The thing is—Sirius has faced Voldemort down before. He still remembers those few short years after he graduated from Hogwarts and before Halloween 1981, the time where he'd been a full-time Order member and able to actively fight for the cause. He was good at what he did, too—his old wand had been a dueler's wand and he used it just how it was intended to. How many Death Eaters had he cheerfully subdued and, sometimes, killed? How many high-stakes situations had he been in? How many times had he caught a glimpse of Voldemort before one of them managed to escape?

So, yeah—coming face-to-turban with this weak, non-threatening version of the Dark Lord is enough to spark his reflexes. It's only all the children standing around him that stop him from drawing his wand and attacking Quirrell. (Voldemort. Quirrell-Voldemort.)

Deciding to put it off for later, he turns back to the conversations happening around him, doing his best to participate and not seem like he's a hair's breadth away from assaulting a teacher. This does not go well, not because his acting skills are lacking but rather because, the moment he shifts his gaze away from Quirrell-Voldemort, he manages to lock eyes with Severus fucking Snape. The man is staring at him with cool indifference, a rather stark contrast to the violent rage Sirius usually gets from him, and Sirius scowls reflexively. Snape is looking at him like he's a puzzle that needs to be solved and he doesn't like it, not one bit. Snape's brows furrow at Sirius's scowl and Sirius, suddenly getting a flash of inspiration, pulls his lips up into a smirk and then—because he can—sticks his tongue out at him.

Snape recoils backward in disgust so violently that Quirrell-Voldemort, who had been conversing with him the entire time, lets out an eep! of terror. Satisfied, Sirius returns his attention to Professor McGonagall, who has finished speaking and stepped aside, letting the Sorting Hat sing its song.

Before his eyes, the Sorting Hat comes to life and Sirius lets the nostalgia wash over him—this is his eighth time hearing its raspy, dulcet tones and he can't get enough of it:

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,

But don't judge on what you see,

I'll eat myself if you can find

A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,

Your top hats sleek and tall,

For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat

And I can cap them all.

There's nothing hidden in your head

The Sorting Hat can't see,

So try me on and I will tell you

Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,

Where dwell the brave at heart,

Their daring, nerve and chivalry,

Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff

Where they are just and loyal,

Those patient Hufflepuffs are true,

And unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,

If you've a ready mind,

Where those of wit and learning,

Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin,

You'll make your real friends,

Those cunning folk use any means,

To achieve their ends.

So put me on! Don't be afraid!

And don't get in a flap!

You're in safe hands (though I have none)

For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

He claps with the rest of the Great Hall, delighted at the introduction, and does his best to beat away the anxiety over how to approach his own Sorting. There's no way that he can trick the Hat, not when it has complete access to his head—though that does make him wonder if an occlumens could be able to conceal information from it. That's not a very useful quandary, anyway, considering that Sirius is just as awful at Occlumency as he is at Legilimency. He's thought up a dozen ways to coax and beg the Hat to not announce his identity to the Great Hall but he still doesn't have a fool-proof plan and the anxiety makes him jittery.

So jittery, in fact, that he accidentally elbows Ron. Ron lets out a squeak, followed quickly by Peter (or, perhaps, "Scabbers") who had been slumbering, unmoving, in Ron's cloak pocket since he'd climbed onto the train, only his tail sticking out.

Sirius whispers, "I'm sorry!" He briefly considers staging another "accident" to elbow Peter again but eventually decides not to, lest he actually upset Ron. As is, though, Ron simply accepts his apology and carries on, not mentioning it again.

His attention is whisked away by Professor McGonagall, who steps forward once more, unrolling her scroll and clearing her throat before declaring, "Abbott, Hannah!"

And so the game begins.

In his head, as he watches the First Years get called up, he can't help but be proud that he's now watching his eighth Sorting Ceremony. It's rarer than people would expect—out of all seven years at Hogwarts, students generally get struck by catastrophe at least once and end up unable to attend the Ceremony. A perfect record is impressive—especially when compared to the rest of the Marauders who all missed not only one but several Ceremonies. So, as he watches and discreetly starts betting with two of the other First Years—Seamus Finnegan and Anthony Goldstein—about the Hat's choices. A few others speak, as well ("Lisa, you have something in your teeth!" and "Malfoy, I heard you got sick over the summer. You feeling better?" and "My brothers told me we had to wrestle a troll! I'll kill them, I swear!"). Sirius, who has already seen this all, is perfectly content with half paying attention, which is better than the Ravenclaw that is still snoring away at the table.

His betting gang goes down to one when Seamus gets called and sorted into Gryffindor. This is soon followed by Anthony, who gets sent to Ravenclaw. Finally, when Professor McGonagall announces, "Granger, Hermione!" he begins to lean forward in anticipation.

Hermione throws him a slightly panicked look and he shifts his expression into the most reassuring thing he can manage and urges her onward. She takes a breath before walking forward, slipping onto the stool. Now comes the waiting game.

And wait he does, for a solid four minutes of time. Hermione's face reflects a myriad of emotions, but most of them can be chalked up to confusion. Finally, at four minutes and twelve seconds, the Hat calls out, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Sirius, who was slowly becoming anxious, relaxes. "That's good," he says to no one in particular.

Ron hears him and says, "She's lucky she didn't go to Ravenclaw—then again, maybe she would have liked it." He frowns at the mere thought. "God, I hope I end up in Gryffindor…I think I'd die of embarrassment if I ended up anywhere else!"

Sirius snorts and says, "Ronald Weasley—tonight, you and I will be sharing a dorm in Gryffindor Tower, just you wait. Don't worry about it at all." If Ron's not a Gryffindor, then who is?

Ron murmurs, "As long as I'm not a Slytherin…"

Malfoy, who overheard, takes the opportunity to "accidentally" shove Ron to the side as he makes his way to the front of the First Year group. "Oops," he simpers, then snickers to himself as he keeps going.

Sirius says, "If he keeps that up, I'm going to spit in his pumpkin juice."

"Harry!" says one of the girls—Padma?—scandalized. Ron just looks thankful.

The sorting carries on. Sirius bets that Neville Longbottom will get into Gryffindor and everyone else bets against him…and, lo and behold, a mere fifteen seconds after touching Neville's head, he's sorted into Gryffindor. When Malfoy walks up the steps and takes a seat, Sirius doesn't even have enough time to make a bet before the Hat shouts "SLYTHERIN!" Malfoy smirks the whole way over to the Slytherin table as if the Hat's quick judgment is something to be proud of. What a brat.

And then, very quickly, Professor McGonagall announces, "Potter, Harry!"

Dean Thomas and Ron clap him on the back and send him up the stairs. Before he takes his seat, he turns toward the rest of the Great Hall and bows grandly, eliciting giggles from most of the students. Finally, he slips onto the stool and Professor McGonagall lowers the Sorting Hat onto his head.

The Sorting Hat says, "Oh. You again."

Sirius says, "Okay, that was both rude and uncalled for."

The Hat says, "What on Earth are you…actually, never mind. I don't particularly want to know." And then, before Sirius can think of a retort, it declares, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Professor McGonagall goes to lift the Hat but Sirius's hands clamp down on it and he demands, "Apologize!"

"Leave before I make you!"

"No!"

"Mr. Black," says the Hat darkly, "your mindscape is more scrambled than it has any right to be but surely you remember Mr. Potter's stories of his second year? I would like to refresh your memory of something in particular: I am very capable of doing more than just sorting students."

For a moment, Sirius draws a blank. Then he remembers Harry telling him about how Fawkes flew to his aid in the Chamber of Secrets and how the Sorting Hat had dispensed the Sword of Gryffindor. He has a brief, horrifying vision of himself getting stabbed in the head by the ancient relic and immediately wrenches the Hat off of his head, leaping up from the stool. He rounds on the thing and declares, "You're a rotten old piece of cloth!"

The Sorting Hat audibly laughs before saying, "Next, please!"

Professor McGonagall, having had enough of him, shoves him down the steps and in the general direction of the Gryffindor table. Sirius scowls the whole way over, ignoring the laughter in the Hall. When he sits, Seamus demands, "Were you arguing with the Hat about your placement?"

"What?" asks Sirius. "Of course not! The Hat was very rude!" He even sounds petulant to himself.

"The Hat was very polite to me," says Hermione dubiously.

"Maybe it just hates me."

Seamus snickers.

In the end, Hermione informs him that his Sorting took all of twelve seconds—and really, it probably would have been shorter if the damn Hat wasn't so surprised by who he was—so he calls it a win either way. Afterwards, they allow the Sorting Hat to draw their attention once again. They get another Gryffindor (Dean Thomas) and eventually there are only two students left: Ron and another that Sirius hadn't caught the name of.

When Professor McGonagall calls "Weasley, Ronald!" Ron steps up to the stool, looking almost frightened by the raggedy hat. If Sirius could talk to him, he'd tell the boy that there's nothing to be concerned about and that all he needs to do is let the Hat see his true self. He can't assure him, though, so he's left to watch as Ron sits on the stool and the Hat descends onto his head. After that, Sirius waits…

And waits…

And waits…

Eventually, three minutes pass and the Hat looks no closer to declaring anything. That's fine—a good handful of sortings had lasted over three minutes, anyway. Then, though, three minutes turns into four and then five, and Ron shares this honor with only one other student—Lisa Turpin. But Ron manages to blow past Lisa's time of five minutes and fifteen seconds, and then it becomes six minutes…and then seven…

Finally, at seven minutes and seven seconds, when even the teachers are looking visibly concerned, the Hat declares, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Ron jumps off of the stool and rushes over to the Gryffindor table, pale and shaken. He takes a seat next to Sirius, puts his head in his hands, and just…stays there like that, still and silent except for his ragged breaths. The entire Hall stares at him, stunned by how long the Sorting took—it was the longest by far that year…and the longest one Sirius had ever seen.

Sirius puts his shock aside when he catches sight of just how upset Ron seems. Placing a hand on Ron's shoulder, he says, "Hey, do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really," says Ron, voice muffled against his palms.

Sirius hesitates, then looks over and makes eye contact with the others at the table. None of the First Years look like they want to give him any advice and none of the older years seem to care beyond observing Ron like a spectacle. Eventually, it's Percy Weasley—sitting rather close to them—who comes over and begins speaking to Ron in low tones. Sirius reluctantly leaves them to it, turning his attention back to the Sorting Ceremony. There's a boy sitting on the stool now, though Sirius never caught his name, and it only takes a few moments for the Hat to declare, "SLYTHERIN!"

When Dumbledore makes his speech, it's about as insane as ever—though, admittedly, Sirius isn't exactly paying attention—with no acknowledgment of Ron's sorting. The staff are simply carrying on as if it never happened and Sirius decides to follow their lead. He's curious what could have caused such a delay, of course—he'd always thought that Ron was the quintessential Gryffindor considering how willing he was to stand between his best friend and a supposed murderer while he still had a broken leg. Harry certainly had never mentioned Ron being a Hat Stall, and this kind of thing is something that people tend to talk about.

He puts it aside for later. He can ask when they get to the dorms. In the meantime, he decides to consume the Welcome Feast.

It's just as good as he remembers.

Ron is silent for the rest of the night. When they finally arrive in their dorm rooms, after managing to run off Peeves, he places Peter into a little rat cage before climbing into bed and dragging the curtains shut around him. He's so silent that Sirius wonders if Ron had cast a spell to make it that way.

Seamus Finnegan takes the opportunity to speak. "Odd boy, he is."

"Leave him be," stutters out Neville Longbottom, who looks stunned by his own boldness.

Seamus just shrugs. "I'm not going to hold it against him or anything—the Hat is odd, too. Maybe it's gone senile."

"It's very sane," Sirius mutters darkly.

"Yes, well, it also apparently offended your honor, so who knows? Either way, whether the Hat's insane or not, there aren't many reasons why the Hat could have been on his head so long…"

"Maybe they were talking about the weather," says Dean Thomas, though the suggestion is off-handed, as if he'd meant to make a joke but backed out at the last second.

Seamus chuckles dutifully, then says, "Close, but no. Either the Hat couldn't figure out where to put him or he was arguing with the Hat about where it did want to put him. Considering his reaction…"

Sirius looks back at Ron's bed. The curtains are still drawn shut, perfectly still, but Sirius doesn't want to take his chances. This conversation is not something that Ron should have to hear. Loudly, he says, "None of that matters now—we're all Gryffindors, through and through! That's the way it works! Let's just get to bed—term starts tomorrow and we don't want to be late on the first day, do we?" He looks pointedly at the other boys, who finally back down and climb into their own beds.

That night, as Sirius stares at the ceiling, he wonders if he's going to end up being the responsible one in his friend groups now, and then he shudders.

Dear Merlin, he hopes not.

On September 2nd, 1991, Sirius spends a solid ten minutes convincing Ron to get out of bed at all. "You're going to miss class if you stay in bed all day," Sirius argues heatedly. "And I'm not saying that's a bad thing, or anything, but today's the first day, Ron! You're going to really upset the professors! See, what you need to do is go to class and keep up appearances and then, when they least expect it, that is when you ditch!"

Ron groans, turning over. "I don't care about the professors. I'm exhausted."

"Not used to early mornings, then?" asks Dean.

"I'm used to them," Ron defends, "but…Merlin, I'm still tired from yesterday!"

Sirius stares at Ron. The poor boy does look like he's moments away from passing out—perhaps the stress of yesterday is a good enough excuse to ditch. Still, doing his best to channel Remus, Sirius says, "Well, how about you just skip breakfast first? I'm sure we can grab something from the kitchens that we can eat here. It'll give you some energy. If you still feel tired afterward, then we can go to Madam Pomfrey about it."

"Who's Madam Pomfrey?" asks Dean. He's the only other boy there, Neville and Seamus having long since gone down to breakfast.

"The healer," Sirius explains. "If you go to her and explain then the professors can't be mad at you." Most of them, anyway.

Ron considers this, then murmurs, "All right…but can you go get the food for me?"

"Sure," says Sirius, who jumps on the chance to have unsupervised time in the castle hallways. "I'll make sure to grab our schedules from Professor McGonagall, too." This is one thing that Sirius doesn't like—the term starts the literal day after arriving this year! September 1st, 1991 had been a Wednesday so Sirius had to sleep early on what was arguably the best day of his life. This year, September 1st had been on a Sunday so now all the students have an entire week ahead of them. It's awful.

Ron, still curled up on his bed, seems to agree. Sirius leaves him to it, instead scurrying out of Gryffindor Tower and into the hallways. The corridors are just as twisty as he remembers and they'd always confounded him as a teenager, even after he, James, Remus, and Peter created the Marauder's Map. Worse, some things seem to have shifted since his Hogwarts days—turns that no longer connect to the corridors that they used to, windows no longer contain the views that Sirius used to expect. Thanks to Sirius's brief stint running around the castle during the 1993–1994 school year, though, he has a workable grasp of how to get where.

Professor McGonagall, once Sirius flags her down, seems unimpressed. "While it is admirable that you want to get your schedule so far in advance, Mr. Potter, they are traditionally handed out during the first breakfast of the year."

Sirius says, "I know. I normally wouldn't ask, you know, but Ron is feeling a bit under the weather, you see—he ate way too much last night at the Welcome Feast. He decided to just eat in his room so I volunteered to grab our schedules and get some breakfast from the kitchen and stay with him. I don't want him to be all alone."

Professor McGonagall says, "And do you happen to know where the kitchen is?"

That is when Sirius realizes that he's supposed to be a First Year—a muggle-raised First Year—who shouldn't have any idea of the castle layout. He internally winces at his slip up but on the outside, he just grins. "I overheard some older years talking about it," he says cheerfully. "I know the approximate location."

"You could get lost in this castle, Mr. Potter. Sometimes, I still do."

Well, that isn't ominous or anything.

"I'll be fine, Professor!"

Professor McGonagall hums, assessing him. Then, finally, she relents, handing him both Harry and Ron's schedule and giving him very precise instructions on how to get to the kitchens. It strikes him as a tad bit irresponsible in hindsight but Sirius supposes that Professor McGonagall doesn't want to drag Ron out when he's feeling unwell, either.

With that in mind, Sirius creeps toward the kitchen, scrambling down a staircase that really doesn't seem to want him on it. He nearly breaks an ankle from jumping over the last few steps but, as he tickles the pear and the kitchens appear before him, he finds that he doesn't really care.

Sirius isn't hungry—last night had been incredibly filling and he'd never had much of an appetite, anyway—so he simply grabs a banana for himself. For Ron, though, he weaves through the slightly disgruntled house elves and snatches up a hearty English breakfast, intending to hand it to Ron with strict instructions to not eat it in bed. Again, it's not necessarily a bad thing but if the house elves have to clean baked beans off of Ron's sheets he suspects that they'll be able to trace it back to Sirius and he does not want to be on their bad side.

When Sirius steps out of the kitchen, though, he finds that the stairway has vanished. "Uh," says Sirius, stepping back into the kitchen, "anyone know where the stairs went?"

One of the house elves—stout and well-groomed—glares at him from out of the corner of her eye. "The stairs be having other students to attend to."

"But they're stairs," mutters Sirius. Then again, it's not like Sirius is new to the concept of moving stairs—this is Hogwarts, after all—but this particular stairway had always seemed inanimate. Turning back to the house elf, Sirius asks, "Do you know the quickest way back to Gryffindor Tower?"

The house elf glares at him again. "Through the dungeons."

Ugh. Sirius mutters some thanks and moves on.

The Hogwarts dungeons are just as dreary as Sirius remembers. He'd gone on several adventures through them as a child—including an expedition into the Slytherin dormitory in order to map out that corner of the castle for the Marauder's Map—so the mystique has largely worn off. However, there's something so sinister about it now. Perhaps it's the decor—but no, it was still decorated with ominous paintings and lightly-cursed artifacts when he was in school. Maybe the lighting? No, it still has the same amount of torches.

When a figure makes its way out of the shadows, it finally clicks in Sirius's head.

Ah. It's because the dungeon is now home to Severus Snape, who is a professor and thus has the power to actually punish Sirius. Sirius already knows that the man despises Harry and Sirius has never been able to behave himself around the Slytherin, anyway, so the Gryffindor House points are well and truly fucked.

Snape keeps walking toward him—or rather, at some destination behind him. Thankfully, he is also engrossed in a scroll that he is clutching with one hand, his other occupied by a shimmering black potion. Sirius doesn't know what it's supposed to be—knowing what a bastard Snape is, probably a Draught of Living Death or something equally disturbing—but he knows better than to question Snape right now. Maybe they can walk past each other without incident. Sirius can figure out what the potion is later.

But then his grip on Ron's breakfast slips and he stumbles forward urgently to catch it, colliding with Snape. The man curses violently as the potion bottle slips out of his hand and shatters on the floor, sending black liquid everywhere. Ron's breakfast is also on the floor and Sirius watches morosely as the baked beans and fried eggs mingle with Snape's creation.

When he looks up, Snape is staring at him with barely contained fury. "Oh dear, it's the Harry Potter, standing in my very presence. Too high and mighty to look where he's going."

Acidic rage boils in Sirius's gut. Merlin, what a tosser. "If I remember correctly, you're the one who wasn't looking where he was going. What's so important about the scroll that you'd rather look at it than look out for poor, unsuspecting students?"

"Ten points from Gryffindor for disrespect!" Snape snaps. "And, Mr. Potter, you'll be overjoyed to know that you have the honor of being the first detention I assigned this year."

"I've done nothing wrong!"

"Another five points for continued obstinance!"

Sirius wants to punch him in the face. He'd done it before when they were both at Hogwarts and he bets that it will be even more satisfying now. Unfortunately, Harry's body is too small to reach the smug bastard's face. Maybe he can kick him in the shin. Or punch him in the crotch. Anything to wipe that look off his face.

Snape's eyes narrow on him. "Got something to say, Mr. Potter?"

Sirius says, "Yes—fuck off!" Oh. He shouldn't have said that.

…At least he hadn't called him "Snivellus"—that would have resulted in his death. At this point, all he needs to expect is some light maiming. And Snape does look ready to maim him.

The professor reaches out and suddenly his right hand is on top of his head, forcing Sirius to look down at the mess on the floor. "That potion," he hisses darkly, "was personally commissioned by the Headmaster himself. It took me seven days to brew. He needs it today. It is currently contaminated by sausage. Before I can 'fuck off', as you oh-so-eloquently put it, I need to personally scrub this abomination off the floor because if a house elf attempts to do so with the wrong application of force or magic, this corner of the castle may implode."

Sirius looks up with wide eyes. Snape is suddenly grinning at him. "Maybe," he says slowly, "I should make you scrub it up. Thankfully, you're not famous for your looks, so you don't have anything to worry about."

He wouldn't.

…No, it's Snape—he absolutely would.

Before Sirius can manage to think of a response, a new voice interrupts them. "Severus, I understand that you're frustrated but do unhand the child."

It's Albus fucking Dumbledore. Merlin, Sirius is actually glad to see him—if there's one thing he's sure of, Dumbledore always took Harry's side over anyone else's. Maybe he'll ignore the potion he wanted that is currently mushroom seasoning.

Snape, meanwhile, pulls his hand off of Sirius's head, immediately backing away. "Headmaster," he says to Dumbledore, "this boy has not only ruined a potion but has also directly disrespected me."

"I'm sure it's not—"

"He told me to, and I quote, 'fuck off.'"

Dumbledore pauses. He then flashes Sirius a mildly incredulous look before saying to Snape, "I see."

"He's going to have detention for the next month once I'm done with him!"

"Surely that is a bit disproportionate—"

"Headmaster, I cannot provide you that potion for another week." Before, Snape had been snarling and raging, but now his voice is quiet, tense. An overwhelming sense of urgency has drawn the man's body tight with tension.

Sirius is beginning to suspect that Snape is a lot more upset about the potion than Sirius's mouthing off.

Dumbledore just smiles. "It can wait a week, Severus—it's not that urgent."

"Not that urgent? Headmaster, I insist—"

"What's done is done. Start brewing it again. I will need it next week, too."

Snape glares at Dumbledore, then at Sirius. "One month, Potter."

"How about two weeks, instead?" Dumbledore offers.

And then Snape is back to glaring at Dumbledore. Teeth grit, he spits, "Fine. Two weeks polishing the floor of the Great Hall with a toothbrush."

Sirius pales and glances desperately at Dumbledore, hoping that he will step in again. Alas, it seems Dumbledore's goodwill only goes so far and the old man merely smiles at him—or, rather, at his predicament. He seems to find it amusing. Well, fuck him, too. Sirius is going to have a miserable opening to the semester.

He mutters, "Yes, sir." He then immediately turns to go back to the kitchens—he refuses to return to Ron empty-handed, thank you very much—only to be stopped by Dumbledore.

"And where are you going, young man?"

Sirius debates whether or not to explain himself but eventually gives in. He's too upset to think it through properly, anyway. "To get breakfast for Ron," Sirius says. "He's not feeling well and I wanted to get him some breakfast so he didn't have to come down to the Great Hall. My grip slipped, though, and then…" He gestures miserably at the mess on the floor.

Dumbledore nods to himself. "Go back to Mr. Weasley, Harry."

"But I don't—"

"Trust me."

Face flaming, Sirius stalks past them. At least his and Ron's schedules are safe and sound in his robes. Maybe he will take Ron to the hospital wing, after all—if he plays his cards right, Madam Pomfrey may take pity on them and give them food and a free pass from their first class (which, according to their schedules, is History of Magic, so maybe coming late won't be a problem at all).

When he finally picks his way back to Gryffindor Tower, though, Ron is already in the Common Room, stuffing his face full with breakfast. Sirius stares in awe. "Where did you get that?" he demands.

Ron shrugs. "It just appeared."

So that's why Dumbledore wanted him to just come back. Dramatic bastard—why couldn't he just tell him? To think, Sirius had been silently decrying the man the entire way to the Tower. Now he feels guilty.

Deciding to wipe it from his mind, Sirius instead focuses on the second plate lying on the table, untouched. He says to Ron, "You can have that one, too."

"But you haven't had breakfast."

Sirius silently pulls out the banana. "I don't tend to eat heavy breakfasts."

Ron shrugs. "Suit yourself, mate. I do think I'm feeling better, though—I could probably go to class."

"I'm glad," Sirius mutters. He peels the banana, gaze faraway.

Ron stares at him. When Sirius does not rouse from his reverie, Ron asks, "What's on your mind?"

"Snape is up to something," says Sirius.

Ron stares. "Harry," he says slowly, "I know Snape is a git—all of my brothers say so, even Percy, and he's Percy—but isn't it a bit early to be suspecting professors of foul play?"

"He had a suspicious potion and got really mad when I spilled it."

"You spilled his potion?"

"Yeah, and now I have two weeks of detention. I'm scrubbing the Great Hall with a toothbrush."

Ron sets his empty plate down. "Mate, just because Snape was carrying a potion doesn't mean it's necessarily bad, yeah? Maybe it was important some other way."

"Why are you taking his side?" Sirius whines.

"I'm not taking sides," Ron says firmly.

Sirius, who is feeling very cheated because the Ron from before he died would have immediately jumped onto the Snape Hate bandwagon, responds, "You're going to change your mind when you finally meet him on Friday. He's going to be awful to us and the rest of the Gryffindors and then you'll see."

Ron rolls his eyes, as if Sirius just said a very funny joke. Sirius scowls and takes a bite of his banana. It seems Ron needs to have a bit more character development. Sirius, meanwhile, will have to investigate the potion on his own.

When Ron and Sirius enter the History of Magic classroom—which looks exactly the same as when he last saw it—Hermione immediately grabs hold of them and drags them to the side.

"Where were you two?" she hisses. "I had to cover for you. I told Professor Binns that you were deathly ill and in the hospital wing!"

"We had breakfast in the Common Room," Sirius explains. "Also, I think Snape wants to kill me."

Ron says, "He does not want to kill you!"

"I was exaggerating!"

"Quiet! Professor Binns might hear you!" Hermione hisses.

Sirius rolls his eyes. "Professor Binns wouldn't notice if I played Gobstones in the middle of the room."

After much grumbling, the three of them settle into some seats. The lesson is pleasant enough, all things considered—it's a basic introduction and an overview of the First Year syllabus. For all that everyone despises Professor Binns (and a lot of it is deserved), he is still among the most organized professors even in death. However, that only goes so far when his most recent information is from the year 1888. Sirius wonders if he should start hurling modern history books at the other students—maybe they'll at least glance at some of the pages and learn more than they would in a year in Binns's classroom.

All in all, Sirius is doing a very fine job of ignoring Professor Binns and drawing no attention to himself, right up until class ends and Binns says, "Mr. Weasley, Mr. Black, please stay after class."

Sirius, who is definitely the only Black in the room, stares.

What the fuck?

a/n: uhhh sorry folks this chapter has been written for a while and been posted onto ao3 but i completely forgot to post it here apparently but it's here now! also here's the author's note that i published this chapter with on ao3:

"i rewrote this chapter five times and im still not happy with it but hey we got from point a to point b and that's all that matters ig

also, fun fact: i have no idea what the plot to this is supposed to be. im making shit up as i go. like i have a few ideas to implement but most everything else is just...ahhhh

i hope you liked this!"

anyway if you liked this chapter, please FAVORITE, FOLLOW, and REVIEW!