A/N: Thank you all again for your readership and reviews! There are comments in response this time (below), and some are quite lengthy again. Please feel free to skip over and to the story if you don't wish to read them or be (potentially) exposed to spoilers.

Leonore: Yes, we will definitely see more of 31 October 1981, including the confrontation between Sirius and Peter, from several PoVs before the end of the book, I promise you… but giving it all away in the first chapter would have been a bit much, I fear. I wanted to keep the focus right now on Sirius and Severus and their reactions and feelings on that night, which are so similar in many ways… especially in their recognition of their own guilt for the tragedy that befell their friends. That sentiment plays heavily into both of their characters' development.

babascoop: Thank you for your review and comments! Remus… I've been excited to work a little more with him through this story (and the last). He intrigues me in a lot of ways. Obviously he's sort of the epitome of 'gentle beast'… but there seems to be so much more. He shares some similarity with Harry in that he cannot always see the good in himself, but he has little of the almost over-decisiveness that Harry often shows. I've always found it odd – and a little disturbing – that he waltzes onto the scene when Harry is 13 in canon, though he was so close to his parents for so many years, and probably would have met Harry as a child. Sirius apparently suspected that Remus was the traitor before Voldemort's fall, which certainly suggests that he was quite involved with the order and likely still in regular contact with the Potters at the time. He's also very guarded and ashamed of his secret, often unsure about his own actions and worth, and later even second-guesses his marriage… all interesting clues to his personality, in my opinion.

So I chose to keep him somewhat guarded right now with Harry – all roses and sunshine, for the moment. The kindest interpretation of this would be that Remus hopes to shelter Harry from the more unpleasant aspects of war, and his own past; a more realistic one might be that he doesn't want to speak about it himself, or remember. He's been running from his demons for over a decade. Of course, if Remus is around him closely for the rest of the summer… we'll see whether that has an effect on Harry – he's quite an observant child, after all. Remus might find it more difficult to keep information from him for long. And Sirius had not escaped (or, at least, the world did not realise it) before Remus left the Dursleys… so for now he is in the box of things that Remus would rather not discuss with Harry. Harry is also still in the innocent chapter of his youth – blissfully unaware of the worst of things… as I think you've mentioned in a previous post, that glass wall is bound to crumble at some point this year. How Harry will react when it does… we'll see.

:) the coming of the Messiah line… yes, in a way, that is dually fitting here.

I love Bill Weasley. He's a bad-ass. And I do think Ron looks up to him, in a way that's very different than his other relationships. He turns to Bill for advice and example, and Bill is always (in what we see of him in canon) very receptive and protective toward Ron. I have an idea where we might go with him, but I won't reveal it just yet…

Arabella… she's interesting too. A well-meaning character, but also completely oblivious in many ways. And was she really the best choice for a substitute minder? She's much more limited than a wizard or witch would be in her ability to counter magical crisis, and her ability to get word quickly to the wizarding world… though nobody was anticipating the Sirius complication, her limitations will certainly have an effect on the coming events.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

DISCLAIMER: Any and all familiar characters and story lines are the property of the wonderful Joanne Rowling, in whose world I am honoured and privileged to have an opportunity to play for a while.

Chapter Three: Magnolia Crescent

He's at Hogwarts.

He's at Hogwarts.

He's at Hogwarts.

The thought permeated his mind constantly – a mental mantra that he could not shake, could not fix, could not alter.

He's at Hogwarts.

It was burning in his brain. In his waking hours, he fingered the newspaper page obsessively, though he knew the words by heart. The page grew worn and smudged beneath his hands.

He's at Hogwarts.

It was in his dreams too, though he hardly remembered what dreams were, these days. He hadn't quite gone mad, he didn't think, but the days usually blended into one another in an unending, hazy cloud. He could not even be sure his concept of day and night was truly on – it had been years since he'd seen the sun… but the Dementors were always more active in the darkness. And the darkness seemed to last longer on this forsaken island.

He's at Hogwarts.

Dreams reclaimed him the night Fudge gave him the paper. Not good dreams… not happy ones. But dreams nonetheless. Dreams of rats and stags; wolves and dogs… dreams of forests and castles; derelict shacks and blow-apart houses… dreams of tearful green eyes and dead bodies.

He's at Hogwarts.

The dreams and the thoughts stirred something in him – made him stronger. They gave him the energy to scheme – awakening long-stifled ambitions. It wasn't hope… not exactly. Hope, like happiness, compassion and excitement, was quickly doused in this place. But ambition he could use; desperation he could mould and twist; they could not take pure facts from him.

He's at Hogwarts.

So he practised. Three days straight. Every time they brought a meal. He knew he was thin enough to slip past… as long as they didn't sense him leaving. And it was so much harder for them to sense his emotions – to gauge his existence – if he wasn't human.

They were not suspicious. He thought perhaps it was a product of their role. They expected him to fade, to lose his sense of self… like so many others had in Azkaban.

But Sirius Black was different. He always had been.

On the fourth night after Fudge's miraculous visit, Sirius took his shot. He'd spent most of the past few days transformed – saving his energy and plotting his chance. There would be only one opportunity to make this work. He could not afford to be careless.

When the evening guard circled round with his supper, he was ready. He stood motionless just inside the door, hugging the wall in his dog's body, scarcely breathing. He waited for the Dementors to open the bars of his cell, gliding soundlessly inside with the meal. And in that stretch of a heartbeat, he slipped past.

He padded as quickly and silently as he could down the stretch of stone corridor – a walk he had not taken in almost twelve years. He prayed he could remember how to get out of the maze of cells. Nobody was glancing through their little rectangles of window at him – they were too focused on the food delivery, or else – perhaps – too far gone to notice anything outside the compressing darkness of their minds.

At last, he reached the long staircase. He bounded up as quick as he dared, and met with the iron bars of the gate to the dungeons. These were no problem – the gaps between them far wide enough for his emaciated form to slip through.

And he did – quickening his pace as he made for the fortress's way out. He picked carefully through the corridors even in his haste for freedom, worried that the prison guards might be more prevalent above the ground. But he was lucky – he only passed two additional sightless horrors along the route.

The great oak and iron doors were sealed when Sirius reached them, unsurprisingly. He tried in vain to turn the handle with a paw, but the charm upon them would not give way. Frantic, he shot a look around him, half-certain that his attempt would rouse some alarm. But there was no answering mass of hovering Dementors.

Sirius pondered his options. He had no wand. The doors of the cells were so deeply enchanted that even wizards proficient in wandless magic could not hope to release the spells. And even if they managed to succeed in the impossible task, the highest security wings – like the one Sirius had been imprisoned in – had round-the-clock guards stationed at every cell. Escape in wizard form would be impossible. Well… nearly so.

But the entryway…

Surely, Ministry officials and other visitors would need to come and go from the fortress? There were aurors too, who paid visits every other week or so. During the war, Sirius knew the auror office had kept a rotating team at the prison round the clock – he himself had taken several tours of duty here. He did not remember the front doors having any sort of special enchantment then.

With a silent prayer and as much determination as he could muster, Sirius poured a massive amount of energy at the doors, willing his dormant magic into service. A decade or so ago, this would have been an easy feat; but his skills were long hampered by lack of use and oppression, and it had always been harder in his animagus form.

Incredibly, Sirius heard the muffled click of a lock giving way. Ignoring the exhaustion from his wandless effort, he hurriedly made for the handle again, pressing experimentally on the iron. The door swung open.

Sirius darted through at once, pushing lightly to avoid a clamour as he resealed the entrance. He didn't bother expending the energy to relock it – the Dementors would never notice it, and by the time any wizard came back to this place, they would know he was missing. Instead, he turned his back on the mass of stone and iron, and bounded as fast as his legs would carry him toward the crash of surf against the rocks below.

He took a reckless leap off the edge of the seawall, relishing the salty whip of the air as he plummeted into the sea below. It was frigid and incredibly rough, but he could not care. The setting sun beamed scarlet off the endless expanse of water – the first sign of daylight he had seen since twenty-two. And as he re-emerged from the plunge, Sirius felt truly alive again for the first time in just as long.

It was as if the water had been baptismal – washing away a lifetime of heartbreak and despair. Sirius did not forget his depression… oh no. But he remembered the good things too – the memories that the Dementors' darkness had stolen from him for more than a decade. For a moment, he simply treaded water in place, lost in the stunning barrage of beautiful thoughts. He remembered James' fierce loyalty, and Remus' kind patience. He remembered Lily's playful smile and her dancing red hair. He remembered the warm touch of a woman in his bed, and the reckless abandon of a night on the town untampered by tragedy and loss. He remembered Dumbledore's twinkling eyes, Minerva's stern lectures even while she fought to hide amusement; Alice's delicious cooking and Frank's easy manners. He remembered Euphemia's sweetness, and Fleamont's compassion. He remembered Harry's tinkling laugh, like soft bells on the air.

Harry.

He's at Hogwarts.

Sirius shook himself from his wonder of recollections. He could not afford to be side-tracked – not now. He must move.

He set off at once, charting a course through the waves in the direction he imagined England to be. It was slow-going, and he grew very tired as the night began to fall in earnest. It had been many years since he'd had true physical exercise – and even in this form his atrophied muscles protested the exertion most heartily. But Sirius soldiered on, trying not to think of the ever expansive sea or the possible dangers that lurked beneath her surface. He paused every hour or so, allowing the currents to float him a while and rest his aching legs. He could not stop. Even if he was lucky enough not to drown in the depths of the water, his absence at the fortress would not go unnoticed for long. At some point, the Dementors would come.

The night dragged on, unyielding and unchanging. All around him was darkness and black, even the smattering of stars obscured by clouds that threatened to storm. Sirius began to worry that he would never find the shore – or that he'd leapt from the wrong side of the fortress, and would end up somewhere in Germany, Denmark, or even Norway. He'd thought he'd set off northwest in his flight… but he did not trust his own thoughts enough to be sure.

At last, at long last, he saw a light. Shore.

He wasn't sure what it was – it was impossible to tell from so far out. Perhaps a lighthouse: the light seemed to circle before his eyes, like a shifting beacon calling out to sailors. Sirius – exhausted and spent from his overnight swim – focused in upon it with gritted determination, allowing its beam to guide him in.

It was much farther than he'd thought. By the time he drew close, the eerie, cold light that preceded dawn had begun to aid the beam of the lantern. Sirius could see, now, that it was a lighthouse, set atop a cliff at the edge of a rocky beach. He redoubled his efforts, willing himself toward the shore with the last of his energy, promising his body that it could rest once it touched the sand.

He pulled himself wearily onto the shore at last, his fur heavy with the sea water and his legs unsteady. The long stretch of beach was deserted, but Sirius felt very vulnerable out in the open like this. If the Dementors were alerted to his absence, he would do better under more cover than the sand would afford.

So instead of dropping where he left the sea, Sirius trudged between the cliffs toward the lighthouse. Wizards had no need of such Muggle aids, so it was unlikely the property was owned by anyone who might know him. Even if it were, he was safe as Padfoot.

The lighthouse was very old, and even the cold dawning light and the fresh red and white paint job could not hide a lingering aura of neglect and derelict. There was a keeper's cottage set adjacent, but Sirius was fairly certain that the occupants would be unable to detect his presence. The steady light of the porch lamp also confirmed his suspicion that the house was Muggle-owned. There was no hint of magic in the place.

His bones aching with exhaustion, Sirius nosed his way into a little whitewashed shed alongside the lighthouse. He thought perhaps this had once been a paraffin house, by the lingering scent still present in the small space. Now, it seemed the lighthouse keepers stored a few garden tools and cleaning supplies in the outbuilding. There were several tarps folded neatly in a corner, and Sirius collapsed onto them, curling up in his makeshift bed.

He would stay here a few hours, regain some strength, and set out for Scotland on the morrow.

Closing his heavy eyes, he drifted off to the sound of the waves.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In his dreams, he heard a child's laugh.

Harry?

He responded automatically to the sound, straining his ears… willing the voice closer.

'What'd I tell you?' came the child's voice. 'It's a man – kipping on the tarps.'

Sirius frowned in his slumber. Harry's voice was not yet that deep– not that old. He couldn't speak in such sentences. And he was…

'Go on back and wait with Granny, Alfred,' a much older man's voice replied. It certainly wasn't James.

Sirius' thoughts reforming, he opened his eyes slowly, even while a rough hand began to shake his shoulder. His eyes popped open to see a rough, weather-worn and heavily bearded face peering down at him. The man was in his mid-sixties, give or take, with the tough hands of one who saw regular physical labour and kindly, concerned brown eyes.

'Good morning,' said the man, seeing Sirius was awake.

'Where am I?' Sirius rasped, coming to a bit more as the man helped him to sit up. The sound of his own voice startled him to alertness at once – he hadn't realised he'd shifted back in his sleep. He was instantly on alert… if the Ministry was looking for him already, he could not afford to be in the open as a wizard. He made to stand at once, but smacked his head hard against the low roof of the paraffin house.

'Easy there,' the man said in sympathy, reaching out a hand to steady Sirius again as he swayed on his feet, fighting the stars that had popped up in his vision. 'This is Happisburgh, in Norfolk,' the man added helpfully.

Sirius was surprised. Much farther south than he'd anticipated ending up. The currents must have carried him more than he'd thought. He'd been hoping for somewhere closer to Scarborough, or even Grimsby. He knew Azkaban was at Silverpit crater… it should have been a straight enough shot.

'You English?' the man asked, shaking Sirius from his contemplation again and holding out a fresh bottle of water.

'Yes,' Sirius rasped out. He accepted the water from the man gratefully, twisting off the cap and taking a long pull. The salt of the ocean had left his throat parched and his head aching, and the drink felt like heaven on his tongue. 'From London, originally,' he added.

The man looked surprised.

'Not many seafaring folk come up from London these days,' he observed. 'Not round these parts, anyway.'

'No, I expect not,' said Sirius, distracted. He needed to be gone from here, and quickly.

'Listen – I appreciate the help. Sorry to kip in your shed like that – must have been out of my senses last night.'

'It's not a bother,' said the man with a kind smile. 'It's not the first time, though I admit it's been a fair few years. Every once in a while, we get some of the local teenagers gone and had a bit of summer fun on the beach and stumbled up in a haze and not able to make it home. Had a few sailors too, a time or two. I figure you've got to be in the latter group – that poncho you've got on. Plus, you look a tad old for university. You get stranded out there?'

He nodded toward Sirius' attire when Sirius' expression remained confused. He realised that the man was referring to his tattered robes, which had mercifully made the transformation back with his body.

'Er – yes, sort of,' Sirius allowed. 'It wasn't yet dawn and I had to swim in – I apologise,' he added again.

The man nodded sympathetically. 'She on the sand, or did you lose her?' he asked, looking sad. Sirius merely stared blankly back. 'Your boat?' the man prompted, starting to look suspicious.

'Er – it was taken by the sea,' Sirius said, hoping this explanation made sense. The man shook his head with feeling, and Sirius relaxed a bit.

'A shame,' the man offered, squeezing his shoulder. 'These parts are quite rocky. Sea's claimed hundreds over the years. And the water was rough last night. You didn't pick the best evening for travel,' he noted.

'Yes,' Sirius agreed. 'It was unfortunate.'

The man nodded again, now offering a hand to help him off the tarp once more.

'Can I call someone for you?' the man offered, once Sirius was standing (though stooped this time). 'Or maybe take you down to the village?'

'Er – no, thank you, that's alright.' Sirius said quickly. 'I don't mind the walk.'

The man looked uncertain, but recognised the determination in Sirius' expression.

'Alright,' he agreed, reaching out a hand to help him to the door. 'But at least let me give you a bit to eat before you head off – you look half-starved already.'

'Er –' Sirius was worried. This place was fairly remote, but he could not stand to stay too long in his human form. Still, the prospect of actual food was too tempting to ignore. 'Alright then,' he agreed. The man smiled, and showed him toward the little keeper's cottage.

A plump, short woman greeted them at the door, a red apron tied around her waist and smiling happily at his companion – her husband, Sirius assumed. She was holding a young sandy-haired boy by the wrist. The child stared at Sirius as he followed the man into the house, apparently fascinated.

'Why were you sleeping in the shack, mister?' the boy asked eagerly, as the old man showed Sirius into a seat at a round kitchen table.

'Mind your manners, Alfred!' the little woman scolded, placing a steaming cup of tea before Sirius. 'I do apologise,' she added to him, pushing a sugar bowl and a jug of milk within reach. 'He's only six – he hasn't learned to control his curiosity just yet.'

Sirius smiled. 'It's not a problem,' he assured her, reaching eagerly for the tea. 'It is I who is intruding on his home, after all, and I do thank you for your generosity,' he added.

The woman waived off his gratitude easily, pouring tea for herself and her husband as well.

'I don't believe I've introduced myself,' the man said, taking his own seat at the opposite end of the table. 'I'm Eddie – Eddie Philips. This is my wife, Joanna, and our grandson, Alfred.'

Sirius nodded, while the little boy gave a shy wave as his name was announced. 'I'm, er,' Sirius hesitated. It would not do to introduce himself properly. 'James,' he said instead. 'James Mooney.'

'A pleasure to meet you, James,' Joanna replied, smiling at him.

Sirius stayed an hour or so in the keeper's cottage, relishing in the food and company. It had been so many years since he'd lived like this – eaten at a proper table, talked in normal conversation with people who did not think him a murderous criminal. Joanna heaped piles of eggs and sausages onto his plate, and Alfred asked endless questions about his 'adventures' on the sea – most of which Sirius had to concoct the answers to.

When he finally stood to go, Eddie tried again to implore him to accept a lift to the village. Sirius begged off the offer, but did ask one final question as he made to take his leave.

'What's the date, do you know?' he asked.

Eddie looked surprised. 'The fourth,' he answered.

'Of July?' Sirius clarified, furrowing his brow. Eddie looked unnerved.

'Yes…' he said hesitantly. He gave Sirius a critical once-over. 'Listen, James, are you quite sure you're feeling well? Sometimes it's difficult to know whether you're injured after an accident like that… especially if you've hit your head. I can phone into the village for a doctor if you need –'

'Oh no, I'm quite alright,' Sirius insisted, trying for a smile. 'I do thank you for your kindness. If you would just point me toward the village, I'll be on my way.'

Eddie looked reluctant, but he obliged, indicating the direction with a gnarled finger. Sirius gave a small bow, and set off along the path.

The day was sunny but still cool with the breeze off the sea, even though it was quickly coming on midday. Sirius felt quite exposed again as he made his way through the countryside. He would have to remember that exhaustion might pull him from his animagus form on this journey… it would not do to rest again where he might be discovered by passing men – even Muggles. He wouldn't put it past the Ministry to have people hunting him already. He waited until he'd rounded a bend and the little cottage was out of sight, then ducked quickly off the path into the underbrush to transform.

As Padfoot, he felt much more at ease. He could also travel more quickly, setting off toward the village at a comfortable trot. He needed a plan. Eddie had said it was the fourth – 4 July. That meant he had almost two months to go until the start of the Hogwarts term. The article had said that the family was away for the holiday – gone to Egypt to visit their son. He could not get there; the risk of international travel would be immense, and even were he willing to take the risk, he'd have to cross the channel, the continent, and the Mediterranean Sea to enter the country… then he'd have to discover where the family had gone. By the time he'd managed that, it was more than likely they'd be gone again. No… his best chance was to head for the school, and wait out the weeks in the forest.

But perhaps he'd make a detour first – spin out some of the time.

Norfolk was not so far from Surrey… not really, maybe half a day's journey on foot. Faster, if he was able to slip onto a coach or lorry for part of the trip. And he knew Petunia Dursley's address – had learned it years ago. Harry should be there for the summer. He could go there first, just to see him, before starting the long journey north to the castle.

Reaching the main road, Sirius set off for the south. If he was quick, he might get to the house tonight.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Severus was at his leisure that evening, sitting alone in his study and perusing a copy of the latest issue of The Practical Potioneer, when his fireplace suddenly flared green and deposited a harried-looking Albus Dumbledore.

'What is it, headmaster?' asked Severus immediately, putting the journal aside as he caught sight of Dumbledore's fearful expression.

'Severus,' the headmaster said anxiously. 'Harry is missing – he ran away from his aunt and uncle's house not half an hour or so ago.'

Severus relaxed again. From the headmaster's countenance, he'd thought someone had died. He gave Albus a sardonic raised eyebrow.

'Hardly surprising, Albus,' he said dismissively. 'And even I cannot blame him. You send him to those vicious people, with the wolf,' he spat the word, 'for companionship. It is only a miracle he managed to last this long. I would have expected –'

'Severus,' the headmaster interrupted in a ringing tone. The Potions master cut himself off, eying Dumbledore warily. 'This is not the time to reopen the debate as to the sagacity of that decision. I have just been informed that Harry performed accidental magic at the Dursley residence – apparently an engorgement charm. He was gone when the Ministry arrived to sort out the damage. But Cornelius has just been to see me… it seems that Sirius Black has escaped Azkaban prison, sometime between last night and this evening.'

Severus jumped immediately to his feet, feeling as though he'd just received a heavy blow to his stomach. No, it could not be.

'What!?' he cried, staring incredulously at Albus. 'That is impossible,' he spat. 'The fortress is impenetrable. Nobody has ever escaped its walls before – and much more accomplished wizards than Black have been imprisoned there.'

'I know,' Albus admitted heavily. 'But it has happened. Cornelius went himself to Azkaban tonight to see to the situation. He is still upstairs, with Minerva.'

Snape shook his head again, still groping for the sense in this ridiculous pronouncement. 'But – headmaster, Sirius Black has been a prisoner for nearly twelve years. If he was plotting an escape, why weaken himself so thoroughly and for so long before making the attempt?

'I do not know, Severus,' Albus said wearily. 'But the Dementors claim he has been muttering in his sleep for several nights – saying "He's at Hogwarts."'

Severus paused in his agitated pacing, shooting a calculating glare at the headmaster. 'You believe he intends to come for the boy?' he asked.

'Yes,' Albus agreed gravely. 'If he left the fortress last night, he might already be in Surrey.'

'What of the wolf?' Severus spat. 'Can't he make himself useful? How did he let the boy slip out from under his watch anyway?'

'It is the full moon, Severus,' Albus reminded him. 'Remus is indisposed tonight, and will be for many hours to come. Arabella Figg was substituting for him at the Dursleys this evening.'

Severus gave a mirthless laugh. 'The squib?' he clarified, incredulous. 'You set a squib to watch over a magical child who always manages to get himself into inconceivable trouble? That's daring – even for you, Albus.'

'Arabella is trustworthy and loyal, Severus,' Albus disagreed with a frown. 'She would do anything for Harry.'

'She also left him in that mess for more than ten years without raising the alarm, Albus,' Severus reminded him viciously. 'I question her judgment, at the very least.'

Albus frowned, but did not comment further. Instead, he brushed an impatient hand through the air. 'We have little time to waste,' he said, redirecting the conversation. 'If Harry has left the protection of his mother's blood…'

'Does he have his broom with him?' Severus asked.

'No, only clothing for the week and his owl.'

'Then he cannot be far,' Severus mused. 'Go, Albus. I shall join you in canvassing the area in a moment.'

'Thank you, Severus,' Albus breathed. And he swept from the dungeons immediately.

Severus waited a moment, gathering his churning thoughts. Black… Severus hated him – had always hated him, from their very first encounter on the Hogwarts Express. Black had gone out of his way to make his life miserable for seven years – he, and Potter, and the wolf, and that smarmy little would-be hero, Peter Pettigrew. Black had been handsome and clever and reasonably talented… but he was nowhere near the same league as Severus. The Potions master very much doubted that he would have the skill or the brains to plot an escape from the impenetrable Azkaban. And yet… he had.

But how? With Dark Arts? Severus doubted it. There were very few aspects of the darkest magic that Severus himself did not know, and even fewer that he could see aiding a wizard – especially one with no particular skill in wandless magic – to escape the most heavily guarded island in the magical world. It seemed highly unlikely… no matter how well the traitor had concealed his allegiance to the Dark Lord. An allegiance that still stunned Severus – and one he could never forgive. It was Sirius Black who had caused him years of grief and isolation at school. Sirius Black who had nearly killed him as a teenager. Sirius Black who had murdered three of his own best friends, and an entire Muggle street to boot. And Sirius Black… who had stolen Lily Evans from the world just as completely as Severus himself had done with his foolishness. It was Sirius Black who had revealed her location – Sirius Black who had signed her death warrant.

He would kill him, if he got the chance.

And now… Black was after the boy.

And the boy was lost – exposed in the Muggle world. Without the protection that Lily had provided, he would be easy prey for Black. Dumbledore would find him eventually, of that Severus had no doubt. But Black… if he was using the dark arts, there were more efficient ways. Magics that Dumbledore would not dare to use; that no light wizard would consider.

It was lucky, for Potter, that Severus Snape considered himself firmly in the grey.

Severus swept from the study, heading for his personal lab. He perused the long shelves of glittering jars, searching for the one he'd kept for twelve years… the one with the long, dark red hairs. He located it at last, hidden away in the back of the third row. Gingerly, he unsealed the lid and extracted one long hair with the tip of his wand, careful not to disturb the remainder. He guided it gently across the room and set it on the long table. Then he summoned a small, pure gold cauldron from the far corner of hanging tools, prodding the flames beneath it to heat the metal. He waited until the gold was just short of boiling, then ran a long silver knife across his palm, spraying the interior of the cauldron with scarlet blood. It sizzled off the burning metal, an acrid smell of burnt flesh permeating the air. The odour turned Severus' stomach, but he clamped down on his revulsion. Instead, he sealed the cut and summoned dragon scale and essence of yew sap from his stores, stirring in the ingredients as methodically and precisely as he always did. When the mixture turned a deep black, he fingered the precious strand of hair, savouring its smoothness for just a moment before dropping it gently into the open cauldron. The potion glowed brightly as the hair touched the surface, then faded into an opalescent blue.

'Ostende mihi, quid me quaeritis,' Severus chanted, his face only centimetres above the shimmering surface. He closed his eyes, and inhaled the fumes.

A hazy image came into his mind – a darkened street, and a young, pale-faced boy, seated upon a low garden wall. Potter was not moving, but staring around him with a defeated, hopeless sort of expression. Severus planted the image firmly in his memory, solidifying as many of the details as he could behind his lids. Then he opened his eyes, leaning back from the intoxicating fumes of the cauldron. There was a hint of sweet, flowery scent in the dungeon air now – Lily's scent. Severus forced himself to banish the contents of the brew, a pang renting his chest as the potion vanished into nonbeing. But it would not do for Albus, or anyone else, to know what he had invoked this night.

Severus sent the golden cauldron to the basin with a careless flick of his wand, already striding for the door. He slipped silently out into the grounds, and made quickly for the gates and the limits of the anti-apparition wards.

He had no regrets, as he spun on the spot into nothingness, focused firmly on the image of Potter he'd seen in his mind.

It was worth it. For her.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Harry lugged his holdall and Hedwig's cage down the Dursleys' path, fuming. He could hear Mrs Figg still arguing with his uncle just inside the door, but he tuned it out, allowing his anger and frustration to carry his feet from the house as quickly as he could.

He took the first turn he came upon, and then another – hoping that the winding course would keep him from discovery if the Dursleys or Mrs Figg came looking for him. He'd been gone at least half an hour when he finally stopped, sinking onto a garden wall halfway down Magnolia Crescent. He could still feel the sparks of temper flaring inside him, compounding with the searing burn in his left arm from hauling the baggage all this way. His wand he'd kept clutched tightly in his right hand – even though he could not use it. If he did, he'd be in trouble with the Ministry again.

The Ministry…

Harry felt a surge of panic strong enough to douse the flames of anger that had consumed him. How could he have forgotten? Magic like he'd just done to Aunt Marge… the Ministry would know. They probably knew already – it had taken far less time than this for the warning to come last summer. And this time, Harry might not get a warning. That had been serious magic – way more serious than a hover charm cast on a pudding. And they would think it was the second time he'd flouted the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery in as many years.

They would expel him.

Harry's panic began to mount. If he was expelled, then he would not be able to go back to the castle… Where would he go? What would he do? He was stranded in the middle of the Muggle world, completely alone in the darkness. If he did magic again, the Ministry wizards would be able to find him at once; he was surprised they hadn't already. He glanced nervously up and down the street, half certain that figures in official robes would appear swooping out of the night. But the street was quite deserted, apart from himself.

What would happen to him, if they came? Would he end up like Hagrid – wand snapped in two, forced to watch from the periphery as his friends became qualified wizards and he was left behind? Would he be arrested for the magic he'd done? Harry felt numb with fear as he contemplated that… was this offence bad enough to send him to Azkaban?

He could not go. He would not go. He hadn't done it on purpose… well, not really. He'd just lost control. Surely Dumbledore would understand that – would stick up for him with the Ministry.

Dumbledore.

Harry felt a sudden rush of chagrin… and a bit of anger, again. Dumbledore would not be happy that Harry had run off recklessly into the night. But Dumbledore had also sent him back in the first place – Dumbledore was the reason Harry had been there to lose control at all. If he could just contact the headmaster though…

His eyes flew to Hedwig's empty cage. If only he had the owl, he could write to Hogwarts. Surely, the headmaster would not leave him in this mess. He might already know: if Mrs Figg or the Ministry had been able to contact him by now. Which meant he might be coming for Harry at this moment… which meant that Harry had been utterly thick in running off, where nobody would be able to find him.

Harry sighed as he thought it through. He could not go back to his aunt and uncle's house: he wouldn't risk running into the Ministry, or a furious Uncle Vernon. But perhaps he ought to go lie low at Mrs Figg's… she was sure to know a way to contact Hogwarts, at the very least. And Dumbledore would be able to help him now.

He could not stay on this garden wall forever.

Harry hopped to his feet again, stooping to retrieve the holdall and the cage. But before he had grasped the handle, he paused, straightening slowly up again with his wand vibrating in his grasp. A strange sensation was running down his spine, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. He couldn't tell exactly how he knew… but he was certain he was no longer alone in the street.

Someone – or something – was watching him.

He darted his eyes around, trying to squint through the darkness. There were no lights glinting in the blackened windows of the houses. The occupants of Magnolia Crescent were clearly asleep, or perhaps holidaymaking. For a moment, Harry thought perhaps he was being paranoid. But then his roaming eyes caught sight of something – lurking in the gap between the darkened garage of the house behind him and the neighbouring chain-link fence. Harry narrowed his eyes at the black mass, trying to discern what it was.

'Lumos,' he said quietly. The tip of his wand ignited, sending a beam of light through the alleyway. The wandlight illuminated the black, huddled form, and Harry caught a glimpse of wide, gleaming grey eyes.

He jumped back, startled.

His heel caught on a corner of the pavement, and he fell – hard – over the kerb and into the street. His wand flew from his hand as he flung out his arms, trying to save his face from impact with the ground. Harry had a brief moment of panic as he watched it skitter across the pavement, coming very close to slipping through a drain hole set into the gutter.

Then, several things happened in quick succession.

Harry slammed forcefully into the street, feeling the skin of his hands and knees of his jeans rip painfully. The next second, he was forced to roll backward into the gutter as, with an ear-splitting BANG and a dazzling burst of light, a purple bus popped out of nowhere, its wheels coming to rest exactly where Harry's head had been lying on the street. Then, even over the shock of the bus's appearance and the burning sting in his hands, he registered a familiar voice calling

'Potter!'

Before Harry could shake himself from his frozen state of shock, Professor Snape had reached him. How he had found him or where he had come from, Harry had no idea. But Snape took hold of Harry under the arms and hoisted him roughly to his feet again, just as a teenage conductor with prominent ears and a very pimply face jumped out of the open doors of the bus.

'Welcome to the Knight –' the conductor began in a practised voice, but Snape cut him off at once.

'Yes, thank you, Mr Shunpike, but we have no need of your services tonight,' he said firmly.

The conductor stopped his introduction, but looked in confusion between Snape and Harry. 'Er – but you flagged us down, dincha? You stuck out your wand 'and and all, dincha?'

Snape looked distinctly annoyed now. 'A mistake,' he said smoothly. 'You may leave us.'

But the young man's eyes were on Harry now, his mouth slightly open. Harry saw, with a feeling of trepidation, that Shunpike's gaze was focused on the scar upon his forehead.

'Woss that – there on your 'ead?' he asked, pointing a freckled finger at the scar. Harry flattened his fringe nervously, but he knew it was too late.

'Oi, Ern!' the conductor shouted over his shoulder. 'Ern, come 'ere! It's 'Arry –'

The man broke off again, as Snape held the tip of his wand furiously against Shunpike's protruding Adam's apple. He turned back to face the murderous professor, now looking terrified.

'Professor!' Harry cried in shock, stepping forward. But Snape shot out his other hand to stop him.

'Quiet!' he barked at Harry over his shoulder, never removing his gaze from the conductor's face. 'If you shout his name,' he said in a low voice to the terrified teenager, 'I swear, you will not live to see the morning.'

'I – alrigh' sir,' the boy said, beads of sweat appearing at his temples. 'I won' say nofink, I won'.'

Snape nodded, and slowly removed the wand. 'Leave us,' he said to the conductor.

Shunpike nodded, already hopping backward into the bus. The doors slid shut behind him, and the purple bus shot off again, careening around the corner at the end of the street and away into the night.

Snape turned to Harry, who felt nearly as terrified as Shunpike had looked. He was sure that he was about to be murdered for his reckless behaviour tonight – always Snape's least favourite quality in Harry. But Snape surprised him. His eyes raked over Harry's dishevelled appearance, taking in the bleeding hands and the ripped jeans.

'Where is your wand?' he asked. His voice sounded strained and tense, but not particularly angry. Harry bent down and retrieved the holly and phoenix feather wand from its precarious place on the edge of the drain. Snape nodded in satisfaction.

'Keep it out,' he told Harry, his own eyes darting around the empty street. 'How did you come to fall over?'

Harry whipped his head around – remembering suddenly. The alleyway seemed to be deserted now, no sign remaining of the massive black beast. When he turned back, he saw a streak of silver light darting away from Snape's wand into the night.

'Er – I thought I saw something, sir, in the gap over there,' Harry explained, gesturing to the alley with his wand-free hand. 'It startled me.'

To his shock, Snape grabbed him immediately by the shoulder, spinning him close to his side while he trained a beam of light from his own wand into the gap Harry had indicated. It appeared to be empty.

'What did you see?' Snape asked through gritted teeth. Harry shrugged.

'I'm not exactly sure,' he admitted. 'It looked like a dog, maybe, but massive.'

Snape's eyes narrowed as he continued to scan the alley and the surrounding gardens. No beast emerged from the shadows, but neither did the professor release his grip on Harry's shoulder.

At last, Snape turned from his examination of their surroundings and looked down at Harry again. His face was inscrutable, and Harry felt his nerves begin to rise once more.

'You have had a rough night, Potter,' Snape observed, raising an eyebrow.

'Er, yes sir,' Harry agreed, surprised again that he wasn't being screamed at. 'I've had worse though,' he admitted.

Snape snorted. Whether in doubt or agreement, Harry wasn't sure.

'What was that spell, sir?' Harry asked, thinking back on the odd light. 'The one you did with the silver?'

Snape looked sideways at Harry. 'A message,' he said curtly. 'For Professor Dumbledore. He is looking for you as well.'

Harry felt a thrill of mixed elation and anxiety. 'Is he coming here?' he asked eagerly.

'No,' Snape replied. 'We will meet him at Hogwarts.'

'So – so I'm not expelled then, sir?' Harry asked worriedly. Snape eyed him for a moment with an odd expression on his face.

'No,' he said simply. 'You are not. Now, if you'll take my arm, Potter, I believe you are aware of how side-along apparition works?'

Harry nodded and reached up to grasp Snape's proffered forearm, but at that moment they were interrupted.

A snarling black beast leapt suddenly out of the bushes, baring massive teeth and growling murderously at the pair of them. Harry thought the creature was something between wolf and bear – with long dark fur and hackles raised along its back. Coming to rest on the grass mere feet from them, it circled the professor and Harry slowly, eyeing them like a lion stalking a cornered doe. Harry recognised the unusual grey eyes – this was what had been watching him from the alleyway.

Snape swore loudly, throwing Harry behind him with one hand and aiming his wand at the beast with the other.

'Do not move,' he said in a low, tense voice to Harry.

Harry did not need telling twice – he was frozen to Snape's back in fear. Snape shot a stunning spell at the animal, but it dodged, taking a leaping lunge right at Snape's shoulder. The Potions master swore again and pulled himself and Harry aside with more agility than Harry would have expected, and the creature missed its mark, coming to land in the street. It spun to face them again, still snarling, its eyes locked with Snape's.

'Take my arm, right now, Potter,' Snape said, not taking his gaze from the beast's. Harry grasped it immediately, steeling himself for the sensation.

The last thing he heard, as Snape spun them away into nothingness, was the snarl of the charging beast and Snape's furious howl of rage and pain.