A snore rang out through the hustle and bustle of house-elves preparing breakfast in the kitchens. While one tiny elf rushed to save some burnt scrambled eggs, Pip's head rocked onto a crumpled piece of parchment. The action smeared blotted ink across the sleeping witch's temple, a second tattoo to match the one emblazoned upon her shoulder.

The lines of the letter itself had been slashed through, written and rewritten a hundred times while its author figured out how exactly she could pay penance. She'd opted for a small, simple message.

Sirius, I'm sorry. Let me take some time to sort myself out so when we meet again I'm not ranting and raving. Pip.

PS: I am a crackpot, I admit it.

Status as crackpot aside, last night Pip'd promised herself that she - Ophelia Elizabeth Bones - was going to become a fully fledged adult. She wasn't completely sure what that entailed, but she knew screaming at innocent men wasn't part of the repertoire. She also knew the vast majority of her lifestyle wasn't part of the repertoire.

Waking up in the school kitchens probably wasn't either, but the journey to self-improvement had to start somewhere. Pip jerked awake to the jarring racket of pots and pans being clanged together. Through a few disoriented blinks, she espied tufts of nostril hair from the nose Kreacher was frowning down.

'The Bones brat is snoring too loud,' he complained by way of rise-and-shine.

Morning light was lapping at the other house-elves, marking the dawn of another frost-bitten day. With a yawn, Pip thanked Kreacher and stole from the kitchens. She only realised halfway on the voyage through the castle that – while his methods were questionable – he'd actually performed a small act of kindness by ensuring she didn't sleep through the day.

Pip celebrated this minor breakthrough as she scrubbed up. It didn't matter that she discovered a pimple the size of Mount Vesuvius on her right buttox or that she was momentarily ensnared by a trick staircase on the second floor. She was determined to be optimistic.

Because optimism seemed a good place to start. So did countering her emotional illiteracy. Pip strolled to the library, whistling, and perused the 'so you're having a quarter-life crisis' section tucked away in the nethermost shelves. She scooped up a few promising volumes, dumped them in her lodgings, and headed outside in high spirits.

The lake had begun crusting over like chilled steel. The owlery poked up like a ragged stone tooth on the western boundary of the school grounds. Hagrid was defrosting pumpkins at the edge of the Forbidden Forest and Pip waved at him as she passed.

She proceeded to flounder up the owlery's ice-glazed spiral stairs with the elegance of a newborn giraffe. Groping the railing for dear life, she heaved herself into the dome-shaped outpost where its inhabitants hooted themselves awake to swoop between perches. The air inside was damp and draughty.

Gravitating towards a ledge in the centre – the only space not covered in straw and regurgitated mouse skeletons – Pip smoothed out the parchment she'd spent the last hour repeatedly scrunching and unscrunching.

It read stilted and awkward in the harsh light of day, but confessing her innermost thoughts in wax poetic was not something Pip was prepared to do - especially in correspondence that Filch was liable to rifle through. Merlin knew what Dumbledore was smoking the day he'd anointed that git as Hogwarts' security guard.

In the present, Pip sighed. She ripped off the slashed-through sections, folded the remnants and beckoned for a jewel-eyed eagle owl that'd been watching since she'd arrived. Pip stroked its feathered head and half-heartedly said, 'Nip him for me, would you?' before the owl disappeared as a spec in the bruised, rolling clouds.

The wrinkled drafts of Pip's letter remained clutched in weary hands. A blotched name lurched out from the lacerated lines again and again. I know you and Mary – I'm sure Mary is – Tonks told me that Mary...

Who was this woman? What was she like? Did she like music? Did she laugh easily? Where had she been the last fifteen years while Sirius was rotting away in Azkaban? Did she know what he'd suffered?

Pip had to know, had to hunt down some answers before she could give the blessing neither of them probably wanted. And although it was counterintuitive to her entire rebranding as a responsible, mature adult, Pip was determined to find out. One last bout of mischief, for old time's sake.

According to folklore, the sloppy wet bird dropping that splattered against Pip's shoulder as she slipped down the owlery stairs promised good luck. This version was preferable to interpreting it as the bad omen it probably was.

The bike's purr rumbled into a peaceful silence as its tires kissed the ground. Sirius disembarked in one fluid movement and cracked his knuckles. His jaw was clenched; the ecstasy of riding was already wearing off now that the stares had landed.

Wizards and witches heads swivelled his way, their eyes alight with a combination of curiosity and fear. They'd braved the dangerous, war-torn streets but all bets were off now that ex-fugitive Sirius Black had dared to show his face in Diagon Alley.

I don't bloody bite, Sirius mentally grumbled. Oh, only occasionally...

The gawking wasn't something he'd grow accustom to in a million years, but it was becoming easier to ignore as the months stretched on. It was an irritating white noise he'd trained himself to block out.

Spurning the stares burrowing into his skin, Sirius crossed the lane and scanned the sky overheard. Snow was threatening to break through if another storm didn't beat it to the punch. Hoping he'd remembered to shut the bloody garage door, he pushed into the cafe.

'I heard that beast of yours the second you touched down. Always the paragon of discretion, aren't you?'

Sirius smirked at the cafe's lone occupant. The witch was flicking mugs into a frothy sink. 'I'd say the three years I spent as a wanted criminal are proof enough of that, wouldn't you, Mary?'

Mary's lips pressed into a thin line as she reached for a half-eaten raspberry pastry. She made a short noise, neither in agreement nor contest. Whenever Sirius broached the decades his former school-mate had thought him a homicidal lunatic, an uncomfortable moment passed.

Mary's amnesia was quickly brushed off though; it was easier to pretend Sirius had simply gone a long holiday. He and Buckbeak had gone to Bermuda that one time, but ducking around international aurors and nosy tourists wasn't the same as lazing on a beach.

'How's business?' Sirius asked, eyes skimming across the deserted shop.

'Booming,' Mary answered flatly.

The greater part of Diagon Alley was boarded up; Mary's cafe was hanging on by a thread. Tarts and quiche weren't going to pay the bills much longer but Mary refused help – no matter how many galleons Sirius accidentally forgot on the counter. She was worse than bloody Remus...

'Book's on the shelf,' Mary said abruptly, breaking Sirius from his thoughts. He followed the jerk of her head to a leaning bookcase where a fat, square chronicle was dug to the forefront. 'My mum always said the way to the heart is through the stomach,' Mary added. 'But that only works if the stomach is attached to someone who's willing to speak to you. Any luck?'

Sirius laughed grimly. 'Less speaking, more shouting. We had a row last night – and I have no bloody clue what it was about. Tried following her to Hogwarts to get some answers but Dawlish turfed me out – whoever let that prat become an auror...' He shook his head before his features sparked with dogged fortitude. 'But I'm not ready to wave the white flag.'

Mary, finished with the dirty dishes, appraised him. 'You always did like the barmy ones, Sirius.'

Sirius chuckled. That was one way of putting it. But wasn't that half of Pip's charm? It was anyone's guess what she'd do from second to second – the only thing you could know with any certainty was that you wouldn't understand it and it'd probably be entertaining. It kept life interesting.

'This one's a special type of mad,' Sirius shrugged as he pocketed the shelf-side book. After a quick goodbye, he swept out onto the street. The stares latched onto him within moments.

But for whatever reason, this round of ogling was...strange. Disbelief, unease, resentment – all emotions Sirius expected from his newfound audience. But this sensation was mysteriously penetrating. If he was usually examined under a magnifying glass, someone had now shoved him under a subatomic microscope.

Sirius clutched the bike's throttle and searched the lane for danger. A middle-aged wizard looking wistfully at toupees in a dusty shop window, a mother tugging her young son along by the elbow with a worried expression. Typical scenes from the wreckage of the Alley.

No wands levelled at his back, no Death Eaters bursting from the shadows.

Sirius kicked the engine to life. He was being paranoid. But could you blame in?

Sirius and his bike were going...going...gone.

Pip breathed a long sigh of relief and immediately regretted it. The festering stench of the rubbish heap she was hunkered behind wafted over like it'd been waiting for a chance to attack. Seizing a fistful of black robes to safeguard her nose from the fetid smell, she eyeballed a rotten banana peel and brushed herself off.

Of course she'd chosen the exact moment Sirius had come visiting to investigate Mary. Investigate being the operative word here. Stalking had such negative undertones.

With a stealthy sweep of the scene, Pip slunk into the cafe Tonks had once offhandedly identified as Mary's. Dressed in all black with sunglasses that disguised the lions' share of her features, she hoped she didn't look as conspicuous as she felt. At least she'd forgone the fake moustache.

Inside, the cafe smelt of coffee beans (what else?) and buttered toast. There were tables dotted around the rectangle shop, along with pyramids of mugs, cornucopias of pastries and muffins stacked in a shining cabinet. Pip could imagine the buzz of lazy conversation that'd once inundated the space but now the war had emptied it.

Which - under the current circumstances - was rather helpful. Some awkward questions might arise if Pip was witnessed sniffing about for clues that could shed light on the comings and goings of Mary McDonald. Accusations like 'invasion of privacy' could've gone amiss.

But in the solitude, she was free to scour nook after cranny like an overzealous auror, or perhaps more fittingly, a criminal casing the place.

While she rummaged about, a niggling voice in the depths of Pip's brain began whispering that, surely, this wasn't something a rational person would do. Instead of heeding this advice, she told the uncooperative voice to shut its cakehole and crouched before a tangle of potted flowers. She was thumbing a bright indigo petal when another voice – quite outside her head – sounded a metre away.

'Moondew.'

Pip swivelled around, heart in her throat as she clambered upright. Upright, and face-to-face with the mission's target.

Mary had sharp hazel eyes that were mismatched with her dimples. Without saying more than a word, she gave the impression of an astute woman whose head was firmly screwed on. It might've been the dryly amused expression she sported, an eyebrow cocked at the witch poking through the shrubbery.

'Er – what?' was Pip's pea-brained response. A troll could've afforded more eloquence.

'Moondew,' Mary nodded at the plant, balancing a burlap sack on her hip. 'I use it for the toffee.' She unloaded the sack onto the counter and smiled. 'What can I grab you?'

A vial of poison? A quick oblivation? A background check? A three page essay explaining why she deserved Sirius? Another vial of poison?

Pip said, 'A cappuccino, please,' instead, speaking in a low, gruff voice that sounded like she was battling a nasty cough. It was a pitiful ruse.

Only the sound of coffee beans being pulverised into grounds filled the silence while Mary worked. 'I haven't seen you around here,' she commented after a while. 'You're not one of my regulars. What was your name again?'

Oh bugger, she's sharp.

Pip had miraculously gone from auror to suspect. She was supposed to be asking the questions here, not Mary! She blurted out the first name that sprung to mind – 'Sarah' – which was quickly becoming her alias. Again, the voice in Pip's head pleaded with its owner to flee while there was still time. It sounded a lot more persuasive now.

Mary smiled, oblivious to Pip's strife. 'I have a niece called Sarah.' She tried peering through Pip's tinted sunglasses. 'You look about her age, actually. Might've been at Hogwarts with-'

'Oh, I am a foreigner!' Pip fibbed loudly as part of some horrible knee-jerk reaction. An accent wove its way into her gravelly voice. She was channelling Fleur, but it sounded more like a bastardised Italian. 'I don't know anything about Hogwarts!'

Mary looked up sharply, as though she'd heard was cause for alarm. Pip, meanwhile, broke into a sweat. 'You're travelling? You know we're in the middle of a war, right?'

Excuses and alibis tripped over themselves in Pip's brain. She stammered out something about visiting a long-lost uncle while she accepted the foamy cup of coffee. Not trusting herself to elaborate on the lie, she took a hasty gulp and coughed as the liquid charbroiled her throat.

If Pip was waiting for the opportune moment to commence a cross-examination, this was it. All she could do, however, was side-eye the door. Where was a magic carpet with a getaway driver when you needed one?

You came here for a reason, Pip reprimanded herself. Grow a spine and crack on with it!

'So, er, these British men...' she began the sentence without considering where it was going. 'A...cumbersome bunch...'

And the award for idiot of the year goes to – surprise, surprise – Pip Bones!

Mary answered with a quizzical smile. 'You could say that. I try to avoid them where I can.'

'Is that so,' Pip muttered in a tone more scathing than intended. 'Er – so your recommendation would be to steer clear?'

'That would be my recommendation,' Mary confirmed with another bemused smile. 'I'm afraid my record's not spotless, however. The charming ones have a way of making me forget my own advice.'

Pip's eyes narrowed infinitesimally. At the same time she decided to throw caution to the wind, the accent slipped from her words. 'Do the charming ones have a name?'

Mary's expression shifted distrustfully - no doubt wondering why this complete stranger was requesting intimate details about her personal life. It was a faux pas under normal circumstances, but in the midst of a war it was downright suspicious.

Pip might've have flown a little too close to the sun. The coffee forgotten, she sounded the retreat. 'Er, I digress. Must be off!'

Wondering how things could possibly become any worse, she wheeled around into an answer: a broad shouldered man wrapped in a navy cloak. Pip prayed she was hallucinating and that Trecus hadn't really arrived to bear witness to this disaster.

His moustache (and mouth) popped open in surprise. He had the first syllable of Pip's name halfway out before she practically shouted at him. 'Ah, Uncle!''

But alas, the meaningful look she cast him was blinded by the sunglasses. Trecus answered apprehensively, in a tone one might use with the severely concussed. 'No, Trecus.'

Pip caterwauled out a shrill laugh and slapped him on the shoulder (with more force than was probably necessary). 'Yes, Uncle Trecus! My favourite Uncle! It's me, your niece, Sarah!'

He clearly thought she'd gone batty. 'Right,' Trecus said slowly, still perplexed about his role in this mortifying pantomime. 'What are you doing here, kid? Shouldn't you be at Hog-'

Short of gagging him, Pip could only drown him out with her bizarre, gruff, comically accented words. She was hyperaware of Mary watching them in the background. 'Did you remember your medication today, Uncle? Your memory gets muddled when you forget!'

She moped her sweating brow with a sleeve while Trecus crossed his arms and frowned. He asked what was wrong with Pip's voice. Pip struggled to stay straight-faced. 'Laryngitis.'

It was far past time to extricate herself from this nightmare – ahead of Trecus owling St. Mungo's. Loudly promising to 'catch him back at the house' and thanking Mary for the coffee, Pip burst out onto the street.

She was met by the year's first snowfall. Opaline flurries fluttered from the clouds, whirling in the air and collecting on the ground. Pip dashed through them towards the filthy alleyway. She barely noticed the rancid stench. She was too busy turning over this new deluge of information and trying to marshal it into coherent thought.

Mary was gorgeous, sharp-witted, and kind enough to worry about the wellbeing of mad foreigners. She also brewed some bloody good coffee. She wasn't the bitter hag or the Machiavellian temptress Pip'd privately wished she was. She was put-together, reasonable and seemed good in a crisis. In a nutshell, she was everything Pip wasn't.

And that's exactly what Sirius had chosen – everything Pip wasn't.

First chapter with the new title!

Thank you all for the feedback, as always I love reading your reviews!

I've done some minor editing lately, and I've made one big change. Remember that rose necklace Sirius gave Pip? Let's pretend it's been a star necklace this whole time and that I didn't go back and change that (I hate it when authors do that so mea culpa!). I think, for obvious reasons, a star is so much more suited for this story.