"If my future were black, it was better surely to face it like a man than to attempt to brighten it by mere will-o'-the-wisps of the imagination."

― Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Sign of the Four

Important Things (You've Forgotten) II

Landing on the small, nameless and windshook island off the coast of Ireland, Harry immediately transformed back into a man and let out a stream of very creative curses.

He had done it, he had bust Snape out of Azkaban. Harry knew that he was immensely lucky to have pulled off this rescue, with minimal damage to himself or Snape. He limped forward, into a small stretch of forest, clutching the dark-furred ferret a little gentler now that he had hands and not talons. But he still held on firmly. He had to.

The ferret was going absolutely mental. Professor Snape, Harry had to remind himself to keep from punting the little animal into the tree line, not just any ferret.

The bite on his leg, which Professor Snape the Ferret had administered in a shocking display of agility, had scaled up when Harry transformed from crow to man. He could feel warm blood gushing down his trouser, and he could hardly put much weight on his afflicted leg.

It was fortunate that Harry was a brilliant seeker and a damn good flier. After the ferret bit him, Harry instinctively dropped him over the cold, dark Northern Sea. Harry dove after him, and was able to grasp onto the tiny, flailing body of the dark rodent, snatching him out of the blackness of night.

Harry was sure that once he transformed the ferret back into Snape, the old Professor would calm down, and hopefully, refrain from biting Harry in the future.

Holding the squealing ferret that was currently trying to wrestle with Harry's hand, Harry pointed his wand and cast the countercurse.

Snape bloomed forth and staggered as his feet came in contact with the ground.

"Professor! It's alright, it's just me, Harry. I've gotten you away-" That was all Harry had time to say before the wind was knocked out of him.

Snape immediately jumped him.

Harry was caught by complete surprise. He would have never guessed that rescuing someone from Azkaban would provoke such a reaction.

Snape tussled with him, and Harry was frankly flabbergasted by the old, wire-thin man's strength. They rolled on the ground, Harry trying to protect himself, and more importantly, not hurt the older man too much in the process.

It was all over in a second, as Snape retreated from Harry, and Harry saw with a sick, sinking feeling that the other man had a hold of his wand.

There was a breathless moment, when Harry stood up, defeated, with his hands in front of him, trying to calm the clearly deranged Professor.

"Listen, please, it's just me, Harry. I know I should have come for you sooner, but you're out now, you're free, point the wand down, Professor, it's just me."

It took some time, and alot more soothing, hurried words, but eventually Snape came around.

Snape shakily pushed the Phoenix feather wand back into Harry's hand, and sat heavily on the ground, his head in his hands.

"Potter," Snape finally spoke through gasps of air, "I didn't expect that you would come for me. I thought that I'd… I didn't think you were real." The older man was winded from the exertion of their fight. Truth be told, so was Harry.

"Of course I came, Professor. It's all going to be alright now, just sit down here, I'll start a fire," Harry said, and went about doing exactly that, keeping a wary eye on Snape, just in case.

"Your leg," Snape commented, "did I do that?"

"Oh, it's nothing, I'll get it fixed up just as soon as I make camp," Harry said, painfully limping around their little clearing. Fire, then a small shelter made from pulled together branches magically transformed into a crude tent, then two dozen protective charms to hide and shield them. Harry had a pretty good handle on running, and hiding, so this was second nature to him.

"Potter," Snape started to say again, and his voice sounded very far away, "you should know, I really hate flying."

"I'd put that together myself, sir." Harry said thinking of the madly writhing ferret he had carried through interminable hours of the night time flight. No, Snape did not seem to enjoy flying at all.

"I believe we can dispense with the formalities. I haven't been a professor in many years, you know." Snape said quietly, while watching Harry pace a circle around them, muttering and casting spells.

"Right then," Harry said, but had no idea what he would call the man. Severus? That seemed odd, like calling parents by their first names instead of mum and dad. Like I'd know anything about that, Harry thought wryly.

Atleast Snape wasn't insulting him. A decade ago, even after Snape had rescued Harry from the Lestranges, and nursed him back to health, the old Profesor always had a few choice barbs ready for Harry any time they talked. Azkaban must have really shook him up, Harry decided. Or, maybe just old age.

When Harry was satisfied with their makeshift camp, he sat down in front of their small fire, and went about healing his leg. He had to rip up the trouser leg to get at the wound, but once he did, the healing was fairly easy. It wasn't a terribly deep bite, and Harry was sure that by next morning, it would be well on the way to mending.

Snape watched Harry work with fascination.

"This is real, isn't it?" Snape asked, watching Harry clean up the blood.

"Yes. It's real." Harry said, carefully gauging the expression on the older man's face. Was he going to try for another wrestling match? Harry didn't think he had another in him.

"I can't believe it," Snape said under his breath, "I just can't believe I'm out. I thought that the rest of my life would be there, in the cold, all alone in the dark…"

Harry didn't reply. He felt like he was intruding, that the words weren't meant for him.

Instead of responding, he dug into his ancient moleskin pouch. Harry hadn't had a chance to pop over to a shop before going on his rescue mission. But, he had usually kept a small cache of food there when he was on the run. Rummaging for a few minutes inside, Harry brought out a handful of digestives, and two biscuits with chocolate, wrapped in parchment. That's lucky, Harry thought. The chocolate in the biscuits should help Snape, atleast.

He offered his very meager rations to the former Professor, who took them with a quiet 'thanks.'

They didn't have tea, but Harry boiled water, and added a few fresh pine needles from the surrounding forest, for taste.

Harry needed rest. Flying on a broom was physically exhausting, but flying under his own power, as a crow, was doubly so.

He was sure that they were safe here, for tonight at least. Harry considered simply going to sleep, but something was bothering him. He tried closing his eyes, but it was useless.

Vague ideas, translucent ghosts, kept going around and around in his head. He had grabbed onto the tail of a mystery, when he was with Sherlock. But he had let that thread go. It was easy, when he was preoccupied with Sherlock, (and shagging Sherlock), nearly every day. It had been a long time since unraveling mysteries had remotely interested Harry.

But inexplicably, he was interested again. Interested in the past, and in uncovering the answers that lay quietly buried somewhere in memory. The thoughts swam in Harry's head, and he was sure he would not be able to sleep until he talked to Snape about them.

Perhaps it had to do with the sudden resurgence of his old temper. Perhaps he had returned more fully to being, the wholeness that existed before his soul shattered and straddled the world of the living and the dead, stretched thin between an impossible distance of time. No matter the reason, the curiosity he had long ago forgotten in his past came back to him. Harry had to know.

He watched Snape. Harry wondered how much the former Professor could handle in one night.

"Erm, Professor?" Harry said, and immediately back tracked, "Or, sorry, er Severus?"

Snape nodded, accepting the first name.

"I was wondering if you could tell me about something." Harry said, watching the fire play in Snape's dark eyes.

"What is it, Harry?" Snape asked.

"How much do you know about Rodolphus Lestrange?"

In fits and starts, sometimes sobbing, sometimes chuckling bitterly, Sherlock related the whole long tale to John, who sat with him all night long, and patiently listened.

As Sherlock recounted his version of the events, something bothered John.

"Hang on, tell me about this labyrinth again." He told Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John knew that his friend hated repeating things. But John felt like this was important. He wanted to understand.

"So the mind palace, that's where everything important goes. Everything I want to remember." Sherlock answered. "And the labyrinth, that's where everything unimportant goes. Does that make sense, John?"

John ignored the sarcastic tone.

"Hang on, I thought you told me you erased memories that were unimportant?" John asked.

"Do you think we live in a science fiction fantasy, John? You can't erase a memory, like a computer file. But you can dump it, have it be out of the way, so the important things are easier to access." Sherlock was starting to show his impatience, "It amounts to largely the same thing."

"No, I don't think it does, Sherlock," John said cautiously. At this Sherlock threw his hands up, and stared out the window at night time London. John didn't let that dishearten him, and continued, "You don't remember what you've dumped right? What if you've dumped something important?"

"I don't dump important things, that's exactly the point of it. To dump unimportant things." Sherlock bit back.

Sherlock was clearly exasperated, but John felt, for the first time, that he could see something that the detective couldn't.

It's always trickiest to see the closest things.

"Sherlock, I think you have to go looking through your labyrinth, maybe drudge up some of those past memories." John said.

Sherlock snapped his eyes to John's. He didn't say anything, merely sat there by the window, looking wide-eyed and perturbed, like a large owl that had been taken unawares in a favorite roost.

"What?" John asked.

"I've been having these dreams," Sherlock visibly shuddered. It took him a moment to regain himself. "These dreams, where Potter tells me exactly the same thing. But dreams are nonsense. They don't say anything useful."

"Yeah they're nonsense, except for being a direct line to your subconscious. It's obvious to me, Sherlock, that your subconscious is trying to reach you! Why not pick up the line and have a listen?" John said.

"You sound like a new age prophet. Subconscious trying to reach you, really… Do you have a crystal I should hold, while I try to dial it up? Maybe some incense to burn?" Sherlock mocked him.

"No really Sherlock," John spoke up again, but the detective shushed him.

John tried and tried again, and eventually gave up. He was sure that there must be something lying in Sherlock labyrinth which was the answer to all of this. But Sherlock had resolutely forgotten it, and there was simply no way to convince Sherlock of something he didn't want to hear.

Sherlock wanted John to stop talking about his labyrinth. He regretted telling the doctor about it. Sherlock was confident that it had nothing to do with his present situation, and he was wasting time trying to explain it to John.

But, he had to grudgingly admit to himself, he did feel better after spilling his guts to John. He felt only a fraction lighter, but it made a difference.

They had talked all night. A creeping, purple light now crawled up the curtains of 221b Baker Street. It would be morning soon.

The pain, the hole in his chest still throbbed with the same intensity, but Sherlock was no longer incapable of movement. He could act. But what to do? He stood up and started pacing his flat.

He barely noticed John watching him warily, from the corner.

As he walked the confining space of his living room, back and forth, Sherlock remembered his fight with Potter. With every step, the words, exchanged in anger, floated back to him, taunting and eviscerating.

I hope you don't imagine I am actually fully satisfied. Damaged, as you know you are, there's barely enough of you. You're not whole, Potter. And you're not enough.

Sherlock gripped his hair, remembering his own words. He hated that he had said them, and wished there was a way to turn back time, and stop himself from tearing everything to pieces.

He wanted to flop back on his couch, start up another conversation with John, anything, but to hear those words again.

But, Sherlock persisted. Perhaps there was a reason he was remembering this. He heard the echo of Harry's reply.

So you keep me around, give me a place to stay, to have someone to shag on hand, I suppose. And now that you've had your fill, what? I mean, what's the point of this, Sherlock? Both you and I know my case isn't going to get solved, it's been too long.

The disappointment, Sherlock simply couldn't handle. All along, the wizard never believed that Sherlock would solve the case. The comment had barely registered then, in the heat of their fight, but now it struck Sherlock deeply, and he cried out.

John was at his side immediately, tutting in a very good approximation of Mrs Hudson, and leading him to the couch to sit down.

The wizard had never believed in him. He never believed that Sherlock would solve his case.

Sherlock felt himself being gently pushed to the couch, and John's reassuring presence hovered near.

"Hang on-" Sherlock started.

"What is it?" John asked.

Sherlock scrunched up his face, thinking. It took several seconds, and then to John's dismay, Sherlock's face split into a mad grin.

"Oh, it's brilliant, of course! I know! How could I have been so stupid! So obtuse!" Sherlock jumped up again, pushing past John's windmilling arms.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked again.

"I know how I'm going to get him back." Sherlock said, and he felt, for the first time since his fight with the wizard, a brief glimmer of hope. This would work, it had to!

It was simple. All he had to do was solve the case! Sherlock would prove to Harry, he would prove… something important. Sherlock couldn't find the words to it, in his head, but he was sure he was onto a good idea. Surely, the wizard would fall back into his arms if Sherlock was able to finally give the man his freedom?

"And then what, Sherlock?" John interjected, and the comment was like a bucket of ice water thrown over Sherlock's head.

Then what, indeed. Would the wizard tolerate Sherlock if he snapped and decided to start another row, practically over nothing? Would the labyrinthine stone walls keep haunting Sherlocks dreams, and creeping into his waking mind? Would he feel the poison billow to the top of his throat when Harry had sex with him? Would he still wake up drenched in sweat after nightmares every morning?

How long could Harry withstand him? How long would Sherlock keep hold of the wizard the second time?

Then what.

No matter, Sherlock resolved himself. The rest would follow, he was sure. Maybe, he would take John's advice, and excavate his mental graveyard. Or, maybe he wouldn't. The most important thing was to get Harry back. If he could find him again, he could explain. He could come up with some magic formula of words that would allay whatever hurt he inflicted on Harry. And, if he solved Harry's case, as Sherlock saw it, the wizard would have no choice but to return to his lover's arms.

A small part of him, tiny and quivering, agreed with John. If Sherlock didn't discover the source of the horrible mood swings he began to associate with sexual arousal, he might hurt Harry again. And surely, he did not want to do that. Surely, it was better to work out his own problems first, before seeking out the wizard, and trying to rekindle their romance.

But Sherlock shushed that mutinous voice. Faced between solving a case, and diving deep into the shadows of his labyrinth, it was very easy to pick the former.

Sherlock took out his mobile, and began texting.

"Do you know, John, that most of this city's homeless are now equipped with cellular devices? Isn't that fantastic?" Sherlock quipped as he sent several group texts.

"No, I did not know. They always seem to want to borrow mine…" John replied.

Harry was pacing back and forth like an unfixed cat. Snape's dark eyes followed the younger wizard. The former professor kept his silence. It was the second night after Snape's rescue. This time, they further south, on a rocky outcropping off the coast of Wales.

The mystery was bothering Harry. Sherlock's uncle had been the real Rudolphus Lestrange. So who was the Rudolphus that married Bellatrix? Who was the Rudolphus that had done so much damage to Harry? Who had sat in Azkaban, and rejoined Voldemort at the height of the Second War?

When questioned, it turned out that Snape didn't know much, but he told Harry everything he could. Rodolphus, all Death Eaters were peripherally aware, was eternally devoted to his wife Bellatrix, who was in turn, eternally devoted to the Dark Lord. There were rumors among the Death Eaters that Bellatrix's one-sided relationship with the Dark Lord drove her husband up the wall. And to Snape's knowledge, no one, not even the Dark Lord, suspected that Rudolphus Lestrange might be someone else entirely.

Rudolphus was from a long, pureblood line, and the only living relative he had was his brother, Rabastan, currently imprisoned in Azkaban.

"He was right down the hall from me," Snape said, "I saw him when they brought me there the first time."

When Voldemort was defeated, Rudolphus was one of a handful of death eaters who were never captured.

But none of it made sense!

There was the real Rudolphus Lestrange, who had lived out his life as Sherlock's uncle-in-law, and was currently in a care home in Yorkshire. Then, another Rudolphus that was husband to Bellatrix, and devoted to Voldemort. They couldn't have been the same man, obviously.

Then it hit Harry like a brick.

If someone were able to impersonate another wizard for decades, that same wizard could surely impersonate someone for one night at a ministry ball.

Was it a coincidence?

There was a tug, a gentle pulling, that Harry associated with running down a mystery from a land of long ago, where he lived in a magic castle with his best friends, and solved at least one mystery every school year. A hunch, only, but it was a very good hunch, the tiny voice which Harry always heeded, told him.

But how could Harry learn more? It wasn't very likely he would be able to capture the doppelganger Rudolphus. Aurors must have been just as keen on getting their hands on that Rudolphus as they were to find Harry. If they haven't found him yet, Harry would probably do no better.

Harry paced back and forth, then stopped.

Surely, Harry realized with a grin, your own family would catch on, if you were an imposter.

"I have to go back to Azkaban." He said, not necessarily to Snape, but just to test the words out, to see how they tasted.

"You have gone mad, then." Snape commented.

Harry turned back to the old professor, feeling guilty. He couldn't just abandon Snape after rescuing him.

With difficulty, he settled himself down, across from Snape, the campfire merrily crackling between them.

"I think if you're fool enough to attempt it, you should begin as soon as possible." Harry heard the thin voice of the old professor.

"What?" He asked.

"I'll get along fine without you, Potter. I have for many years." Snape continued.

Harry came around the fire to face the man.

"Are you sure?" He asked, looking into the lined face, and gauging the man's expression. Snape frowned deeply.

"I don't normally speak if I'm not sure. I do wish you had a wand to give me, but no matter, I can manage, I can get along." Snape said.

Harry was about to agree, and say that he also wished he had an extra wand to give to Snape, and apologize that he didn't, when…

He brought out his moleskin pouch. Harry had collected the hallows from their hiding place. He did have a second wand. Carefully, he fished it out.

He held two wands in his hands, judging which he should give Snape. His own Phoenix feather, which had served him so well all these years? Or, the dark wand made from an Elder tree, which he wished had never come to him?

Harry raised one, then the other, Snape's eyes following every movement.

"This wand is-" Harry started, uncertain of how to explain.

"I know what it is." Snape said, and there was something cold in his voice.

"It won't work like that." Harry tried to clarify. The Elder Wand would need to be aligned to Snape, for him to use it as it was intended by Death. Something tickled the back of Harry's mind when he thought that.

"I know, Harry. Just as it didn't work for the Dark Lord. Still." Snape eyed the Elder Wand warily, and Harry, with a wrench in his heart made his decision.

"Here, have this one then," Harry said, handing Snape his own Holly and Phoenix feather instead. "But I'll come back for it, when I can find you another spare. I'm really partial to it, you see."

Snape nodded, and accepted the wand with gravity. The old professor thanked Harry, and swore to keep the Phoenix feather wand safe, until its master would return.

They worked out that when the time came, they would communicate through patronuses, as in the old Order days. Snape would rest the night here, and then make his way to the continent, where he had a few good hiding spots. He wished Harry luck in his second attempt on the Fortress of Azkaban, adding 'you'll need it.'

Harry did not want to delay. He had no idea what the response to Snape's escape would look like, and wanted to start watching the fortress the very same night.

He was about to set out, when the older man's thin voice stopped him.

"Harry?" Snape asked, something raw and naked in his tone that sent shivers down Harry's arms.

"Yes?" Harry said.

"Do you have the stone?" The edge of desperation chilled Harry. He knew that if he were to relinquish the resurrection stone to Snape, the older wizard would sink into a quagmire of ghosts and memories.

"I do." Harry answered shortly.

They looked at each other, and neither said anything for a long time.

"Keep it then," Snape conceded. Harry noticed then just how tired the old professor seemed. The old man had been through a lot; too much.

"I'll be back soon." Harry reassured the man.

"I don't expect you will." Snape replied, "But I hope to see you again."

Teddy Lupin sat on his bed, practicing the spell as quietly as he could manage. He did not want his grandmother, Andromeda Tonks, to find out what he was doing. Any slight creak of the old house had Ted, almost of age and usually rather sure of himself, stashing his wand and hiding under the covers.

He tried again, producing a thin, billowing silver smoke. Sometimes, he was able to manage the shape quite nicely. On a few, very rare occasions, he even figured out how to make the silver wolf-shape transmit messages.

A shudder and creak deep in the house had Ted hiding under his quilted blanket again, feigning sleep. He was still underage, and Andromeda would not be very merciful if she found out he was casting spells under the cover of darkness. Especially, Ted thought, this spell.

It was Vic's uncles, Charlie and Greorge Weasley, that had taught him the spell. They assured him that its uses went deeper than repelling dementors.

"No one can fake your patronus, Ted." Charlie Weasley had told him, "It's one of the most secure ways we have of communicating. Not so many reasons to use it now, but you never know. It's handy."

Andromeda Tonks would have exploded if she knew that the Weasley brothers were teaching Ted old Order spells. Ted's grandmother, he had figured out as he aged, was still rather sensitive about her daughter's death. She did not like the idea of Ted getting himself into anything Order-of-the-Phoenix-related. And, anything Auror related was simply out of the question.

Sensing this, the two red haired men were unusually sheepish when they took Ted aside, to teach him the patronus charm.

"You'll keep this one under wraps, eh?" George had asked, trying to merrily wink at Ted.

"Your grandmother will skin us if you don't Ted." Charlie added, "But there's a good reason for this. We wouldn't gamble inciting her wrath if there weren't."

"Oh?" Ted had asked. "What's the reason?"

Charlie and George looked at each other, frowning.

"I can't say exactly, since I don't know." Charlie spoke up first, "but there's something out there. Aurors getting injured or killed, muggles dying in obviously magical ways, accidents that aren't accidents. All coincidences maybe, but-"

"But it reminds us of before. When Voldemort rose." George finished, and looked Ted dead in the eyes.

Ted wished he hadn't audibly gulped.

"You think he'll come back?" Ted asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"No, no, I don't think so. But still, there's something out there. It's always good to be prepared, lad."