09 August 1978

Sirius wrestled with his foul mood all the way down the cobbled street of Godric's Hollow, grateful that it was not crowded and that a cold mist — unseasonable for August — clung to walls and lights, cars and hedges. Dull light and sound filtered out of the stores; both clung to him for an instant, and melted away as he strode onward.

He kicked aside a manky old boot.

God damn Orion Black.

There were many reasons why Sirius had this thought, and had done so for most of his life. Had he ever loved his dad? Surely there had been a time when he'd been young… there had to have been some affection there. It had crumbled away when he'd gone off to Hogwarts and been swept off into Gryffindor; his attitude toward his family had cooled… but theirs had cooled toward him well before.

Turning a corner, he stopped, hand curling around the cold street lamp, swinging off it. There, in an upstairs window, Sirius saw the familiar figure of Mr. Potter, James's father, his silhouette bent forward, head cocked, body poised for action on behalf of his son.

Today had been Sirius's fourth attempt to get into his childhood home. Harry's invisibility cloak was slung over his arm, the watery fabric threatening to slip off if he didn't hold it tightly. Even the cloak, which had been Sirius's great idea earlier that day, had not allowed him fully inside. Just what charms, exactly, had his father placed upon Grimmauld Place? No wonder the future Dumbledore had been pleased to accept it as the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

Sirius shook out his hand.

That last stinging hex had not felt like it had come from a human…

With a sigh, Sirius tromped forward.

It was a moment before Mr. Potter opened the outer door to his office. "Ah," he said formally, "Mr. Black. How do you do?"

Sirius shook his hand. "Well enough—"

"And that's a lie," Mr. Potter said dryly.

"What's a lie?" And there was his godson, thinner than ever, bags under his eyes, and holding a book twice as wide as him.

"Let me see this," muttered Mr. Potter, turning Sirius's hand over. "Ah," he said again, peering at Sirius over his glasses, "you've run afoul of a house elf."

"That — oh," said Sirius. It was all he had time to say. Mr. Potter bustled him through a door and up stairs and led him to a long room sat across from the sleepers. The air was redolent with the scent of potions: no fewer than six cauldrons sat on various fires in the room. The first one, bright orange, emitted a belch as they passed it. It was not to a cauldron that Mr. Potter led him, but to a wide apothecary cabinet with a hundred tiny drawers.

"Dittany and rue," said Mr. Potter, pulling first one drawer open and then the other. "Dittany and rue and… to balance… what do you think, Harry?"

"I don't… um… is it shaved marrowroot?"

"Exactly," said Mr. Potter, with great satisfaction.

Sirius watched, fascinated, as grandfather and grandson brought out a seventh cauldron and set it near him. Mr. Potter instructed all the while as Harry listened. Was this what he'd truly been doing all this summer? Learning potions?

It was to his benefit, as within five minutes, the pain was gone. Mr. Potter bustled out of the room after applying the healing salve and a quick goodbye, leaving Sirius and Harry alone in the room together. For a few minutes, there was only the sound of the cauldrons bubbling and belching over their respective fires.

"Did you–"

"So you–"

They both spoke together at the same time. Sirius, grinning, waved him on.

"You tried again, then?" Harry asked.

"Yeah," said Sirius. "Have to, don't I?" He winced in remembered pain. "You know, what Mr. Potter said… it had to have been Kreacher, yeah? He's got magic that wizards don't have; I wouldn't put it past my mum and dad to have made Kreacher add his own bit of protection to their house. Bloody paranoid, they are. Who're they worried about getting in there? No one wants to be there?"

"I certainly don't," said Harry.

"But now I know it's Kreacher…" It was good luck that he'd happened to come to Godric's Hollow today, and that Mr. Potter had noticed his injury. True, it wasn't easy to get around house-elf magic, but at least Sirius knew where to start… in fact, didn't he know someone who knew something about it?

Fingers snapped in front of his face. Harry sat back, grinning. "You drifted off there, for a second."

"Yeah, sorry," said Sirius. For the umpteenth time, he wished he had the tiara on… it had ways of bringing half-formed memories to the forefront. "Sorry," he repeated, giving his head a shake. "I'll give it more of a think and try again. We've got to get that key."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, scratching at his arms.

"What's with that?" Sirius asked, pointing.

"Oh," said Harry, scratching harder. "Ever since the… you know what. The pox. I think it's the enchantment Dumbledore's done on me… it itches like it did when he first put it on me."

Sirius eyed him critically. They had been in the past for a year now, almost exactly, and he'd grown used to the new Harry, with his indistinct color eyes, broader features, and lighter hair. He didn't look that different, in fact, though back at the beginning, Sirius had found it jarring even to look at him. He'd grown so used to seeing James stamped on Harry's face that it had been odd to see those features so deliberately and subtly changed.

"Maybe we can talk to Dumbledore about that?" Sirius suggested.

"Maybe," Harry said, shrugging.

"And if not," said Sirius, "Harry, I will get that key. We can get out of here. You won't have to wear that face for long."

"Maybe," Harry said again.

Sirius took a deep breath. Maybe. The boy was possibly losing hope that they would leave 1978 where it belonged: long in their past. And Sirius couldn't quite blame him, as they still didn't know how or why they were even here. But Nurmengard would surely answer those questions. He understood Harry's surliness; hell, Sirius himself was surly enough for the both of them. But he recognized that Harry did not want to pursue this line of conversation.

Sirius extended an olive branch.

"And how is it going here?" Sirius asked. "With the, ah… sleepers."

Harry drummed his fingers on the table. "Mr. Potter is still figuring out the various balances—"

"The what?" asked Sirius.

"The balances," said Harry. "He believes he's isolated the exact potion Grindelwald uses — he says it's powerful… he's certain of it. But for every ingredient in the original potion, there needs to be a counter in the antidote." Harry's tone took on that of a Professor or a lecturer. "And it isn't just ingredients. It's the magical weight of each ingredient. For example, there is a very rare species of beetle found in the far south, and it's countered with another insect — I told you about them the other night at dinner, the silverwings — and he's got that sorted. But now there's a powder from the east, very powerful poison, but we haven't got anything—"

"All right, all right." Sirius held his hands up in surrender. "I suppose I worried at you being gone all the time, but I see you're doing an informal internship with Fleamont Potter instead."

"You don't need to be worried," said Harry, deflating against his chair, mouth a thin gash in a pale face. "This is what matters."

"You haven't told Mr. Potter anything, have you?" Sirius asked, after casting Muffliato.

Harry stared at him without blinking.

"Ah, stupid question," muttered Sirius. Then, waving his hand, he said, "Let's see them, shall we?" Uncomfortable and wishing he were elsewhere, he followed Harry into the small, tidy room where the sleepers were housed. The scent of lavender was thick and heavy in the air. Forcing himself to adopt an aplomb he didn't quite feel, Sirius stepped to the bed that held his younger self.

The younger version was ghastly pale, having nearly completed the transition from living, breathing boy of eighteen to corpse. "I'm nearly as pale as Regulus." Sirius forced out the joke. Harry, bless him, didn't even attempt a laugh. The rest were in the same condition, but Sirius had not needed to see that in order for it to be confirmed. He'd seen their bodies when they were still in the tower, when there'd still been hope that Dumbledore could figure out who'd done this to them.

Acutely aware of Harry's eyes on him, Sirius moved to stand at the foot of James's bed. "Hey, there," he said. It was awkward, seeing James like this: not only was he near death, but he was so young. "You're going to wake up soon," he added, after clearing his throat. How could Harry stand to come here so often? Especially when he knew that they would awaken in short order? "You've got your own wedding to attend… and a baby to father…"

Harry cleared his throat.

Sirius glanced at him. "I haven't got much else to say," he confessed.

With a shrug, his godson went to open a window. Thick like syrup, the lavender moved through the room like a vast, slow river. Finally, enough of it was gone that Sirius could draw in a deep breath.

"So," said Harry, "We're still going? To Nurmengard, I mean? You think you really will get that key?"

"If I can figure out how to get past Kreacher," Sirius muttered. "Do you want to come with me?"

"Yeah," said Harry, though it did not sound, to Sirius's ears, very committal.

"It'd be easier if we didn't have to go, I wish Frank and Moody could get us in…" said Sirius, gaze drifting back over the sleepers. There was a cheerful yellow blanket draped over Ginny; he hadn't seen that before. "Where'd she get the blanket?"

"I, er, got it for her," said Harry. "I went to the Burrow, actually… a couple of weeks ago… I paid Molly to make it for her. It came a couple of days early, actually."

Sirius blinked at him. "You–"

"Don't get angry," Harry said wearily. "I was totally anonymous. She has a little farmstand, you know. It was easy work convincing her to do a bit of knitting. It'll… Ginny will like it." He was quiet for a moment. "It's her birthday, you know, in a couple of days."

Ginny may not awaken until they were all safely ensconced in 1996, but Sirius did not wish to point that out yet again and risk another row with Harry. Six months ago – before the pox – Sirius would have felt a bleak, black rage at his godson's mucking about like that.

"Yeah," said Sirius. Perhaps he would have been wrong. Molly was made of sterner stuff than her status of mother hen to seven chicks implied. She'd grow into someone who was part of the Order of the Phoenix, even if her younger version was much too busy having babies to help when Voldemort was first in power.

The Order couldn't be made up entirely of Aurors, could it? They needed all sorts, not just people who made it their life's work to stop dark wizards. They needed people like Benjy Feniwick, who worked for the Daily Prophet, and tried to stem the tide of all Voldemort's lies; Dorcas Meadowes, who had her fingers pressed to the pulse of the future; Edgar Bones, with his healing expertise; and Gideon and Fabian Prewett, who had the hearts of smugglers. The Order was made up of all sorts, even housewives and criminals–

"Fuck," Sirius swore.

"Wha—?"

"I have to go," said Sirius.

Summoning his cloak, Sirius left the room of the sleepers, grimacing at Harry, and tossing him a quick: "It's urgent!" before he clattered down the stairs and shoved his way out onto the near-empty street in Godric's Hollow.

The first time around, most of Sirius's post-Hogwarts time had been spent in a state of joblessness — officially, at least. His parents and older brother had seen to it that every pureblood who might want to hire Sirius for anything ought to think again. Uncle Alphard's bequest had helped keep a roof over his head, but the galleons Sirius had been able to scrape together had never come from a career, but from hustling odd jobs from people who either did not know or did not care that Sirius had upset his parents.

Flinging a quick look over his shoulder, back at Mr. Potter's office, he smiled ruefully. A lot of his work had come from knowing James and being friendly with the Potter family.

Some of it, however, had come from different sources.

Once in the street, Sirius spun on the spot and Apparated to Jennit Alley.

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Jennit Alley was a cousin to Carne Alley: both were hidden carefully from prying Muggle eyes, both combined a series of magical shops and eateries with housing, and both had a heady scent in the air, redolent of charms and sex. But while Carne Alley was exuberant and cheerful, Jennit Alley was known for its seediness. Having grown out from a gin distillery — the building still existed, but was now used as an indoor night market — the alley was narrow and cramped. Sunlight, it was said, never reached the ground there.

The criminal element flourished here.

Which was why, no more than ten minutes later, he found himself skirting the back of the old gin distillery. It was sunken into the ground, as though it had buckled under the weight of the booze it had once made. There was still the faintest whiff of alcohol, rising up from the cracks and weeds behind the Night Market.

Already, Sirius could hear distorted mumbles, distorted by distance.

"Ger off me!"

His pace quickened. That had been Mundungus.

The first time, Sirius had crouched behind a bin, heart hammering, uncertain if he wanted to step in. Mundungus Fletcher, rough and hard-edged, had run afoul of a couple of dark wizards. No one like those who were in Voldemort's inner circle, but those who traded in trafficking illegal potions and charms. At the time, Sirius had thought Dung was involved with all that. But he'd been Dumbledore's man already, and he'd been keeping an eye out on Jennit Alley for him.

And the younger version of himself had been given very vague orders – to watch out for anything unusual in Jennit Alley. He'd stepped in, eventually, unable to watch another man be tortured. And he and Dung had been friends ever since.

Unfortunately, the younger version of himself had slept straight through his induction into the Order of the Phoenix.

It was the elder Sirius who waded into the fray. The punch of his spell sent the petty dark wizards sprawling before another quick jerk of his wand, and they were hanging captive in the air by their feet. At that moment, the only sounds were harsh breathing, muttered swears, and the thud-thud-thud of distant music.

"Interesting," he murmured. They'd seemed a lot more intimidating the first time around. Ignoring the suspended figures, Sirius went over to Dung, who remained crouched on the ground, head toward the pavement. "Are you alright?"

"Aye," grunted Dung.

"We weren't doing nothing!" shouted one of Sirius's prisoners.

He looked over just in time to see a bottle slip out of the pocket of his robes and fall to the ground, where it would have shattered had Sirius not been quick with an arresto momentum. It zoomed toward him; Sirius peered at it, frowning, turning it this way and that. In the dingy light, it was the color of a rotten orange. "What is this?" Sirius asked, genuinely curious. The first time around, he hadn't ever known what these wizards were trading.

"We don't have to tell you," one of them spat. The glob of saliva landed more than a foot away from Sirius's boot.

"I'll just vanish it, then, shall I?" Sirius said. They screeched as he vanished all the bottles on them, faces turning red with upset, spewing filth. "That'll be enough," he said, and let them come crashing down with a force that knocked them senseless.

Turning his attention back to Dung, he found the other wizard getting to his feet.

"Why'd ye rescue me like that?" Dung asked, eyeing him up and down, wariness obvious in the line of his shoulders.

Sirius grasped him firmly by the shoulder, away from the large structure of the distillery-turned-Night Market. The man's accent was thick enough to make him near unintelligible. The three dark wizards – perhaps even Death Eaters – were still flat on their backs. Only one was stirring, though feebly; they would not wake up until Sirius and Dung were well away. They had not been anyone Sirius recognized, past or future, but he would remember their faces should he ever see them again.

"I didn't like the cut of their robes," Sirius said finally, once they were well away from the Night Market.

Dung hmphed.

The smell of old booze lingered in the air, even as they took a turn down the misty alley.

"I've got something I need your help with," said Sirius.

"What d'ye need my help for," Dung grunted, trying to throw him off his arm.

"I've got a place I need to get into," said Sirius. "And besides, you owe me. Not to mention," he added as an afterthought, "it was Dumbledore who suggested it."

Dung eyed him through the greenish miasma of smoke. "Let's have it, then," he said, ceasing his struggles.

"I need to get into the home of Orion Black," Sirius said briskly. "That's all."

"That's all," Dung repeated mockingly. "That's all, 'e says. Well, I say you can get into it all yerself." The smaller man eyed him up and down; there was an unmistakable shrewdness there. "Part of the fam'ly, aren't ye? Ye've the look, aye, straigh' enou'."

This, Sirius couldn't deny.

Dung jeered at him. "'E don' need my help!" he said, indignant.

"It's complicated," Sirius said repressively. Not for the first time that day, he wished the tiara were firmly on his head. It would know exactly what to say to Mundungus. Don't think about it, Sirius told himself. "It isn't a matter of walking up to the front door and announcing–"

Dung appeared momentarily stymied.

"They have a house elf," Sirius said, his hand twinging in remembered pain. "Remember," he said repressively, "it was Dumbledore who suggested your help with this. I can get around all the other enchantments, but I need your help with the house elf." He rubbed his palm, massaging out the sting. "He's a right little bastard."

"Hide from it, then, shouldn't ye?" Dung looked as irritated as any professor with a dimwitted student. Then, scowling, he added, "'an you'll want to make sure you do it right."

"How?" Sirius asked, wary. There was an entire lifetime of hatred for Grimmauld Place and what it stood for: Kreacher was at the top of the list. "And why?"

The look on Dung's face was so comically skeptical that Sirius almost laughed. "Why," he scoffed. "They'll track you down, won't they?" Dung shook his head. "No, you gotta hide from them."

"How, then?" said Sirius.

The skepticism turned shrewd. "Maybe I forgot," Dung suggested.

Something like an alien shadow passed over Sirius's mind, there and gone again. "I can help you remember," said Sirius, after a moment. His hand was on his wand. Why was it there? Instead, he moved it to the heavy bag of money in his pocket. Somewhat shaken, he pulled all of it out, watching in gratification as Dung's eyes bugged outward.

"A Hand of Glory'll do it," said Dung, without hesitation. "But it's gotta be the right kind, it'll have to be a house-elf's hand. That'll keep you hidden in any purebloo' house." He spat on the ground beside the table, adding to the grime. "Any house."

Sickened, Sirius stared at him. "That exists?"

"If you can dream it up," said Dung, wiping his mouth, "it exists."

Sirius swallowed, tamping down his disgust. "You won't make it…?"

"Of course not," said Dung. There were greedy little lights in his eyes as he stared at the bag of money. "'Course, it'll be an expense… can't get nuffing for free," he added craftily. "Not somethin' like this, mate."

Sirius did not point out that he'd already given Dung over one hundred galleons. It wouldn't do for Dung to decide on their first acquaintance that Sirius was a miser. "That's not a problem." He pulled out another bag and tossed it on the table. "Vanish those, would you?" he asked politely. "We don't want anyone to get jealous of you, now." Then, because he knew the man, he added: "Those are just your upfront expenses," he told him. "There'll be more once you've delivered. And the sooner," he added, "the better."

Dung's eyes were wide. "Yessir," he said, dragging the bags toward him. They vanished in his hands.

"Don't fail me," said Sirius.

Dung saluted him, then seemed to melt into the shadows.

By the time Sirius found himself in Diagon Alley – which was much brighter, cleaner, and airier – he was regretting his meeting with Mundungus. He'd done everything exactly as he had done the first time — or at least as accurately as his memory allowed. But what if there had been a small but crucial difference that he was overlooking? For Merlin's sake, he hated it when Harry did anything like it…

Hypocrite…

The word flitted across his thoughts. Sirius flipped the hood of his cloak up and matched his steps with the wizard ahead and to the side of him, pretending he had something to buy in one of the shops, not wanting to draw notice. His encounter with Dung today had reminded him that in this climate, even walking wrong could invite attention…

Hypocrite…

Sirius ducked into the apothecary, forcing himself to move with purpose. He was here to buy an unassuming amount of something not too expensive, nor memorable. Choosing a skein of aries wool and three whole newts, both of which were common household items, Sirius focused his attention on a couple of advertisement displays before making his way through the scant crowd to head to the counter.

It had been the tiara that had taught him the importance of acting casual. In its remote tone, it had told him that while in some instances it was helpful to skulk in the shadows, if someone did happen to notice, it was far more memorable than if one moved with the crowd.

"Find everything you need, sir?" The wizard behind the counter asked, not even looking as he took the newts from Sirius's hand and put them in individual jars.

"Yes, thank you," said Sirius.

But his mind was not on what he was purchasing or even the incident with Dung. The tiara had given him that advice. A large owl beside the window screeched, startling several of the customers. Sirius, though there was tension in his shoulders, held himself still.

On that occasion, it had been the first time that the tiara had shown him what it meant. It had been a bit of a marvel, that, and made him wonder what the Sorting Hat could do if it set its cap on something. Surely, they were similar charms. But Sirius had felt like he was watching an event from very close by… just for a few seconds…

—walking along High Street in Godric's Hollow, behind a tall, black-haired man dressed in a tweed cloak and wearing clean, cream gloves. He stepped out of the way of a young couple holding hands with a murmured "good morning" and a tip of his unobtrusive wizard hat.

With a flip of a coin, he purchased a pastry from a street vendor, eating it in three bites and tossing the wrapper in a nearby bin. He greeted many; their eyes slid over him even as their lips smiled. It was remarkable, really, what could be done without a charm…

The vision ended just as the young wizard knocked on a rather ornate door, to be let into the home by a house elf cheerfully greeted as "Hokey!"

Sirius relaxed his face into a smile. Hiding in plain sight. It was good to remember, considering that charms like notice-me-not and disillusionment could be tracked by skilled wizards. Bundling the purchases under his arm, he left after murmuring a greeting to the witch standing behind him. Perhaps if he'd had a few of these lessons before he'd escaped from Azkaban, he might not have had to rely on being Padfoot for so long.

I could've eaten fewer rats.

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10 September 1978

"I do believe," said Dumbledore, "That I have found something of note."

Sirius blinked at him. "I hope so," he said, a slight edge in his tone. He had not come to Hogwarts for a companionable evening with Albus Dumbledore. Indeed, he had ignored Dumbledore's suggestion to sit. Hopefully, this interview would be short. "I mentioned," he said, "in my letter that I'm close to being able to retrieve the key. I'm confident that I will be able to do so in a matter of days."

"Excellent," said Dumbledore, nodding. "That is particularly good news, as I have a good idea as to what, in fact, you are going to Nurmengard for."

Sirius stiffened. "And?" he said, after a moment of recovery. "What is it?"

Instead of replying, Dumbledore peered at him over his half-moon glasses.

"Well?" Sirius pressed, as rudely as he dared. But when the older wizard still said nothing, Sirius relented. His body relaxed, and even though he did not move to sit in one of the chintz chairs, he leaned against the wall. "I'm sorry," he said. "What is it?"

"In fact," said Dumbledore, "It's a book."

"A book," said Sirius.

"A grimoire, in the truest sense of the word," said Dumbledore, tapping his finger against the scrolls that littered his desk. "You remember, of course, the discussions we've had regarding the societies–"

"Yes, yes," said Sirius, waving his hand. "Creators of mysterious artifacts… this grimoire is theirs?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "As far as I know, it is a complete compendium of everything created by the society, and its purpose." He was still peering at Sirius. "It seems like we will be able to discover why and how you have come to be here." Then, abruptly, he said: "Is there something you wish to tell me?"

"Me?" asked Sirius, astonished. "No?"

"It seems to me that you are rather… certain of your path," said Dumbledore.

"Of course I'm certain," said Sirius. Behind his eyelids, he saw what would be happening to people – good people – in the next few years due to Voldemort; they flared up and disappeared, leaving his heart to constrict in his chest. "I can't stay here, Dumbledore."

"Yes," Dumbledore said quietly, "I know. But that was not my question, my friend, nor my concern. You seem very certain of this path, but what if it doesn't yield what you wish it to?" When Sirius blinked at him, Dumbledore added, gently, "This is my best guess as to find out what happened to you, but it may not be the answer."

"I know it is," said Sirius. A thought occurred to him: "Dorcas Meadowes said we had to go; why else would we have to go to Nurmengard?"

Dumbledore's features relaxed. "Ah!" he said. "I hadn't realized…"

"So perhaps I did have something to tell you," said Sirius, amused.

"I am much more confident, indeed," said Dumbledore. "Even with your advantages, it will not be easy… I simply hoped that it won't be for nothing. But that quill of hers; that is a powerful thing."

Sirius had known, ever since the voice in the tiara had helped him process the very first meeting they'd had with the renowned Seer, that his path would lead him to Nurmengard. It had seemed inevitable, given his history: Why shouldn't he have to visit another wizarding prison? There was a symmetry to it that had made immense sense to Sirius. He'd hardly even needed Dorcas's more solid prediction she'd given to Harry in June.

"It will be difficult," said Sirius, "but I'll have Harry to watch my back."

"Well, then," said Dumbledore, "I have a few thoughts as to where the Asterian Grimoire can be found, if you would like to listen?"

"Actually," said Sirius, who still did not want to be trapped into a long conversation with the older wizard, "It may be helpful if you could draw up a map of where it's likely to be… that way we can take it with us." He smiled, tapping his temple. "It'll be easier to remember, if we've got a map."

"Excellent idea," said Dumbledore, nodding. "I'll do that straightaway."

Sirius stepped toward the door, then paused. "I'll let you know when I've got the key, shall I?" he said, not waiting for an answer.

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13 September 1978

There was a small park across the street and down the way from Grimmauld Place. It was here that Sirius apparated to, once again, welcoming the cover of old trees and barely tended-to bushes. The scent of it was familiar: Sirius had spent much of his time here as a child, when he'd wanted to escape his family. Breathing in deep, he stood still a moment, gaze fixed on the dimly lit facade of his parents house, just visible in the London smog. There was no reaction there, which was just as well. This would not have been the first time Sirius ran afoul of one of the sensory charms his father had Kreacher place around the house, just in case some fool of a wizard came to call.

"And I'm that fool of a wizard," Sirius muttered.

There was no response, neither within his head or without.

Harry ought to have come along. Annoyance prickled up his spine. They'd had a small row just a bit ago – nothing like their row of a few months ago, when Harry had taken it upon himself to get the pox – and it still rankled. Instead of coming with Sirius to Grimmauld Place, Harry had elected, once more, to remain at his grandfather's side in Godric's Hollow.

"I can't. Mr., ah, Potter is gathering up silverwings tonight to make a powder… I said I'd help him. I told you months ago that silverwings are important–"

"Which I understand," Sirius said, with forced patience. He didn't understand, not really. The fact of Harry's own existence proved that James and Lily would awaken in due course. "And I also understand why it is important to you. It is important to me. But I could use your help, Harry. This is about our future." Harry, it seemed, was not only thriving in the past but was wallowing in it. "I could use a look-out."

Harry blew out a breath, looking torn. There were dark circles under his eyes, giving them a dark, bruised look. "You can use a sensory charm for that," he said, a hint of a plea in his tone.

Sirius huffed out an incredulous laugh. "Harry!" he said. "I can't believe you're arguing about this… it's just a few hours… surely Mr. Potter can spare you."

"He said this part is really delicate," said Harry, stubborn as ever, though, truly, the boy was weary enough his shoulders seemed permanently slumped. "I have to help them, Sirius."

"I need–"

"Look, you'll have my cloak again… that way, you won't even need a look-out." Harry was not to be dissuaded, Sirius could see. There was a taut moment when irritation billowed up within Sirius and threatened to spill out. The voice within the tiara had been increasingly certain that what Harry needed was less of a friend and more of a true guardian. It would have told Sirius to order him to Grimmauld Place. But Sirius had learned the hard way that that advice would only lead to ruin.

"Your cloak," Sirius said flatly. The cloak, while excellent, was no replacement for another person.

"Yeah, you can use it," said Harry.

And so Sirius swung the silvery material over himself. It would have been better to have both Harry, the Hand of Glory, and the cloak.

And the tiara, a small voice within him nudged.

"And we haven't got the Hand of Glory yet," Sirius muttered to himself.

Sirius ignored this in favor of performing a few charms that would keep him from being seen or heard by any of the inhabitants of Grimmauld Place. For another couple of moments, as the sun dipped below the horizon and a mist swept in with an eagerness that suggested it had been waiting all day, Sirius stared up at the edifice.

A loud pop! interrupted his annoyed thoughts.

"You're here," said Sirius, turning to find Dung just behind him. "And on time!"

"I said I'd be," Dung said.

There was something to be said for being generous with his galleons, Sirius thought. Over the last month, Dung had become friendlier and friendlier. Now, he even wore a rather gallant smile. The corner's of Sirius's lips twitched.

"Thank you," he said. "You've got it?"

"I've got it!" Dung said, jovial.

"Let's see it, then," said Sirius.

The Hand of Glory, made from the bones of a thieving house elf, was wrapped in thick brown paper and twine. It took the work of a few minutes to unwrap it; Dung did it with such care that Sirius nearly laughed.

"Luck," said Dung, a couple of minutes later.

The Hand of Glory was tiny and fragile in Sirius's hand. He held it with the care he'd once used with Harry's tiny hand.

"Thanks," said Sirius, just as the fingertips began to smoke, and tiny green flames appeared. "This was exactly what I needed, Dung. Thanks. I'll be in touch."

A moment later, Dung was gone.

Sirius was alone.

Then, he walked across the street toward his father's house. The sensory charms left behind by Kreacher – so cleverly wrought so that wizards could not pass, melted away from the elfish Hand of Glory like snow receded in sunlight. Back straight, head high, Sirius marched toward the house. He avoided the front step – he would not be using that ghastly door knocker, no, instead, he found the basement window, the one he'd always used to escape from.

This, too, was easy. His spirits buoyed. As he enlarged the window and slipped in, still holding the Hand of Glory, Sirius nearly laughed. How many times had he done this as a boy, wanting to escape this place? He'd never loved it, not the way Regulus had, that perfect older son. There had been times, when he'd come back to Grimmauld Place after Azkaban, when he'd longed to use this window, to escape, to flee from Dumbledore's orders…

He hated this place.

The storage room was cluttered, but empty. As was the kitchen ahead of him, though a heavy cauldron of stew floated in the air above a fire, bubbling. Sirius shifted his grip on the Hand of Glory from one hand to the other, swiping his hand on his robes.

There were no signs of inhabitants until Sirius had climbed up two flights of stairs, past the wall portraits and the other, grislier wall, the one with the heads of all the house elves who had served the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Ignoring a guilty pang, he held the Hand of Glory just a little tighter.

The murmur of voices didn't reach him until he'd gained the second floor landing.

Despite himself, his steps slowed, and he peered into the sitting room. There they were, all three of them. His parents sat at opposite sides of the long lounge, each with a steaming glass in their hand, filled with amber liquid. The Blacks, it must be noted, had not degenerated into firewhisky fueled evenings. Orion and Walburga Black sipped at their nightly cocktail; Orion might not even finish his, leaving a half-empty glass for Kreacher to clean up later, after they'd gone to bed; Walburga would finish just before dinner. There were rituals in the Black home.

Regulus, seated by the fire, did not carry on the pretense of drinking. Instead, he had a glass of water on an ornate stand beside him.

"-hardly think it appropriate for her," his mother was saying in her nasal tone. "She is but what? Sixteen?"

"Hmm," said Regulus.

"Ah, Walburga, we met younger than that," Orion said affably.

Because they were cousins, thought Sirius. And not even distant cousins, at that. They were first cousins, sharing a name and grandparents. They would have met in the cradle.

"And I had all the benefits of finishing my education," Walburga pointed out. "I was the one waiting for you to graduate, if you recall."

"Perfectly, my dear," said Orion. "And I'm grateful to this day."

Regulus snorted. "She isn't being taken out of school," he said. "It's hardly anything like that. It's simply that their parents – her parents and his – think it prudent to have an engagement. That way… well. The Muggle culture has swept up the school. There's all manner of carousing – drinking, sex, all sorts of debauchery."

"But–"

"Mother," said Regulus, with no small amount of exasperation, "it was not my decision. I am merely the messenger. She's engaged, that is most of what I know."

"Still," said Walburga, frowning, and sipping at her cocktail. "She is my goddaughter. I am surprised her parents did not tell me."

Sirius pulled back a little, grimacing. For whatever reason – and Sirius thought it likely it was at least a little to do with Walburga's well-stocked account at Gringott's – his parents were quite popular with their set. She had quite a number of godchildren; he thought this particular godchild might be Lucy Abernathy, who seemed about the right age, and was a poisonous little Slytherin. Grimacing, he turned away–

"Our informant at Hogwarts claims she will continue her studies."

Sirius jerked back, nearly falling against the door. Catching himself just in time, he sagged against the wall, heart racing. Was it his imagination, or had Orion's eyes flicked toward him? But no, his father had turned his attention back to Regulus, the older, more favored son.

Focus, he told himself. The tiara would have told him to empty his mind. Sirius tried to do that, though he'd never been able to properly do it. The tiara could have helped… But instead, Sirius did it alone.

"And who is this informant?" Walburga asked.

Sirius nearly cheered her.

"I still do not know," admitted Regulus.

"You believed it to be one of the governors," prompted Orion.

Regulus shrugged. "It is hardly my business to speculate; I do so more out of curiosity… you know that the Dark Lord does not always… share the identities of every wizard who serves him."

"Of course," said Walburga, crossing her legs, and having a sip of her cocktail. "It's the wise thing to do… who knows how he might be betrayed?"

"Perhaps that is why–"

But Regulus cut his own words off, clamping his jaw shut in such a way that Sirius could see it even across the room.

"What is it, son?" Orion asked.

Regulus sighed, leaning forward, but otherwise ignored his father.

His mother, it seemed, was more difficult to ignore. "What is it, Regulus?" she asked, with a softness she had hardly ever granted Sirius.

"His mood is… dark of late," admitted Regulus. "Since May, so it's been months. He is… deeply unhappy with something and I do not know why."

"Perhaps the pox…?"

Regulus waved his hand at this speculation. "The pox is nearly over; the healers agree that it has run its course. So I don't know why the Dark Lord should be angry about it. You know old Abraxan Malfoy recovered from it? Everyone thought he was near dead… he was one of the few purebloods who managed to catch it… But no, the Dark Lord's mood couldn't have to do with that. It's just something he hasn't shared yet."

Dark anger was billowing up inside Sirius. Voldemort was angry, was he? And there was his stupid brother, incapable of doing the multiplication required to show him that Voldemort had authored the pox and his mood now was specifically because Harry's foolhardy nobility had thwarted him from decimating the wizarding population in Britain and beyond.

"Wizard like that," Orion said affably, "he'll have a lot of concerns. Grandfather Arcturus says Grindelwald was the same way."

"Likely," said Regulus, "but the Dark Lord will not end up imprisoned in his own stronghold, I assure you."

"Merlin make it so," said Walburga.

"How is Grandfather Arcturus?" Regulus asked, in a naked attempt to change the subject. Regulus might be ten years older than Sirius, but Sirius could still recognize his brother's conversational ploys. "I haven't seen him since I… left for Europe last year."

When he took old Arcturus's key! As Sirius had thought, Regulus had yet to return it.

The Blacks, of course, had watched Grindelwald quite closely, approving his actions on the continent, and – Sirius was sure – hoping that the anti-Muggle sentiment would cover the British Isles. Not all of the Blacks had actively participated in Grindelwald's campaign, of course. Certainly, his parents hadn't; they'd been infants and children during the height of it. Walburga's father, Pollux, had stayed well out of it, leaving it to his wife, Irma, to prove her loyalty to Grindelwald and to die in the process, leaving her three children motherless. It was Arcturus, however, who had done the bulk of the Black contribution to Grindelwald's affairs. Family rumor was that he'd kept no small amount of keepsakes from that era, keeping them hidden well enough that if the Aurors came to the large manor house in Norfolk, they would find nothing but an elderly couple living with a handful of family members.

Eyes on his brother, Sirius slowly backed out of the room.

He pulled the invisibility cloak more tightly around himself, thoughts already turning back to his mission here. If Regulus was in the sitting room still with their parents – they were likely going to have dinner; Sirius had time to search the room and get out of the house before Regulus made his way up the stairs.

Indeed, it was with great ease that Sirius made it to the third floor. There were two rooms on this floor: Sirius's and Regulus's. Neither were as opulent as his parents's sprawl of rooms, but they were goodly sized. Sirius ignored the door to the room in which he had spent the worst days of his young life – in truth, he could hardly pick which he'd liked least, Azkaban or Grimmauld Place. They'd both been prisons of their own kind. With a flicker of a grin – the tiara would have appreciated this small joke – Sirius pressed his wand to his brother's door. A hum of connection rose up his arm. Yes, Regulus had not only ordered the elf to stay out of his room, but he'd performed charms to keep anyone else out.

"Not enough," whispered Sirius, grunting. In fact, he'd taken these exact charms off the doors before, in the future. He knew which words to murmur; he knew the exact, clockwise motion he needed to make with his wand. It had been the work of an entire sweltering, summer day to research this. But Sirius had it undone within ten minutes. Wand still in hand, he pushed open the door and ghosted inside. "What are you hiding, Reg?" Sirius whispered.

But no one answered.

The room was pristine, of course, even the fireplace was clear of ashes and soot and old logs. It sat across from the large, four-poster bed covered in dark bedclothes. There was very little that was personal in this room: There was no chest of drawers with a sign over it that read Grindelwald's Key Right Here. There were no arrows on the floor that pointed to a likely hiding place.

But, knowing Regulus, he kept anything important hidden magically.

With a sigh, Sirius knelt on the floor, yanking the invisibility cloak out from under his knees and letting it pool all around him. Palm pressed to the floor, he sought a thrum or an echo of magic. This close to the door, there was nothing. Making his way across the room, he finally felt an echo beneath his palm. Placing the tip of his wand just there, he whispered: "Vestigia." Mist streamed up between his fingers, catching in his nose, making him let out a quiet sneeze. It wafted across the room, toward the fireplace, then disappeared.

"Damn it," Sirius muttered. "And what do you think, eh?"

After a moment, he crawled on his knees over to the fireplace. "Specialis vestigia."

This time, it was a golden mist that rose, with some effort from Sirius, and formed the shape of a key and twisted in an unseen lock. A hidden compartment in one of the pillars opened with a mundane click, revealing a small, velvet bag.

Sirius waved the mist away, held his wand in his teeth, careful to keep hold of the Hand of Glory, and pulled out the velvet bag. A little shock went through his fingertips. After that faded, Sirius pulled open the drawstrings and dumped out the key.

"Damn!" muttered Sirius. It was not all in one piece, but rather three, and a small stick had fallen to the floor and came dangerously near the fire. Grabbing it up, he shifted the three pieces, getting a good look at them. All were made of wood: One was the shape of a triangle, the second a circle, and the third a stick. There were runes carved into them, plated with silver, and grooves in them to show Sirius where they were meant to fit together.

Together, they were no bigger than the palm of his hand. But as they were together, the silvery runes began to glow; in his palm, the key heated.

Sirius broke them apart, stuffed them in the velvet bag, and pocketed them. Now it was in his possession, urgency swamped him. The Hand of Glory was slick in his grasp, but he managed to keep hold of it back down through the house. His heart racing, he fled, not wanting all his charms and precautions to fail him now, now when he finally had the key to Nurmengard… Nurmengard, where surely they would find themselves on their first steps back to where they belonged…

Later, Sirius would not recall how he got out of there without getting caught. But he managed it, and within minutes, he was back in the dingy air of London, standing across from his family's house. He was nearly unable to believe he'd done it, had gotten in and out with this in his pocket…

Fumbling with the Hand of Glory, he secured in the same wrapping Dung had used, which had still been lying on the grass where they'd left it.

Without warning, it was as though lightning flashed through his mind. Sirius grunted. Hands shaking, all he could think was one thing: How much he wanted to return to Hogwarts and retrieve the tiara. It would know exactly what to do with this, exactly how to make the trip to Nurmengard worth the risk. All he had to do was Apparate to the gates and make the climb. It was right there, waiting for him, wasn't it? He'd done fine this evening, with a bit of luck, but what if his luck didn't hold when they went to Austria? He needed the tiara… it was like having the voice of Dumbledore helping him, but without Dumbledore's impositions…

It would be faster, even, than getting in and out of Grimmauld Place. He could do it. Half an hour, at most, and Sirius would have the luxury of knowing exactly what needed to be done at exactly the right time.

SBSBSBSBSBSBSBSBSBSBSBSBSB

It took all of Sirius's willpower to set aside the urge to go get the tiara. Instead, he went elsewhere.

"Sol!"

Marlene opened the door, beaming. "I thought you said you were busy tonight?"

"I… was," mumbled Sirius. The key was heavy in his pocket. He had done it. Forcing a grin, he said, "but I finished with my… errand earlier than I expected. I wanted to see you." None of this was a lie, but it felt like one. Sirius's hands were clammy and his heart was beating at an erratic rate. The loneliness yawning in him since he'd stood outside Grimmauld Place did not seem to abate. The yearning to go to Hogwarts rose up once more within him; with effort, he pushed it down again. Instead, he said, "May I come in?"

"Of course," she said, cheerful, opening the door widely enough to allow him through. "We were playing a game, we've just finished, but I think we've time for another!" There were two bright spots on her cheeks and there was a sparkle in her eyes. A half-full glass of bright pink liquid told him her reaction was at least partially based on alcohol.

"Cheers!"

There was quite a little crowd in Marlene's flat, Sirius noticed for the first time. A cluster of blonds sat on every surface available. Sirius's heart gave an unwelcome squeeze.

"Cheers!" he said, with as much of it as he could muster.

Marlene's smile faltered. It must not have been enough.

Determined now, he clapped his hands together. He'd wanted to erase the sights, the sounds, and everything about Grimmauld Place from his mind. Playing some sort of card game – based on the evidence before him – was not how he would have chosen to accomplish that, but… who said it wouldn't work?

"Actually," said Marlene, leaning against the wall and folding her arms, "it's later than I thought."

The crowd gave a good-natured groan. The oldest, a granny, was heaved to her feet. "You act like you're the old lady," she accused, as she kissed Marlene's cheek. But then, winking, she said, "I know you just want to spend time with your lad here."

One of the younger men – boys, Sirius thought – whistled. "Is he your boyfriend, Marlene?" the boy teased.

"Haha," said Marlene, flushing. Her eyes caught Sirius's.

It was expected of him, at this moment, to confirm what they were together. They'd had several dates, they were sleeping together… But are we together? Her eyes seemed to ask him. Are you my boyfriend? Am I your girlfriend? Are you willing to admit it in front of my family?

Sirius disentangled his gaze from hers, looking back to the living room, where more than one goblet of the bright pink boozy drink was left behind.

"None of your business, Jamie McKinnon!" she said, after a long pause. Sirius knew her well enough to know the cheer in her voice was feigned. "Now, go on with you, all of you!"

As the family filed out, Sirius focused on clearing up the debris from what looked to be quite a little party. No wonder the McKinnons had been censured by The Daily Prophet. But there was no getting around that awkward moment; the back of his neck prickled with the awkwardness of it. A little silence fell over them.

"I'm sorry," Sirius said, finally breaking the silence.

"For what?" Marlene asked, using her wand like a conductor's baton to march her now-clean goblets into the cabinets where they belonged.

"For coming over like that," said Sirius.

"I don't mind," said Marlene, avoiding his gaze.

"I should have known that you'd have company…"

"I don't mind you coming over," Marlene repeated with more force. She sliced her wand, and all the cabinet doors shut firmly. "I don't mind that. It's normal for relationships." Her gaze was direct. "Though I am curious now if we're in one or not."

Sirius looked at her.

"We do everything people in relationships do," she added. "Sex included."

"Sometimes," Sirius said carefully, "it isn't wise to let on about one's private things."

Disbelief tightened her features. "What does that matter?" she asked. "We're adults, aren't we?"

"Yes," said Sirius. "We're adults. But I'm an adult who does… certain things for Dumbledore. You understand?"

"Of course I understand!" Marlene scoffed. "I do too, you aren't alone in that. But I'm not sure why that matters, that's not a part of this, is it?"

"It could be," Sirius said, "if I were caught."

Her flat was well-lit and prettily decorated. But they might well have been in that abandoned Underground station, the one that led to the cemetery, which Dumbledore had inexplicably chosen for headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix. Perhaps it was a result of working so closely with Frank Longbottom, whom fate had not treated kindly, but Marlene's unfortunate fate loomed between them.

She was entirely oblivious to it.

Why did I strike things up with her? Sirius asked silently. When I know how it must end?

No one answered.

In that void, Sirius reached out and took her hand. "I worry, love, I'm sorry. The world's mad right now… if I put you at risk…"

It took a long moment for her to soften. "Platitudes you're offering me?" she asked, suspicious. There was tension in her hand; she was about to pull away.

"They're platitudes because they work," said Sirius.

"Sol…"

"These are dangerous times," said Sirius. His younger self was still blissfully unaware of that; Marlene was still innocent. But Sirius had all the weight of the years between 1978 and 1996 on his shoulders, pressing down on him. Puzzlement and understanding welled up in her blue eyes.

"All right," she said softly, allowing him to pull her closer. "We'll have it your way, but…"

"But?"

She bit her lip, then gave her head a swift shake. "It's nothing," she said, now sheepish.

And for the next few hours, the small disagreement receded into the background. Marlene was a warm woman; Sirius lost himself in her. It was, to his surprise, the culmination of his boyhood fantasies to spend an evening in bed with Marlene McKinnon. It wasn't every time they had sex that he thought about it. But he'd been dreaming of her for years… having her arms around him, her naked body pressed against his, and her ragged whisper in his ear as he moved within her… it was almost enough to make him forget the weight of the years and what was coming for them all.

It was only too bad that it was Sol's name she cried out when he brought her to completion.