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Storms in the highlands of Scotland interrupted the thought. The tours would never run this late, which gave him opening enough. Over Sangomore they went, stopping short in a field to the south of highway A838. Across an open parking lot lit by a couple of its building's side lights, its little green dumpster kept company by a massive ship propeller, a white anchor leaning alone by the handicap parking spots. He'd leaned like that before when his mates were planning pranks.

Through the weeds and tall grasses, then they went along A838 for a bit until they hopped the guard rail, and made their way down to the entrance of Smoo Cave. Stepping down stones was harder for the beast, along the moss, the great craggy walls. He taking the footbridge, the beast splashing happily in the remnants of some high tide that had washed in from the North Sea. The North Sea... he never wanted to touch her frigid waters again.

He turned inward, in out of the cold, towards the cave's relative warmth, its damp cool. His thirst felt unquenchable and so he took care of himself and drank some water there in the mouth of the cave. He popped his lips as he eyed the mouth of the cave. His brother Regulus came to mind. He didn't know why.

And he didn't know why he missed him either.

He pulled out a light and they both worked along the abandoned platforms and walkways, working deeper and deeper inside, first past the bit settled by tourists, then past the bit affected by the spelunkers who ran the cave, and finally into the deeper underbelly where the other animals slept. Fleamont and Euphemia had taken he and James there one summer while wild camping around Scotland. They'd seen this old stag up on the hill, its antlers of the sort that refused to shed for one reason or another, Spanish moss and regular moss hanging from them: relics reborn from some netherworld to which they'd been condemned. The Spanish moss in particular had struck him, the way birds would light upon those antlers and make those dangles move. The four of them at the end of the semester had decided to choose animals, following after Remus (always the trendsetter). Really to protect him. And to have a good reason to do something illegal. On the trip, Sirius had found that great black dog in the alley a few towns back. But when James set eyes on that stag there in the hills of Sangomore, he gasped and locked eyes with it. Fleamont had said something along the lines of, "Bless my soul" and Euphemia had said, "Mercy me."

James had said nothing.

He had said, "Yeah, mate, pick that stag. It'll be big enough to keep him... company."

"Keep who company, Sirius?" Euphemia had asked the boys.

James had lied about carving an animal version of chess.

"I'd actually like to have one of those for Christmas, mate," Sirius had said.

"I bet you would," James had said.

"You and your gambles," Sirius had said. Why had he said it like that? Why had he said it at all?

The hill was cold now above the cave and deep in its belly, the man named after the grey dog's star waited with the beast. Food would come tomorrow. Man had they eaten well at the wedding - Lily's mum and dad could cook. Nevermind food. For now, they slept.