A dust cloud bloomed as he fell to his knees. He choked and coughed into his shirt. His body swayed with weakness, as if he'd run miles and miles across an open plain. The attic was dark—darker than it ought have been. They'd lit the lamp in the corner but the only light now came from the small, circular window.
He wiped his eyes.
Swathes of linen protected the treasures of the attic—fabric that had not been in place a minute ago. The floor was covered in a thick coat of grey debris, and from the walls hung yellowed cobwebs. Sirius scrambled backwards in alarm until his back hit a mirror that was leaning against the floor. With a cry, he covered his head as the mirror fell over him, shattering in shining slivers over the floor. Shards scraped his neck and arms.
Carefully, he lifted the mirror's gilded frame from his back.
"James?" he said.
Wind outside sang an eerie tune. Tree branches clawed at the house, trying to make their way in through the walls and windows. Rain pattered. Mrs. Potter would have been downstairs listening to the wireless and fussing with drapery, but Celestina Warbeck's warble had gone silent.
Glass of the mirror cracked under his shoe. He tried the handle of the staircase door, but it was locked. Fear gripped him. Who would lock him in here? James wasn't so base to try such a pathetic trick. Jump out and scare him, yes, but lock him in the attic? James knew better.
He pulled out his wand and stared at it. He was underage and the Trace still dogged every bit of magic that passed through the tip of his wand, but he had a cold feeling he wouldn't escape the attic without spelling it open. Steeling himself, he whispered, "Alohomora!" and the lock sprang open.
"Prongs?" he called out into the stairwell.
The stairs descended into blackness.
"Lumos," he said, and a bright light illuminated his way. Pressing his hand against the wall, he lowered himself down stair by stair, dreading what he would find when he reached the bottom. His hand trembled on his wand. On his next step, his foot went right through the rotten wood of the stair and with a holler, he caught himself on the railing. The railing was loose and it burst free from the wall. The edge of each stair hit his shoulders on the way down until he tumbled into the door at the bottom, but even the crumbling door didn't stop him. As soon as he hit it, the door popped off its hinges and he rolled into the corridor.
He beheld the dark space, which only minutes earlier was alight with summer sun. The walls were now draped with cobwebs and eaten by vermin. But…he and James had just come up here, sent to find chairs for the surprise party Mrs. Potter planned for Mr. Potter's birthday. Perhaps there was some sort of curse on the house, he wondered, that made intruders or Muggles believe it was only an abandoned manor. There was something like that on Hogwarts castle, he knew. Somehow he must have triggered it.
"Prongs?" he tried again. "Mrs. Potter? Euphemia?"
The bannister had long ago fallen all the way to the ground floor when he approached another staircase. On the floor below, the rooms were empty, all of them bare or covered with the same white cloth. Even the portraits were missing from their frames, he realized. The grand piano in the drawing room was missing a leg and some time ago it had fallen over. But Mrs. Potter had only just bought that piano a week earlier, and she made him and James listen to her play for half an hour.
Further down he went until he reached the grand entry where the dual staircases ended at a checkered, black and white floor. The rug he knew was gone. His footpaths left a streak through the dirt and dust. The floor was cracked with bits of tree roots and grass which he nearly tripped over in his haste to reach the door.
It didn't open.
With a blast of his wand, the doorway shattered and he staggered from the decrepit foundation into the dripping evening. In horror, he lost his footing as he faltered back, seeing how the manor had been reclaimed by the woods surrounding it. He fell hard on his backside. Trees had twisted themselves through the windows and roof, engulfing the walls and smothering the shutters with vines. The garden Mr. and Mrs. Potter so carefully maintained was nothing but a ruin of dried bushes and scraggly weeds; the hedges had rebelled and grown monstrous.
He heard pops of Apparition behind him. Sirius scrambled to his feet and whirled, pointing his wand. The two figures stood only yards away; he could see that they wore Auror robes and had drawn their own wands. One was a man of average build, but he was unremarkable compared to the man beside him. Sirius had never met him, but the grizzled Auror have been no one else but the infamous Alastor Moody.
"Expelliarmus!"
The wand wrenched from Sirius's grip to fly straight into the hand of the first Auror. Sirius held up his hands stiffly.
"Identify yourself, boy!"
"Black, Sirius Black, sir," he said. The name itself would be suspicious, he knew. Revealing that he belonged to one of the most staunchly pureblooded houses in Britain hardly did him any favors. As long as the Potters could vouch for him, however, he was safe. But where had they gone?
"Sirius Black? What sort of game are you playing?" the first Auror spat.
Rain dripped in the magical eye of Auror Moody whose expression had not changed.
"That's—er—that's my name," said Sirius.
The first Auror scowled and rolled his eyes at Auror Moody. "If he's going to pretend he's a criminal, we ought to—"
"Shut up, Dawlish," Moody barked. "Right, then, Black. What were you doing in there? You set off the Trace with an unlocking charm."
Sirius figured that must have drawn their attention. The rain stung the slices on his neck and arms, flowing with fresh blood down his shirt and fingertips. After the mirror shards and his fall down the stairs, he must have looked like a mess, and the rain only made it worse. He rubbed his eyes.
"I don't know," he admitted. "Where are the Potters? James and I—we were only in the attic for a minute. Mrs. Potter wanted us to find more chairs. I—I don't know what happened. Everything was normal and now…I don't know."
A strange plume of emotion erupted in his chest as he looked back at the house, so obviously abandoned many years ago. Only a month earlier had he escaped his mother's clutches and found refuge with James and his family. They had welcomed him, embraced him, given him a room and showered him with love and praise. When his O.W.L. results arrived, Mr. and Mrs. Potter patted his back like he was their very own son.
Suddenly, it was all gone, as if they had never lived there at all.
"What happened?" he demanded the Aurors. "Where are they?" He started forward, clenching his fists as the Aurors raised their wands. "Tell me what happened to them!"
But before he could charge, there was a flash of light and he slumped to the dead, dried grass.
"—of course we've inspected Azkaban, and Black is still in his cell. The dementors have communicated that nothing is amiss."
His arms were stuck to the chair—chained, he realized. His legs too. He pulled experimentally, but the chains only squeezed tighter. Blinking in the dim light, he focused on the burning lamps on the walls. There were three that he could see.
The voice outside the door was unfamiliar, but it was talking about him. He drew in a deep breath, pleading with himself not to panic. It was a misunderstanding. Mr. and Mrs. Potter were going to hear about this and come to claim him. They would say the house mistook him for an intruder. They would take him home and Mrs. Potter would throw Mr. Potter his birthday party, and he and James would secretly down glasses of firewhisky. This would be a hilarious story to share with Moony and Wormtail on the train back to Hogwarts. He just needed someone to listen to him.
He took in another breath that filled his lungs. "Hello?" he said. "I'm awake now. You can come ask me questions."
The door opened suddenly.
First came Auror Moody, his wooden leg thumping against the floor as he moved into the small room—an interrogation room, Sirius surmised. Moody conjured a table in the middle of the room which appeared in front of Sirius, then he drew up a stool. It was not for him, Sirius realized. At the doorway was another man. It was a portly fellow who clutched a lime green bowler hat as he eased inside. Nervously, the man lowered himself to the stool, jumpy as though Sirius would leap out of his chair and attack.
"Where are Mr. and Mrs. Potter?" said Sirius.
"Er—Mr. Black, is it?"
"Yeah."
The portly man glanced at Auror Moody, but Moody's eyes—false and real—didn't move from Sirius.
"May I introduce myself? Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge. I understand you claim to be—er—Sirius Black."
Sirius shook his head. "Because that's who I am. But you can't be Minister," he blurted. "That's Harold Minchum. Only just elected." He knew because Mr. and Mrs. Potter were troubled by Minchum's stance on Dementors. A recent proposal to add more to Azkaban's guard was a controversial one that the Potters intended to fight.
"Minister Minchum left office over a decade ago," said Fudge.
"No, he was elected a few months ago."
Fudge turned to Auror Moody. "Well, how am I supposed to determine what to do with him if he doesn't realize who I am? The boy is clearly of Hogwarts age. Dumbledore ought to know who he is."
"I've told you, I'm Sirius Black—"
"Yes, yes, you've mentioned. If you won't talk to me, perhaps Moody can get something out of you. I'm calling for Dumbledore."
Sirius didn't argue with that, though a bit of dread seeped into his heart. The last time he spoke directly with Dumbledore, the headmaster at Hogwarts, Sirius had faced expulsion. A stupid joke had spun wildly out of control, nearly leading to another student's death—if not death, then at least, serious dismemberment and a terrible, lifelong affliction. Dumbledore's disappointment was crushing.
Moody took Fudge's seat, his scarred and grizzled face haunted by the shadows of the room. Never in his life did Sirius expect to be sitting across from the most well-known dark wizard hunter in the country while chained to a chair. His fingers twitched on the cold, metal armrests.
"So you say you're Sirius Black. Want to see what Sirius Black looks like now?" said Moody. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a photograph.
Sirius shivered. The man in the picture might have been a corpse: his long, matted hair hung below his shoulders, his cheeks were hollowed from starvation, and his eyes were cold and haunting. If his hands weren't bound, he might have thrust the photograph back at Moody.
"That's—that's not me," said Sirius. He tore his eyes from the photo. "Is this a joke?"
"So you're saying you're Sirius Black, then. That's your story."
"Yes, damn it, that's who I am. I don't know what's happening. If you would just call for Mr. Potter, he'll come down here and explain everything. Is this the Ministry of Magic? He might already be here. I know he had to stop by for a permit today—"
"The Potters are dead, Black," said Moody.
The words dropped like a stone. "No, no they aren't."
"Fleamont and Euphemia Potter succumbed to Dragon Pox in 1979."
"But they aren't—they're not—I just saw Mrs. Potter! She was perfectly healthy. She was changing the drapes. James will tell you."
"He's dead too."
Sirius wrenched in the chains. "He's not. Where am I? What's happened to everyone? Is this a trick, to force me to confess to be a Death Eater? When Mr. Potter finds out about this, he'll call for a full investigation."
"That will not be necessary at this time," a soft voice came from the door.
Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster at Hogwarts, stepped through. Minister Fudge was behind him, breathless. Even Moody turned with a quizzical eyebrow at Dumbledore.
"News travels fast, eh?" grumbled Moody.
"I simply happened to be passing through the Ministry when the Minister caught me. Astounding coincidence."
"Astounding, my arse. You've got wards around the old Potter place. You knew we'd bring the perpetrator here."
Fudge looked uncomfortable. "Well, now that he's here, he can identify this student, can't he? Doesn't matter how he knew to be here, just as long as he can offer his assistance. Now, Albus, tell us who this boy is."
Dumbledore's startlingly blue eyes met Sirius's, and for a split-second, surprise alighted them. The air stilled as a bit of darkness crept into the lines of the old headmaster's face, as if he recognized Sirius yet had reservations about it. A soft exhale left the headmaster.
"Why, this is Sirius Black," said Dumbledore.
But the relief Sirius had expected didn't come. Fudge eyes bulged as he looked from Sirius to Dumbledore.
"But—but he can't be," Fudge sputtered. "Albus, you know as well as I, this cannot be Sirius Black. We've just been to Azkaban to check, and Black is still in his cell."
"Ah, but this is not the same Sirius Black we know. Sirius, how old are you?"
Mouth dry, Sirius answered. "Sixteen. But—but you know that, professor. I just finished my fifth year. We—we just spoke in your office before the year was over. You have to remember that, don't you?"
"I do recall that day," said Dumbledore. "Yet it was nearly sixteen years ago for me, Mr. Black."
"But Professor—I was— It was only a few months ago—"
"Albus," Fudge interrupted impatiently, "You're not suggesting he's traveled through time?"
"Sirius, can you tell us what year it is?"
The question rang between his ears.
The cobwebs drooping from the ceilings, dust everywhere, trees crawling all over the house—the images swarmed his mind. No, no, it couldn't be all gone. He can't have left it all behind. He squeezed his eyes shut but all he could see was the manor, crumbling to the earth, piece by piece.
Dead, Moody said. They were all dead. Mr. and Mrs. Potter. James. Gone. They were all gone. James was his brother. He couldn't be dead. He was so young. They were in the attic, searching for chairs. How could they be alive one minute and dead the next?
He couldn't breathe. He gripped the arms of the chair, but the air wouldn't reach his lungs. Glass shattered and the lights went out and he couldn't inhale. James was right there with him. Where was he? He couldn't be gone. It wasn't real.
The chains around his wrists and ankles tightened until he could no longer feel his fingers or toes, and still there came no air to his lungs, and he was choking. He tried to suck in a breath.
There were hands on his face, forcing him to look up into blue eyes. Sirius shut his own and made to pull away.
"Look at me, Sirius."
Dumbledore was firm. Sirius obeyed. Images of the empty house flashed behind his eyes, but he knew Dumbledore was searching for the moments before Sirius had found himself alone in the abandoned house. There was Mrs. Potter asking them to look for more party chairs; Sirius was climbing up the stairs to the attic after James. James was complaining about not being able to use magic outside of school for another six months while Sirius bragged he only had until November. Then they were searching the attic, shoving aside old trunks and relics, and James was wishing for a new broomstick and then Sirius had moved a rug and then everything was gone.
The breath returned.
Sirius knew that Dumbledore was a Legilimens. He closed his eyes before Dumbledore could see more, shaking his head free from his grasp before he saw the house in his mind again.
"Please, don't," said Sirius. He felt pathetic, chained to the chair, helpless and pleading.
"Well?" demanded Fudge. "Is it him?"
"I am afraid so," said Dumbledore. "It seems that he has stumbled into a bit of magic powerful enough to project him forward through time. Of course, the laws of time would hardly permit such a thing to happen without great effect, and since our Sirius Black is still in his cell in Azkaban, I assume that his appearance in our time has created a rift and separated his world from ours. If my assumption is correct, this should not affect our timeline in any way."
"But—this is Sirius Black," said Fudge. "A known criminal and mass murderer. Now we've got two? Albus, we can't let him simply walk free."
Sirius wished he could cover his ears. He didn't want to hear anything more.
"Much as we'd like," said Moody, "the only thing the boy's done wrong is use magic to unlock a door. We can't imprison someone who hasn't broken the law."
"Broken the law? He killed thirteen people! He's You-Know-Who's most faithful servant! You can't tell me you'd see him go free after all that?"
"Alastor is right, Minister," said Dumbledore. "While we can lament the actions of our Sirius Black eleven years ago, we cannot project our feelings onto this Sirius Black who has not yet turned seventeen. As far as we are concerned, Sirius is completely innocent."
"We know You-Know-Who recruited followers as young as sixteen, Albus!" said Fudge, pointing at Sirius. "How do we know he hasn't joined up? Considering his family, it's not out of the question. His own brother was suspected to be a Death Eater at his age."
If the chains tightened further, Sirius feared his hands would pop off. He clenched his eyes shut. Please stop talking, please stop, a voice was begging. This was too much. No one was supposed to know so much about the future.
"The Minister's got a point," said Moody. "But we don't have proof. Hell, even the Death Eaters who confessed didn't know Black was one of them until he was thrown in Azkaban. More likely than not, I'd wager Black didn't join up until after Hogwarts."
Fudge threw his hands up. "Well, we'll have to find a way to send him back. We can't have a notorious criminal running around, frightening people. Maybe the Unspeakables will know what to do with him."
"Perhaps it is best if we give Mr. Black time to settle in to this new world before we decide his fate," said Dumbledore. "As he is not yet of age, we will need to find a suitable guardian."
"Please don't send me back to my parents," Sirius begged. He couldn't bear it—losing the Potters and finding himself cloistered in a house full of family who loathed him.
"That will be impossible, for unfortunately, your parents have both passed."
"Suitable guardian? You mean someone who won't curse him as soon as they see him?" said Moody with a scoff. "That'll be interesting."
"I will bring him back to Hogwarts until one is found," Dumbledore said.
"Albus, you can't be serious!" blustered Fudge. "Imagine what sort of havoc he could wreak there! How many students we would endanger?"
"Considering that it is July, and it is only myself and handful of teachers who reside at Hogwarts over the summer, I should say none. Once a path has been chosen for Mr. Black, we can revisit the question of guardianship. How does that sound, Cornelius?"
"I-I-I don't like it, Albus. Truly dreadful to suggest Black has any sort of right to return to Hogwarts."
"He is only sixteen, Cornelius. And terrified."
"We'll send a couple of Aurors to check in," said Moody. "Keep an eye on him."
Fudge looked doubtfully from Dumbledore to Moody, his fingers twitching over his bowler hat. He avoided looking at Sirius.
"Oh, all right. But one toe out of line and to Azkaban he goes."
Hogwarts had always been a home to Sirius, ever since he'd first seen the castle shining amidst the stars as he and his classmates were borne across the lake in dozens of small boats. It was an escape from his wretched mother and overbearing father; a chance to be something other than the Black family heir.
Dumbledore's office was just as it had been last spring. Sirius might not have known he'd been thrust forward sixteen years in time if he had appeared here instead of the attic of the Potters' manor. Mutely, he slumped in the chair before Dumbledore's grand desk and hid his face in his hands.
The lacerations on his neck and arms stung, and his wrists and ankles ached from being chained for so long. Moody eventually barked at Fudge to release him, and it was Dumbledore who caught Sirius before he pitched forward. The weakness did not improve with the Floo which brought them from the Ministry of Magic to Dumbledore's office at Hogwarts.
The image Auror Moody had forced him to see now swam in his vision, and he nearly retched. What had he done? How did he manage to murder thirteen people? What had brought him to such a vile act? They thought him a Death Eater—but Sirius could never imagine himself joining something he'd always fought so vehemently against.
When Dumbledore returned with Madam Pomfrey, Sirius realized he hadn't noticed Dumbledore leaving in the first place. Madam Pomfrey tutted as she applied a salve to the cuts on his arms and neck and wrists.
"You should have healed him before you interrogated him," she told Dumbledore.
"I agree, but certain precautions were necessary."
"Chaining a sixteen year old boy to an interrogation chair! A necessary precaution, you say? If three full grown wizards, including the Minister of Magic and the Headmaster of Hogwarts, can't contain an underage wizard, Albus, I certainly fear for us all!"
The sigh that left the headmaster as he lowered into the throne-like chair behind his desk made it sound as if he quite agreed. Sirius hissed and jerked as Madam Pomfrey's fingers slid over a large cut under his hair. She snapped at him to sit still.
"It hurts," he muttered.
"What was it this time? You and those friends of yours were always getting into trouble. Never stopped to think of your own safety."
"A mirror broke on top of me," he told her. "And then I my foot went through the stair and I fell down the rest of the way."
"Well, I believe it. You'll need to rest until the sprain in your ankle eases. I will give you a potion for that, but I do not want to see you flying any broomsticks or running down stairs, do you understand? I would prefer if you spent the evening in the Hospital Wing…" She paused and glanced at Dumbledore. "However, I understand that may not be possible."
"Thank you, Poppy. If you would excuse us, I would like to have a word with Mr. Black."
"Of course, Headmaster. Please send for me when you are finished." She retreated from the office, her footsteps disappearing into the corridor beyond.
"Professor…" Sirius started. He couldn't stop thinking about it, the abandoned house, Moody's harsh voice declaring his newfound family, dead. He stared at his palms, still dirty with dust. "Where is James? What happened to him? To them? Did I—was it me?"
"If I thought a way existed to send you back to the exact time you came from, Mr. Black, I would spare you the details of the future. However, as I told the Minister and Auror Moody, I believe that your journey here has created a rift, creating a new world. It is a very peculiar occurrence for a person from the past to travel to the future, possible only if a parallel plane has been generated, allowing you to exist here without creating a paradox. That said, you have traveled to a time where the person who lives here with your name has been convicted of terrible crimes. You are not that person, however. You are a young man of sixteen who has just lost what is most important to him."
The future might not have been so bleak if at least James had been here. Dead, he's dead! He's gone! He sniffed and dug his fingernails into his palms. He wouldn't allow himself to cry, not in front of Dumbledore.
"Has this happened before?"
"Oh, I'm certain of it," said Dumbledore. "Although I have never met another, I must assume there have been others who stumbled through time. Together we can see what we can find in our library, if you would like."
"Do you think they go mad? People who go too far into the future and learn about what happened in their lives?"
The shadow in Dumbledore's eyes made him look older, wearier.
"I will not pretend, Mr. Black, you will not like where the story goes for your counterpart in this world. The details are troublesome, but undoubtedly, you will learn of it eventually."
"Just tell me," Sirius burst. "What happened to James?"
But when Dumbledore told him, he wished he had never heard it. They had left Hogwarts, Sirius and his friends, and became involved with the Order of the Phoenix. Sirius had heard rumors of such an organization, and felt a puff of pride to be included, yet his elation turned to shame. After James and Lily Evans married and had their son, it was soon clear that Lord Voldemort was targeting them. Eventually, Dumbledore explained, they went into hiding. They chose to use the Fidelius Charm which would shield their location, but the individual they trusted to keep them safe betrayed them to Voldemort.
"I wouldn't—I would never—" Sirius choked.
"We may never understand why it happened or how these choices were made. You will make different decisions, Sirius. This will not be your future."
The story did not end there, unfortunately. In the end, it was Peter who hunted him down. Little Peter Pettigrew, loyal to the last, who was caught in the blast and blown apart in the middle of the street. It wasn't enough to simply kill his friend, however. Twelve muggles were slaughtered too, victims of this terrible Sirius from the future.
He was only a few years older than you, a voice hissed. He is you. You're just like him, like Bellatrix. You're a murderer.
Whatever shred of dignity he clung to slipped from his grasp and he buried his head in his hands. James was dead because of him. He had killed James on purpose, sold him to Voldemort. Why had he done it? His best friend—his brother— What could he have gained from destroying the only thing he cared about?
He cried for what felt like hours until he felt the strong hand of the headmaster on his shoulder. With a final sob, he looked up at Dumbledore.
"Where is Remus? What happened to him?"
"Remus is alive, and doing as well as he can."
"I have to see him," said Sirius. "He's the only person who—" But Remus wouldn't understand, not if he could only see Sirius as the person who murdered their best friends.
"You must understand, the world will not see you kindly. We will consider all options, of course, but I have a proposal that I hope you will think on."
The proposal was disguise. If there were no way to send him back to where he had come, he would be forced to live his life in the future. Sharing his name with a notorious mass murderer, however, would make his life quite difficult. Dumbledore was offering anonymity. A chance to complete his studies under an assumed name, become someone else.
Sirius did not agree immediately.
"Think on it," Dumbledore said.
There were rooms at Hogwarts for guests, ones that only the headmaster could reveal and only the guest could access. The suite was far nicer than the dormitories. Although the ceiling was low and the floor and walls were lined with flagstones, lavish rugs and heavy drapery over the windows made the room cozy…and warm. Too warm, Sirius had thought the first night. He'd wrenched back the covers on the bed and thrust the window open for a breath of northern wind.
A small bathroom featured a large tub in which he'd soaked for nearly an hour as he tried to understand what had happened to him.
Two of his best friends were dead and the last probably loathed him. What would Remus be like now? Was he alone? Was he married? Did he transform alone? A spike of guilt made him want to drown himself, knowing that it was probably impossible that Remus had found other Animagi willing to spend the full moon with a werewolf. You did that, he thought. It's your fault he's alone now. You ruined his life.
The first few days in the future were quite boring, Sirius concluded after the week was over. In a short time, a new routine emerged: he got out of bed, he ate breakfast alone, he wandered the castle, he ate lunch, he wandered the grounds, he ate dinner with Dumbledore in the headmaster's office, and then they both retired to their rooms. It was no use sneaking about the castle at night—there was no one to catch him and no one to care what he did—so he mostly spent his evenings doing the crossword from the Daily Prophet, writing letters to Remus that all ended up crumpled in the bin, and practicing his Animagus transformation.
There was no one other than Dumbledore, Fawkes, or Madam Pomfrey to talk to in the castle. Although there was another teacher said to stay at Hogwarts over the summer, Sirius had never seen her. Professor Trelawney, as she was called, preferred to keep to herself.
He tested all of the school brooms, none of which seemed to be replaced since his time at school. Sometimes he would look over at Hagrid's hut and see movement in the pumpkin patch, but Dumbledore warned him to give Hagrid time before he approached. Hagrid, it seemed, had been there after James had been killed and would not find Sirius's company amicable.
Hogwarts could make one forget that a decade and a half had passed. Too many times did Sirius accidently make his way to Gryffindor Tower only to remember that he didn't sleep there anymore and he would never cross through the portrait hole James lounging on the sofa again. He'd never bump into Lily Evans and wonder why James was so infatuated. He would never again hear Peter complain about the length of a Charms essay. He would never see James or Peter transform into their Animagus forms while they kept Remus company during his transformations.
They were supposed to meet up for the full moon that summer, Sirius remembered miserably. Remus was supposed to reveal where he was to transform, and he, James and Peter would find a way there. He and James had been looking forward to it following the birthday party for Mr. Potter.
For four years, Sirius had kept his eye on the lunar chart, but he'd forgotten since his arrival. One evening as he lounged on the Astronomy Tower, gazing at the stars and wishing his friends were with him, he was startled to see the moon rising over the tops of the trees. It was nearly full, he realized.
Tomorrow, he thought.
It was a stupid idea, but Sirius couldn't take it anymore. A week of being cooped up in the castle with too much freedom, too much time on his hands was driving him mad. Before he could consider whether or not it was a good idea, he decided to do it anyway.
Just after dinner with the headmaster on the following day, Sirius excused himself for bed. Sirius ensured he was alone before he tapped the statue of the one-eyed witch who guarded the secret passageway to Honeyduke's in Hogsmeade and stumbled on his way. It was so dark, he could almost imagine James before him, hissing as he tripped over something or telling them all to hurry. Like he'd done so many times, he tested the trapdoor at the end and peered into the cellar of the sweet shop.
With practiced ease, he clambered from the trap door and slinked from the cellar. To his relief, there were already a few customers clustered in the store which gave him enough cover to sneak from the shop.
There was a fireplace connected to the Floo at the Three Broomsticks. If he could just avoid Madam Rosmerta who was sure to recognize him, he could do it. He was slinking around an alleyway when it occurred to him—why sneak around without a disguise? Transforming into Padfoot, the great black dog, was still such a strange concept to him. Soon enough, he was trotting through Hogsmeade, black fur gleaming in the summer sun as he made his way to the Three Broomsticks.
The door nudged open when he pressed his nose to the gap, and he stole inside, creeping around and under tables. Though not the bustling pub he knew from Hogsmeade weekends, there were plenty of legs to hide behind as he journeyed deeper into the pub. A few pats on the head was all the attention he received. Careful that he wasn't noticed, he transformed in the loo back into his human self before making for the fireplace.
Seated at the table closest to it were two witches, both of them with squinty eyes and wrinkled faces, their hats sliding over their foreheads. Neither of them saw him take a handful of Floo Powder and toss it into the fire. Loudly, he said, "Remus Lupin's place!" and before anyone could take notice, he'd been sucked into the fireplace.
Before long, he stumbled out onto a rug, into the middle of a quaint sitting room. Although the sofa was nearly threadbare and there were several books sprawled over the table, the rest of the room was neatly arranged. A chair faced the sofa conversationally, as if the owner anticipated long chats before the fire. An ottoman held a wooden tray, awaiting someone to set their tea on it. There were dozens of books on a low shelving unit, most of them used or well-read. Photographs on the mantle assured Sirius he had the right place.
He reached for a silver frame, tilting his head as he observed the photo inside. There were three people in it—James, Lily Evans, and a small baby. James and Lily were beaming, but the infant with the mop of black hair only slept in their arms, too young to stay awake for a picture. His hand trembled as he made to replace it on the shelf, but his hand shook too much and it fell, shattering on the tiles. He cursed and stooped to pick up the shards.
"Hello?" a startled voice called from the kitchen.
A bit of glass sliced through the flesh of his thumb. He hastily shoved the frame back on the mantle and hid the bleeding hand behind his back.
"Is someone—?" The words froze on Remus's lips as he emerged in the sitting room. Blood drained from his face as he beheld Sirius, sixteen and sheepish before him. Although Remus was motionless, the loathing that radiated from him was palpable. In an instant, his wand was out.
Sirius knew it had been a mistake. He should not have come here. He should have listened to Dumbledore.
"You," said Remus, voice low. "What are you doing here?"
Sirius held his hands up. The blood from his thumb dribbled down his wrist under his shirtsleeve; he could feel it run all the way to his elbow.
"Didn't Dumbledore tell you about me?"
"He did," said Remus. "He invited me to reach out to you when I thought it appropriate."
"But you were never going to, were you?"
Remus, twice as old as Sirius remembered him, looked just as livid as he had the morning after that ill-conceived joke on Snape. He was ready to curse him, to strike him. The grip on his wand tightened with white knuckles.
"No," said Remus. "I wasn't. What you did—what you did to James and Lily—to Peter— Sirius, how could you think I would want to see you again? After all that happened? How could you show up here, unannounced just as—" he swallowed, glancing at the sun which was very low. "Just before sunset? Tonight of all nights, Sirius?"
"That's why I came," said Sirius. "I thought I would keep you company. I know it's probably been awhile since you've had someone around with you while you transformed."
Remus took a menacing step forward. "Because of you. I am alone because of what you did. You mad, stupid child. Did you come here to mock me, Sirius? Did you think maybe you hadn't put me through enough pain?"
Sirius wanted to shout at him that he hadn't done anything. It wasn't him. It wasn't him. Not yet, at least. Remus was his friend, one of his best friends. Why couldn't Remus see him for who he was now?
The blood's sticky flow from his thumb meandered down the lines of his palm. Where the glass had cut, his flesh stung.
"I'm sorry, Moony. I just wanted to help you tonight."
It was true. He didn't know what he thought it would be like to see Remus in this time, sixteen years disconnected from the friendship they once shared. But he remembered how it had helped, how Remus would awake with fewer injuries the following morning, how it took his less time to return to his usual self once he had company in the Shrieking Shack.
Remus lowered his wand slowly, drawing in a cleansing breath. The shock had worn off; it took with it the rage that had been welling inside.
"Is that why? Really?"
Sirius nodded uncertainly. "I should have asked first, but I was afraid you would say no."
Remus scowled. "So you did it anyway. You need to leave, Sirius. You can't be here while I'm…when the sun goes down."
"Why not? I know the risks, but I'm willing to chance it. You're my friend, Moony. I promised you I would always be there if I could."
"Don't call me that," Remus ground out. "Leave, Sirius."
"No," said Sirius. "If I leave, I'll just come back while you're transformed and join you then. I'm here, whether you like it or not."
"Is this a game to you?"
"Where are you transforming? The sun is about to set—"
"I know, Sirius. Leave."
"I'm not—"
The wand was in his face suddenly, and the anger Remus had tried to suppress was bubbling again. Sirius gripped the wrist of Remus's wand hand, the blood from his thumb spilling onto a white sleeve.
"You don't want me to go," said Sirius. "You don't like transforming alone, but you feel guilty about it because you think I killed our friends. I didn't, Remus, and I won't. The person who did it is in Azkaban. I'm your friend, and I will never do what he did."
"You can't know that," Remus said.
"I do, though. I will not make his choices. I'm different. Come on, we've got to get you where you need to be. I don't think we have five minutes."
To Remus's ire, he must have known Sirius was right. He wrenched his arm from Sirius's grip and led them out the cottage door where he showed the iron doors of an underground cellar. The doors flew open with a flick of a wand, and Sirius followed him into the earthy chamber. Remus was rigid as a lamp flickered on, lighting a space that may have been magically enlarged, but still far too small for a werewolf to run around.
"What is this place?" said Sirius, suppressing a shiver at the dampness.
"Last chance, Sirius. I am going to secure the door. I cannot promise the wolf won't tear you to shreds."
Sirius swallowed, forcing himself not to look at the double doors overhead. He nodded at Remus to seal it.
There were only a few minutes until the sun would set completely, allowing the full moon its reign in the sky. Remus took Sirius by the arm and inspected the slice on his thumb before cleaning it with a painful Scourgify! The blood vanished from his skin and sleeve.
"The wolf would go mad if it smelled human blood," Remus explained as if to say he hadn't done it out of kindness.
"Thanks, anyway."
"Transform now."
"But it's still minutes away—"
"Have you forgotten the rules so quickly, Sirius? You do what I say when it comes to the full moon. If I tell you to transform, you transform. Do it."
Sirius cast one last look at Remus who seemed so weary, so tired. He transformed into the dog. He couldn't help nudging the black head against Remus's leg. A hand, as if on its own accord, stroked Padfoot's head.
With a sigh, Remus sat on the damp floor of the cellar, stroking the soft fur of Padfoot's mane. The moon's power was drawing near.
"I don't hate you, Sirius," he said quietly. "You've not done anything wrong, not yet, but you must understand how it is for me. I've lost everything because of you."
Whatever more he intended to say would have to wait until morning. Padfoot moved away as Remus hastened to remove his clothes before the wolf began to take over. Several times already he had seen it happen, watched as the werewolf grappled with the body of his friend, elongating his face and breaking his limbs. He was witnessing a pain he hoped he would never know himself.
Before he realized it, a blur of grey fur flashed in front of him, and Padfoot was thrust to the ground. Fear bloomed in his chest as the wolf stood over him, snarling and heaving ragged breaths. Padfoot slinked backward until his tail brushed the earthen wall. The wolf was on him in a second.
But the pain of those teeth never came. Wolf and dog rolled, a mass of black and grey fur over the floor, and when Padfoot heaved to his feet, he saw that Moony's tail wagged. Delighted, Padfoot barked and was back into the fray.
They spent the night tumbling and barking, playing and biting. It must have been nearly four in the morning when finally Moony grew too exhausted to keep going and trudged to a corner to plop down on the floor. Padfoot followed, dropping his head on the wolf's stomach, and he slept like that until the sun rose.
A/N: A new story! It's been years since I've written fanfiction, and with the world how it is right now, I'm just enjoying a bit of an escape. The first half of the story is almost entirely written—it just needs some revision, so hopefully updates will be weekly. A small warning, however, that this fic will be rather OC heavy. When I began writing, I didn't think that would be the case, but I soon realized that Harry's total ignorance of older students in the first three books is really a problem, and I had to give Sirius some friends in his new future. Thanks for reading!