Regulus' bed, "I don't know if you realized, but a madman attacked the Hogwarts Express and murdered several children because they'd committed the heinous crime of having Muggles for parents. Sound familiar?"

Regulus blanched. "I was there, yes."

"One of them was in Gryffindor," said Sirius conversationally. "Amy Roberts."

Regulus' knuckles were white as he gripped his desk. "Stop it."

"I didn't know her well, but she was supposedly top of her year at Warming Charms —"

"I know what you're doing. Stop it."

"She was in the Gobstones Club and the recreational Quidditch league. D'you know how old she was, Reg?"

Regulus didn't respond; his eyes were fixed on his journal where it lay open on his desk.

"She was twelve." Sirius' voice was less casual now; he was nearly snarling. "Twelve, and she's dead, dead, at the hands of the madman who you worship —"

"I do not worship —"

"You've plastered your room with articles about him!" Sirius bounded off the bed, rapping on the walls for emphasis. "You've joined up with Mulciber and his gang —"

"I had no choice!" Regulus let out a startled cry as Sirius grabbed him by the neck of his robes, hoisting him nearly off the ground.

"You're lying to yourself. We always have a choice. Always."

"Our parents," gasped Regulus. He twisted uselessly in Sirius' grasp.

"Fuck our parents. You hate them as much as I do."

"I don't hate —"

"Then you're a soft-hearted idiot," said Sirius. He flung Regulus roughly aside and turned to the journal on his desk. The journal was open to a page bearing a half-finished skull and snake, shrouded in coal-black smoke.

"Nice, Sirius," said Regulus from the ground. "Really lovely. You know who you sound like?"

"Dunno," said Sirius, flicking through the journal. "The voice of reason?"

"No," panted Regulus as he staggered to his feet. "You sound like our father."

Sirius paused. "That," he said. He took a breath. "That was not my intention."

"You're just as much of a bully as he is," said Regulus. He slid the journal out of Sirius' hands.

"I'm not — I wasn't —"

"You are," said Regulus. "Don't act like you've got some moral high ground. Severus told me what you tried to do to him last year."

Sirius groaned in frustration, running his hands through his hair. "That's — that completely beside the point, Reg. You don't know the whole story —"

Regulus shrugged. He sat on his bed and flicked through his journal until he found where he had left off. "You don't have to justify yourself to me. I'm not judging you for it. I'm just saying you're not better than Mulciber. Or our father."

"I strongly disagree."

"Good for you," said Regulus. "Why are you here, Sirius?"

Sirius leaned against the bedpost, watching Regulus smudge charcoal along the contours of the skull. "I told you. I'm moving back in."

"Why? Did the Potters kick you out, too?"

Sirius flinched. "No, they — they're ill. I figured they've got enough to be getting on with without me underfoot. Not to mention that I, er, talked to Uncle Alphard last Hogsmeade weekend."

The eyes of the skull were pools of endless black. "And?"

"He reckons I ought to accept my position as heir, make sure the family money goes to the right people. He, erm, wasn't too keen on the idea of you using the Black fortune to bolster the Dark Lord's coffers."

Regulus' hand stilled. The stick of charcoal hovered over the paper. "Ah."

"Yeah," said Sirius. "I told him to shove it at the time — thought he was just after what I could do for him. But now, after the whole Hogwarts Express thing, well…"

Regulus' posture was so straight it looked uncomfortable. "You think he has a point."

"I do, funnily enough," said Sirius. "Nothing good is going to come from you inheriting the family fortune. No offence."

Regulus pressed his charcoal to the paper so hard the tip snapped off. "Do you really think I'm so devoted to the Dark Lord and his cause that making me the heir would be dangerous? You think I'm that much of a sycophant?"

"Er," said Sirius. He looked at the articles from the Prophet that were plastered to the walls. "Yeah, I do. Sorry."

Regulus said nothing for a moment. Then he thrust his journal towards Sirius. "Look towards the back."

Sirius took the journal and opened it hesitantly. He flipped past a few sketches of the Hogwarts founders until he came to a page covered in drawings of what appeared to be medieval torture implements. Sirius recognized them as instruments their father had collected for years — spiked maces and hideous iron clamps meant for pulling things apart.

"I'm confused," he said. "Why did you do an art study on our father's most prized possessions?"

"I didn't." Regulus lowered his voice and leaned forward until his head was nearly touching Sirius'. For a moment, it was like they were ten years younger and plotting how to convince Kreacher to serve them extra pudding. "These aren't drawings." He touched his wand to the paper, and the sketches moved, drawn to the wand as if it were a magnet. Carefully, Regulus pulled his wand upwards, and a spiked mace lifted out of the pages of the journal, dangling on the tip of the wand like a fish on a hook.

Sirius stared. "What?"

"Great-Uncle Harfang was an artist," said Regulus. "This spell was hidden in his book of art that Father keeps in the library." He rotated his wand, and the mace twisted with it. "As a result, things have been mysteriously vanishing from Father's study since the summer. He's been quite perplexed. Hard to discipline Kreacher without his favourite tools, you see." With a flick of his wand, the mace sank back into the pages of the journal, a mere drawing once more.

"Godric's mane, Reg," said Sirius, "You've got a weird amount of love for Kreacher, I'll give you that much. If Father ever finds out…"

Regulus lifted his pointed chin. "I know the risks. I'm not an idiot. And I'm not — not — a mindless follower of the Dark Lord. I know good from evil."

"Then why? Why are you on their side?" Sirius hated the desperate, pleading note in his voice. He never begged. "They treat human beings worse than Father's ever done Kreacher —"

"I don't expect you to understand," said Regulus, picking up his charcoal.

"Explain it to me, then."

Regulus was silent for nearly five minutes as he finished sketching the skull. "My only goal is to survive the war," he said at last. "Their side's simply offering better odds."

Later that evening, Sirius went to his room and unpacked his belongings, clinging to the improbable hope that Uncle Alphard's Memory Charms had faded. Maybe he wouldn't have to live at Grimmauld Place again after all. Maybe when his parents came home they would be furious, forcing him to run away again. He could tell Uncle Alphard that he'd tried to do the right thing, but it just hadn't worked out.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Uncle Alphard was skilled at Obliviation; when Sirius' parents returned home, his mother cried with joy to see him slouching against the bannister of the stairs. As she embraced him, the last of Sirius' hope that he wouldn't have to live with his family again faded.

Once she had dried her tears, Walburga Black summoned Kreacher, who whipped up a feast for dinner. Sirius did his best to act hungry. Orion Black was more reserved in his affections, but the next morning he invited Sirius into his study, showing him the thick rolls of parchment that contained the details of the household investments. Just like that, Sirius began to adjust to a new routine, one that consisted of breakfast with his mother and Regulus in the morning and Floo calls to Gringotts in the afternoon.

He absolutely hated it.

"I need a fag," he moaned one evening, throwing himself onto Regulus' bed.

Regulus was perched on a stool in the middle of the room, working on a life-size painting of their mother that she had inexplicably commissioned. "Close the door, will you?"

Sirius complied. Regulus pulled out his wand and pointed it at his bureau. One of its drawers slid open, and his journal flew out of the drawer and through the air. It landed in Sirius' hands, opening itself up to a page containing a drawing of a carton of cigarettes. The carton rose from the pages of the journal long enough for Sirius to grab a cigarette.

"Brilliant spell, that," said Sirius. He lit the tip of the cigarette with his wand and took a deep drag.

Regulus returned his attention to the painting."What's got your knickers in a twist?"

"Your muse, for one," said Sirius, jerking his head towards the canvas. "I spent the past two hours bartering with Eldridge Borgin over a cursed kettle Mum would like to have."

Regulus' nose twitched. "I've never liked Borgin."

"That makes two of us." Sirius exhaled, sending a plume of smoke into the air. "You don't happen to know any Dark magic that predicts a person's deathday, do you? Uncle Alphard gives our parents a decade till they pop their clogs, but I'm hoping it'll be sooner."

"There are a few ways to figure out a deathday, actually," said Regulus. "Nothing you'd be willing to partake in, though."

"Don't assume that about me."

"Alright. How do you feel about slaughtering a virgin during the new moon?"

"Depends on the virgin," said Sirius. "Snivellus wouldn't be a problem. Anyone else, though…"

Regulus looked like he was biting back a smile. "That's what I thought."

The holidays at Grimmauld Place passed dramatically, as they were wont to do. On Christmas Eve, Kreacher reported to Walburga that Regulus' room smelled of smoke, which led to her discovering the contents of Regulus' journal. Unfortunately, she was familiar with Great-Uncle Harfang's methods for hiding things, so the cigarettes were summarily Vanished and the medieval tools were returned to their rightful place in Orion's study.

On Christmas Day, Walburga forbade Sirius and Regulus from spending time together unsupervised. On Boxing Day, Sirius locked himself in his room and refused to come out. Later that evening, Regulus brought a large, shaggy black dog into the parlour, informing his mother proudly that Padfoot had returned after his mysterious six-month absence, and wasn't it lovely to have the family pet back again?

On New Year's Eve, a sleek-looking raven rapped on Regulus' windowpane, clutching an envelope clutched in its beak. Regulus unlatched the window, and the bird swooped in just long enough to deposit its letter atop Padfoot's snout before soaring back out the window.

"Got mail, have you?" asked Regulus, scratching Padfoot behind the ears. "I'll open this for you. What do you think?" The dog bobbed its head, and Regulus slit the envelope open.

"'Sirius,'" he read, "'your parents tell me you've moved back in over the holidays. I am pleased to hear it and confident you've made the right choice. I've got a bit of a belated Christmas present for you, in fact — consider it a token of my appreciation. What say we meet this Sunday in the Leaky Cauldron? My treat'. It's signed from Uncle Alphard."

By the time Regulus finished reading, Sirius had shifted back to his human form, though he was laying on his stomach in the same way Padfoot had done. "Whatever Christmas present he's got for me, I don't want it."

"Are you certain?" asked Regulus. "It could be something good. Maybe he bought a Golden Goose and wants to give you one of the eggs."

Sirius snorted. "If Uncle Alphard had that kind of money, he wouldn't need me to play nice with our parents."

"Fair point," said Regulus. "I'll be interested to know what he gives you, then."

"Want to go in my place?"

Regulus turned back towards his painting of Walburga. There was a hint of a smile on his face. "Not on your life."

That Sunday, Sirius unlatched Regulus' window and snuck out of Grimmauld Place while his parents were occupied with the gift Padfoot had left them on the drawing room rug. It was a short walk to the nearest tube station, and he arrived at the Leaky Cauldron feeling proud for having mastered Muggle transportation.

The pub was nearly empty, which Sirius supposed was just a sign of the times. Not too many people cared to stop for a drink when there was a war on. He raised a hand in greeting to Tom, the barkeep, and scanned the darkly lit pub for Uncle Alphard.

His uncle wasn't hard to find; he was seated in a dimly lit corner booth beside a slender, dark-robed figure who was holding a long, thin cigar. A line smoke rose lazily from the tip of the cigar and formed a thick grey cloud around the figure's head. The cloud of smoke obscured the figure so completely that Sirius couldn't tell if they were a man or a woman. Probably one of Uncle Alphard's friends — he'd always kept strange company.

"Happy Christmas, Uncle Alphard," said Sirius, taking a seat. "Hope I didn't keep you waiting long."

"Not at all." Uncle Alphard inclined his head in greeting. "I'm glad you could join us — I was worried your parents would prevent you from leaving Grimmauld Place."

"They keep me on a tight leash," said Sirius, grinning at his own joke.

Uncle Alphard returned Sirius' smile. "Do I need to have a word with my sister? They ought to allow you some freedoms… I would be happy to step in if they are being too restrictive."

"Nah, Mum's fine," said Sirius. "Batty as ever, but that's her baseline. I'm telling you, though, if my parents live a single day longer than ten years…"

"…Then I personally will dispatch a team of Aurors to finish the job," said Uncle Alphard. The figure next to him laughed, sending swirling patterns through the cloud of smoke around their head.

Sirius squinted, trying to see through the smoke, but it was no use. "I don't think we've met," he said at last, stretching his hand across the table. "I'm Alphard's nephew — Sirius Black."

The figure shook back a sleeve and extended a hand towards Sirius. Their skin was a deep, cool brown. The colour made Sirius' hand look like it belonged to an Inferius in comparison.

"This is a colleague of mine," said Uncle Alphard. "A member of Dumbledore's resistance — the Order, if you will."

"Brilliant," said Sirius. "The smoke's a privacy charm, I assume?"

"Something like that," replied the figure, whose voice was distinctly feminine. "I have to be careful in certain spaces." She waved a hand in front of her face, and the cloud of smoke parted slightly. Sirius caught a glimpse of fluffy dark hair, mischievous eyes, and a gap between her front teeth as she smiled —

Sirius jumped out of his seat, reaching for his wand. "If you've laid one hand on her — If you've Obliviated her, I swear to God I'll —" He froze mid-sentence as his muscles seized abruptly in place.

Uncle Alphard leaned forward and plucked Sirius' wand out of his rigid hand. He placed the wand carefully on the table and glanced around at the patrons of the pub, who were looking their way curiously. "Let me offer you a deal, Sirius. You refrain from making a scene, and I will lift the Full-Body Bind I have placed upon you so that we all may converse a little more freely. Are we agreed?"

Sirius wanted nothing better than to tell Uncle Alphard where he could stick his wand. He tried to glare at his uncle, which was largely ineffective, considering he didn't have use of his facial muscles. Uncle Alphard smiled serenely back.

"Mmmph," said Sirius at last.

Uncle Alphard brightened. "Excellent. I thought you'd come around." He muttered the countercurse, and Sirius' muscles relaxed. He collapsed into his seat, his legs weak, and dared to glance at the girl — the witch? — beside Uncle Alphard. Her face was hidden again, completely obscured by smoke.

"Now," said Uncle Alphard, "I believe some re-introductions are necessary. Sirius Black, allow me to introduce my fellow Order member, Dorcas Meadowes. Dorcas Meadowes, Sirius Black."

A/N: If anyone caught the House of God references, good on ya. :) Until next time!