The other students arrived in cheerful flurries throughout the next day; Harry and Ginny went on a walk around the entire castle, and came back to find an exuberant James and Lily, happy in their new marriage, sitting beside the fire in their usual spots. At the sight of them, Harry drew in a deep breath, and joined in the festival-like atmosphere. Remus stumped in through the portrait hole some time later that night, flicking Harry a thoughtful glance, but did not by word or gesture hint that this was the time that they would meet, much to Harry's relief.

The next day was nearly as cheerful, though term had started in earnest, and they were all pushed through the halls. Flitwick had a twinkle in his eye as he illuminated what the next months would be like: Harry nearly staggered under the weight of the extra reading he was somehow going to have to find time to do. In contrast, McGonagall had told them that they'd studied from books as much as they could. "Now," she said, brows drawn sternly down, "you must put into practice everything you have learned from me since we were turning matches into needles."

Harry took that to mean that every bit of Transfiguration they had ever learned was fair game for being tested during their NEWTs.

Old Bones defied all expectation by not even showing up for his first lesson of the term. Harry and the students – sixth years who did not have the threat of NEWTs looming at the end of the school year – waited for an hour before giving up. Harry wondered if he might have been helping James and Sirius with their independent preparation and forgot he had a class scheduled for that day. Harry left behind the chattering sixth years, all of whom were in Slytherin, and headed down to Potions, where Professor Slughorn had them brewing concentrated Wake Drops. Prior to his informal apprenticeship with Fleamont Potter, Harry might have found it tricky. Now, he breezed through it.

Potions was not a NEWT he worried about.

Same with Defense Against the Dark Arts, which met the following day, a Wednesday.

Professor Merrythought, who had spent most of fall term sleeping while they reviewed their notes from the previous years, was another matter. The Wednesday following the start of term, she passed out a pile of textbooks that had to be even more ancient than she was. "These are what I learned from," she said creakily. "They're the best, the most comprehensive… they don't sell these in the stores anymore, more's the pity… I had to order them from a private collector…" Her words seemed to dart around, and her eyes went in and out of focus.

"By next Wednesday, when we meet again, I want you to have reviewed the first five chapters. The subjects," she added, "should be familiar to you." The ancient professor slumped, apparently exhausted by the effort of passing out books, eyes half-closed. Rousing slightly, she added, "Remember? We meet Friday, too, but for an independent study lesson?"

"Right," the class chorused back at her.

Harry bent his head, grinning at Ginny. "Still better than Lockhart?"

"Much," said Ginny.

In truth, Harry liked Galatea Merrythought well enough. In her, he saw flashes of what must have been a brilliant professor. His grandfather – who had been taught by her – praised her for having taught him everything he knew about Defense Against the Dark Arts. When, once, Harry had ventured to say that Professor Merrythought might be rather… old… for the position, Fleamont had told him, quite firmly, that whatever Galatea Merrythought had forgotten about Defense Against the Dark Arts, it was more than most people ever knew.

Despite being weighted by studies, Harry felt light-hearted as he moved through the first week of the final term. He'd written to Sirius, asking him to meet in the next few weeks – the first Sunday in February, at the Hog's Head; Sirius had responded quite promptly with an affirmative. Likewise, Ginny had heard from Arthur Weasley. The scroll had been flat and much-read by the time Ginny had let Harry take a look at it.

"He wants to meet with us," she said, elated. "He's cautious, but he wants to meet with us at the house!"

That, too, was dealt with. A reply from Arthur came promptly: His schedule at the Ministry was rather full at the moment, but come February, he would be able to promise his Saturdays to working for them, as long as they all agreed to the arrangement.

The one discordant note came that first Friday, when he came all the way to the Old Bones's classroom and found the sixth years milled around him and a note on the door.

Class is postponed until further notice. Please attend to your Divination studies in the library.

It was not even written in Old Bones's elegant script: Harry recognized Dumbledore's hand-writing when he saw it. The sixth years wandered away while Harry stared at the note for a minute, perplexed.

Divination was meant to be the last class of the day. Harry spent a restless hour in the library, then tossed his Divination text back into his bag – they were studying planetary movement and their effect on the future, which made his head ache – then headed to the Great Hall, where he hoped to find both snacks and companionship.

"James!" he said, relieved.

His father sat at the end of Gryffindor table, a plate of sandwiches in front of him, and Nimue, Lily's cat, sitting next to his goblet of water, fluffy tail twitching.

"You don't want any of this, it's not for cats," James was telling Nimue quite seriously. "Hey, Harry."

"Where is everyone?" Harry asked.

"Sirius and Remus are finishing up with a project," said James, lifting his half-eaten sandwich above his head. "No, Nimue, I promise, you won't like it! And Lily had to send a letter to Mary… she's mad at her for some reason."

"Lily's mad at Mary?" Harry asked, bewildered.

"No," James took a quick bite. "Mary's mad at Lily. I dunno. It's witch stuff."

"Hm," said Harry, eyes wandering to the head table. Flitwick had appeared there during Harry's short conversation with his father.

"Witch stuff is complicated," said James, shrugging. "All right, fine, you can have some, but don't say I didn't warn you."

As though to prove him wrong, Nimue ate a rather large portion of the egg salad sandwich. Harry stifled a laugh as James sighed.

More teachers were filing in, Professor Merrythought leaning heavily on her cane as she did so. Seeing them reminded Harry of Old Bones being missing without explanation.

"I haven't seen Old Bones all week," said Harry, watching James feed Nimue bits of egg with his fingertips. "We were supposed to have him Tuesday, but he never showed up… I thought he might have been with you lot." He paused. James said nothing. "I guess not. And he wasn't there today, either… there was just a note on the door that we were supposed to study in the library…"

James's ears turned red. Harry leaned back, eyebrows slowly raising. Did James know something? Harry had just been making conversation, but now he pressed on: "I'm a little worried," he said, watching James closely. His father kept his eyes on Nimue. "I wonder what could be wrong…"

"Mm," James said.

Harry leaned forward. "Do you know something?"

"Look," said James, cracking, avoiding his eyes, petting Nimue, who was kneading frantically at his robes, "I don't know much more than you do. Old Bones needed a favor, though, but I couldn't… Dad said it just wasn't possible."

Harry wondered what the favor was, but could tell that James wasn't going to reveal anything further.

"I wonder if Old Bones and Dumbledore are off somewhere together," said James. "Maybe they went on holiday."

"That's likely," laughed Harry.

It was strange, looking up at the head table and seeing a much younger set of professors. James was right; Old Bones was not the only Professor missing. Harry suspected that few, if any, people were aware of what Dumbledore was doing, just that he hadn't been seen at the head table since before term started. Only Galatea Merrythought represented their more elderly professors, and she had fallen asleep in her chair as she so often did during class.

At least she isn't anything like Umbridge, Harry reminded himself, though he did regret that this, his last year at Hogwarts, didn't offer much learning when it came to Defense Against the Dark Arts. The texts themselves were written in such dense language that Harry thought students who had attended the school fifty years ago might have a better chance at understanding. Adding to that frustration, Harry discovered, while flipping through to the end of the book, an entire chapter that had words missing, leaving misty holes in sentences, making entire paragraphs totally incomprehensible.

"Don't worry," Ginny assured him more than once, "Dumbledore's promised to teach us, remember?"

It was a good point, and one that made Harry let go of any building sense of dissatisfaction. But more and more, during the Divination lessons that were no lessons at all, but held in the library, Harry found himself flipping through his Defense Against the Dark Arts text. Any excitement he'd felt at learning Divination was gone, tied more to Old Bones's charm and teaching style rather than any interest in the subject itself. But again and again, he found himself looking at footnotes in Demystifying the Darkness and chasing down information, most often located in the Restricted Section.

Madam Pince eyed him with increasing suspicion.

In the beginning of February, two weeks after the start of term, Harry found himself standing in front of a shelf in the Restricted Section, where books such as Secrets of the Darkest Art, The Cursed Life of Herpo the Foul, The Good Fight of Salim the Auror, and Torn Asunder: A Warning. All these, and more, were written of in the footnotes of the mysterious chapter. None of them appeared on the shelves. Disappointed, Harry stared at it, wondering if some other student had checked these books out before he could get to them…

But what was he to make of an entire chapter that had more missing sentences than complete ones?

The Auror is tasked, too, with the xxxxxxxxxxx of the xxxxxxx. Xxx xxxxxx was first xxxxxxx by xxxxx the xxxx, and is a xxxxxxxx of such xxxx that xxxxxxx xxxxxx.

Annoyed, Harry snarled at the empty shelf.

"What are you doing in here?"

Harry startled, whirling to look at Madam Pince.

"Well?" she snapped.

"Er, nothing," said Harry. "Well, looking for books." He gestured toward the shelves. "What happened to those ones?"

"Nothing you need to worry about."

"Did someone take them?"

"That's none of yours."

"Well, they're in the footnotes of Demystifying the Darkness," Harry said, exasperated. "It seems like an entire chapter's been erased." Then, muttering, he added: "I thought it was supposed to demystify, not mystify. It's all gone!"

"Perhaps on purpose," Madam Pince said very coldly. Her nostrils flared, and there seemed to be some sort of struggle written on her face. "Come away from those shelves, or I will deduct points from your house."

Harry relented and followed her back to his table. To his surprise, there was a scroll floating above it, tied off with a bit of thread.

"You have a note," Madam Pince said, rather unnecessarily.

"Thanks," said Harry, with as little sarcasm as he could manage.

It turned out to be from Old Bones, with orders to meet him down by the path into the Forbidden Forest that led into it from beside the lake, not beside Hagrid's hut. Harry thumped into his chair, blinking at the note in surprise. They'd had no word from him since the start of term, but now here was this, an invitation to an outing.

Harry grabbed his things he'd just set down a few minutes ago and headed out of the library, ignoring Madam Pince's quiet harrumph.

Harry was distracted, sliding down the snowy hill toward the Forbidden Forest, just behind two sixth years who were speaking loudly of a Christmas engagement. Idly, part of him wondered why Divination was being held outside today: the sky was slate gray, and swollen clouds stacked above them. As far as he knew, there were no ways to divine the future on such a threatening January day. There were no frogs to sing them songs of coming storms.

And would we even need one? Harry thought, peering up at the sky.

It was not Old Bones but his flying carpet that waited for them just outside the Forbidden Forest. With James and Sirius doing their own studies, and Peter having graduated when he was meant to, Harry was the oldest one in the class. The rest were sixth years, four girls and one boy. The girls clustered together, gathered around the one with the ring, while the boy slouched against the tree. All five were in Slytherin, proud of it, and Harry hadn't bothered to get to know them.

Still, he couldn't help but listen to the breathless, excited conversation being conducted by all four girls.

"—size of that ring!"

"—I've heard his family is one of the wealthiest—"

Harry, walking behind them, trying not to listen, rolled his eyes.

"—Mr. Nott says—"

"You mean your fiancé, don't you? Do you still call him Mr. Nott?"

Three girls laughed rather shrilly.

"It's habit, I can't help it."

Harry slowed, staring at the back of the engaged girl. Nott. There had been a Theodore Nott in his class at school. It took a bit of work to call up an image of him in his mind; he hadn't been one of Malfoy's cronies, but had been indisputably Slytherin, peering down his long nose at everyone, nearly always sneering. Was this his mother? It could be.

More importantly, Harry remembered the name from the graveyard. Voldemort had called one of his returning Death Eaters by that name: Nott. Harry had had the impression of an old man…

"How old is he?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

If he'd had any doubt that this was Theodore Nott's mother, the sneer now affixed on her face erased them. "That's none of yours," she said coldly.

Harry didn't care. His curiosity had already waned. The witches had fallen into a sullen silence, which was just as well: they'd reached the place where Old Bones had told them to meet him. It was not a path that Harry had ever taken into the Forbidden Forest. During his detentions, or during illicit jaunts into the out-of-bounds area, Harry had always found it most convenient to use the trail that led from Hagrid's hut. Still, eyes roving over the restless, slate gray lake, Harry frowned at the familiarity of this view. It was as though he'd stood right here, recently, though that was not the case.

Shaking away his thoughts, Harry turned back to the forest, where a path yawned ahead of them, leading into darkness. Were they expected to go in?

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind that Harry heard a distant shout and a crack.

Without a word, Harry brought his wand out and plunged into the Forbidden Forest. Snapping a bit in the wind, the flying carpet followed him.

"Wait!"

"We're not supposed to—"

"Let him do it," said the lone other wizard in the group, "a Gryffindor brute just can't help himself."

Ignoring this, Harry continued along the path. Within feet, the trees and undergrowth enfolded him; within yards, he might have been deep in the forest. "Old Bones?" he called. There was no sight or sound of any living creature. "Old Bones! Where are you?" Uncertain now, Harry paused, taking in his surroundings: vast, ancient trees covered the sky, retaining their green; skeletal shrubs encircled them, their bony fingers reaching outward, constantly attempting to grab at Harry's robes, his hair, and his skin.

There was another sound, just up ahead, the sound of a branch breaking…

Or bones cracking, Harry thought.

Moving as quickly as he could, diving slightly toward the right, keeping his feet on the path, Harry tracked the sound. Now, however, along with the noise of a restless, wintry forest, whose creatures seemed afraid, somehow, to come out, Harry could also hear voices.

"As I have said, you are not welcome here."

"I am a professor at Hogwarts," said Old Bones, as Harry's shoulders slumped with relief. "I can go anywhere I want."

Heavy feet cracked another branch.

"You are in our territory."

Peering around the next tree, Harry at last recognized who was talking to Old Bones: A centaur stood there, crossbow held at the ready. His hair was long, matted, and black. His naked chest was covered in hair nearly as thick. His horse body, though, was nearly as pure a white as a unicorn.

Even more curious, however, was where they were standing, which was a small clearing that opened up to the sky. Ruins were strewn around, marble circles, with colored rocks embedded into them. Something about the pattern was familiar to Harry.

"The standing stones of the wandering stars isn't owned by centaurs," Old Bones said. He stood in the middle, slumped against a darkly yellow rock.

It's the solar system, Harry thought. There, in the middle, was the sun. Circling around it were the planets. Curiosity filled him. Was this a site of centaur magic? Ever since Harry had met his first centaur, he had known they were concerned with the workings of the heavens.

"You look ill." The centaur said this with great disgust.

"My students… they are meeting me…"

"I'm right here," Harry announced, stepping out from behind a tree. "Old Bones, what is this place?"

"This place," the centaur spat, "is no concern for wizards."

Old Bones waved his hand. His legs seemed shaky, for he was scrabbling against the cracked pillar that represented the sun. "I dreamed of this place…"

Harry stepped closer, concern filling him. There was a distinctly yellowish cast to Old Bones's features, his eyes were wide and jaundiced, and his mouth trembled. Aghast, Harry looked from him to the centaur. "Old Bones, I think you need–"

But Harry was unable to finish his sentence, for at that moment, Old Bones pushed himself away from the pillar, leaned over his knees, and vomited blood upon the ground. Red drops of it splattered against the pillar, dark red against the white. The centaurs hooves trampled branches as he leapt backward.

In contrast, Harry shoved himself forward. "Old Bones!" he cried, panic making his voice thready.

"I'll leave this to you." The centaur announced. "If he wakes, tell him he is not welcome here. It is sacred to centaurs."

Harry ignored this, tearing off his robes, leaving himself in thin trousers and shirt. The cold stung, but he was much too concerned for the Divination professor to care. "Accio," he said. Old Bones's flying carpet zoomed toward him. Gingerly, gently, Harry wrapped his robes around Old Bones, who had stopped vomiting, but was now moaning. Bloody froth wetted his mouth. For a moment, Harry cringed away, but forced himself to help Old Bones onto the carpet, careful not to get any blood on himself.

"I'll get you to the castle," Harry promised, "I'll get you to help. They'll take you to St. Mungo's…"

Old Bones gave a shake of his head – or at least, Harry thought he did. The old man's entire body was shaking. Harry cast a warming charm, held his wand raised, and strode off down the path the way he had come.

The next hours were a blur. Harry plunged out of the forest with Old Bones in tow, surprising the knot of Slytherins. One of the girls – not Theodore Nott's mother, but one of the others – let out a scream. Harry managed to tell them to get out of the way, and to get Madam Pomfrey, that Old Bones was sick… for the first time, looking at them, Harry wondered if Old Bones were not sick at all, but cursed… One of them set off at a sprint, fairly flying up toward the castle, while the others escorted Harry and Old Bones in a wide ring.

Madam Pomfrey met them on the stone stairs.

"Madam Pomfrey," said Harry, "he's collapsed and vomited up–"

"Blood," she finished, grimly unsurprised. "Help me get him up to the hospital wing, would you? I'll meet you there." Turning away, she muttered, "Slughorn ought to have finished that potion by now…"

Students watched, pale-faced, as Harry continued to lead the prone Old Bones to the hospital wing. The weight of all their eyes made the place between his shoulder blades itch, but he continued onward. The hospital wing was cold and empty when he arrived. Looking around, he settled Old Bones on the bed closest to Madam Pomfrey's office, hiding it halfway with a privacy screen.

By the time he'd finished, Madam Pomfrey had reappeared, Slughorn in tow, his forehead shining with sweat and a large decanter in his hands. "-it's the least I could do for an old friend," he was saying, "I just wish he'd told us sooner what he was dealing with–"

Madam Pomfrey hushed him upon spying Harry. "Got him settled then? Thank you. We'll take it from here, you may go."

Harry was unable to ignore that sort of dismissal, but he did linger in the doorway until Madam Pomfrey had rather pointedly shut the door. The two professors had not been surprised by Old Bones's collaps; rather, they had seemed to expect it. Harry, who knew little of wizarding illness, suspected that Old Bones had somehow contracted one. But it was not until after dinner – Harry was unable to eat much, thinking only of the blood fountaining out of Old Bones's mouth – that he learned the truth.

"It's spectris," whispered Lily, fingertips pressed over her mouth.

"Oh, God," said Ginny, who sat several feet away from Harry. "That's awful."

"What is that?" Harry asked, looking from Ginny to Lily and back again.

"One of the worst illnesses," Sirius said, pale and glum. "It attacks the organs, bit by bit."

"There are methods to prolong life," said Lily, troubled, rubbing James's shoulders, "but the treatments can't get rid of it fully."

James, who had had his head in his hands for the last thirty minutes, looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed and intent on Harry. "There's no sacriphant for spectris," he said, intense. "Old Bones isn't – he's not…" His voice broke.

"Merlin, I love that old man," Sirius said.

"We knew," Lily said. "He told us before term started." Her green eyes were bright as she looked down at her saddened husband. "But he asked us not to tell anyone."

"I wish…" James said, but did not finish his thought.

Their conversation wound down. Sirius went off to the Owlery to send a letter to Peter. James and Lily went up to bed, arms wrapped around each other.

"Come on, Harry," said Ginny.

They were still a careful distance apart, but she might as well have held her hand outstretched to him and pulled him after her. With a sense of relief, Harry followed her. They went into their own rooms, rather ostentatiously giving each other a rather formal good night for the benefit of the other occupants of the Gryffindor common room, none of whom were paying them any attention. Harry stayed in his only long enough to grab his invisibility cloak, count to a hundred, and then slip out of his room and across the hall.

Later, much later, after the rest of the castle had gone to bed, Harry lay more than half asleep, wrapped around Ginny. Out the window, even the Astronomy Tower was unlit: the stormy, blizzardy January and February had not been conducive to studying the movements of the planets. Professor Sinistra had many of her Astronomy students working in the library as well.

But that did not matter in that particular moment. In fact, very little about Hogwarts, its professors, and the perpetual storms had bothered Harry for much of the last hour. His worries had disappeared, smoothed away by tender touches. Pleasure with Ginny had washed away his thoughts. How could he think of unpleasant things when her fingertips tickled up his back and down lower whenever he moved inside her? It was impossible, that, during these moments when she became the only real thing in this world full of ghosts and haunts…

When both were replete, Harry snuggled them back under the covers, pulling his pajamas back on as Ginny did the same. Arms wrapped around each other, Harry stayed quiet, stroking the red fall of her hair over his chest. Bit by bit, to his great reluctance, awareness seeped back in.

"I forgot I'm meeting Sirius tomorrow," Harry said thickly, wanting sleep, but unable to make that last slide.

Ginny mumbled something, her warm breath seeping through his pajama shirt.

One of these days, Harry thought, I'm going to get caught in here…

He could not help but think it would be worth it.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

After the disastrous Divination lesson, Harry nearly sent an owl to Sirius to postpone their meeting at the Hog's Head. He even went so far as to walk with Ginny all the way out to the Owlery, with a blank bit of parchment in his pocket. Ginny handed him a quill and wandered over to find a willing owl. But, staring down at the blank parchment, Harry suddenly and swiftly changed his mind.

"I think I'll meet him after all," he announced.

Ginny looked over at him. It was cool and dark in the Owlery, and her face was rather pale in the faint light of the sullen winter sun coming through the narrow windows. "Really?"

"Yeah," said Harry. "It's not like I can do anything here."

"True," said Ginny, rubbing her arms with her hands to warm herself up.

But Harry, who had helped Old Bones get back to the castle, could not help but feel some responsibility toward the well-being of the professor. It kept going through his mind: the collapse, the fountain of blood coming from his mouth, and the great, purplish bruise forming on his stomach when Madam Pomfrey had pulled apart his robes.

"James and Lily are still going to go mead-tasting," Ginny said quietly, fiddling quite pleasantly with the hair on the back of his neck. "I think I'd still like to go with them."

Harry nodded. "It might be better," he said ruefully, "to talk to him on his own."

"I know it will be," Ginny said dryly.

Sunday had Harry plodding with regret down to Hogsmeade. It was not a weekend that the rest of the students were allowed out of the castle, so he was alone the entire way down the road. It did not help that it was both clear and bitterly cold. Nerves fluttered in his stomach, and Harry had to keep his mind's eye fixed on the picture Dorcas Meadowes had drawn of Sirius reaching out his hand.

Sirius needs me more than Old Bones, Harry told himself more than once. There was nothing, in fact, that Harry could do for Old Bones, in fact. What drew him more was how pretty and inviting Ginny had looked as she'd set out of the Gryffindor common room with James and Lily, Sirius and Remus, ready to meet up with Peter and Mary Macdonald – who'd apparently been mollified by whatever Lily had written in her letter – in Godric's Hollow for a bit of winter mead.

Instead, Harry was meeting with Sirius, who'd been cold and angry with him ever since their October jaunt to Nurmengard.

But Harry wasn't going to leave his godfather standing with his hand outstretched, so he continued onward.

The Hog's Head was predictably empty. Harry was a few minutes early, and was thus surprised to find Sirius already leaning up against the bar, relaxed, and having a conversation with Aberforth. Well, Sirius was having a conversation. Aberforth was offering the occasional grunt. Harry found a hook and hung his cloak up on it. Almost immediately, he regretted it. The fire at the opposite side of the room was doing little to heat up the room: It was nearly as cold inside the Hog's Head as it was outside.

Shrugging a little, Harry stepped forward, clearing his throat.

Sirius's smile, it seemed, was genuine.

"There he is," he said. "Ab, we'll have that drink now. I ordered us firewhiskey, neat, is that all right? When I got here, there was a poor French lady–"

"-was lost," Aberforth muttered.

"Who was clearly lost," said Sirius. "She asked for some sort of fanciful, tropical drink… elderberry nectar and coconuts and everything…"

Harry laughed politely. The Hog's Head was not the type of place to offer elderberry nectar. "Firewhiskey is fine," he said.

Aberforth gestured them toward a table by the fire.

There was a bit of an awkward moment as they waited for their drinks.

"No Ginny?" Sirius asked, breaking the silence.

"No, she's got… something else," said Harry, jiggling his leg. "James and Lily asked her – us, actually – to go to Godric's Hollow for some sort of mead tasting. But… you know." At this, he gave his godfather a very direct look. "I wanted to see you."

Sirius opened his mouth to say something, but Aberforth had stumped over, giving them a rather grumpy look. His apron had a burn in it, as though he'd spilled a bit of firewhiskey on it. He'd delivered their two firewhiskies with ill-grace. Harry took his with a murmur of gratitude that Aberforth ignored so completely, he might have taken lessons from Lily's cat, Nimue. All too few seconds later, Harry and Sirius were alone again.

He expects an apology from me, Harry thought, slumping into the hard-backed chair. Once more, the odor of stale alcohol and pipe smoke washed over him. To cover his distaste, he took a sip of firewhiskey.

Harry could not apologize for his actions at Nurmengard; he wouldn't apologize for ensuring that his family, his friends, and Ginny awakened from their unplanned nap. But he could acknowledge that this decision had hurt Sirius in ways that Harry didn't truly comprehend. Even at the wedding, when he'd at last spoken to Harry, there'd been a jagged edge to him.

"Listen–" said Harry, abruptly leaning forward.

"Harry–"

They'd both spoken at the same time.

Chuckling a little, Sirius leaned back, swirling the smoking, amber firewhiskey in his water-spotted tumbler. "Harry," he said. "Let me go first, will you? I wanted to say… I do forgive you." This, Harry thought, was high-handed of him, but in the interest of repairing their relationship, he kept his lips pressed together and allowed his godfather to continue. "You're your own person. You make your own decisions. I know that. It took a bit for me to realize that your decisions would be counter to mine."

Harry shrugged, taking a large sip of his own drink to hide his annoyance.

Sirius's voice lowered and roughened. "It's terrible, Harry."

Harry straightened, peering closely at Sirius. His gray eyes were shot with red and he looked sunken in, his cheeks were dark hollows under his cheekbones. He looked, Harry realized, with a twinge of discomfort, quite like his cousin Bellatrix. The tone was unlike Sirius, as hollow as his cheekbones, as empty as his eyes.

"But," said Sirius, voice normal once more, continuing on as though Harry had not just thought he'd appeared like a drowning man. "I've realized that I had some… seriously…"

"Sirius, being serious?" Harry quipped, a beat too late. He and Sirius shared a ghost of a smile.

"Entirely," he said, more cheerful. "Harry, I think my expectations after – you know, Nurmengard – I think I expected that we'd be on our way home the very next day." He frowned, tipping his tumbler this way and that. A drop of it fell to the wood and fizzled. "Firegut," he muttered. "Anyway, it wasn't rational. I wanted to escape, Harry." Once more, here was the vulnerable Sirius. "Part of it was… I wanted to escape the past. But I've been wanting to do that for a very long time, I think. Since before we even left the future."

Harry sank further in his seat. "I know what you mean," he said quietly.

"I know you do," said Sirius, scrubbing at his face. "Which was partly why I was so angry with you – no, don't interrupt. I've been doing some research. It was never going to be as easy as finding that almanac, that grimoire used by the Knights of Walpurgis. There was never going to be an easy way to get back to where we belong. So it was useless for me to blame you."

Harry settled, frowning. There was something discordant in his godfather's words, something he couldn't quite pinpoint, but it was there, snaking through the words he said.

"I'd like things to… return to what it used to be," offered Sirius.

This distracted Harry, who blinked at him. "Of course," he said. There, between them, Harry felt the memory of the first night they'd met. Thirty minutes after learning that Sirius was not a traitor after all, he'd been ready to leave the Dursley's behind forever and move in with a man whose only home the last thirteen years had been a prison. Now, Harry had his own home. "I mean…"

"Good," said Sirius. His face broke into an uncomplicated, happy smile. "Good, Harry!"

Harry answered his smile with one of his own. "Well, go on, then," he said. "Tell me everything you've been up to. D'you have Dung living with you now?"

"He might as well be," said Sirius.

Sirius, it seemed, had been doing quite a bit of research. Harry might have guessed that, having seen the stacks and stacks of books on time travel and the Knights of Walpurgis, but Sirius went into detail on his methodology. "Hermione would be impressed," Harry told him at least three times. That was not his only occupation: he was still gathering up all the money he could, and hoarding most of it at his home rather than his Gringotts vault. Dung, it seemed, was helping him make some useful contacts with the seedier underbelly of the wizarding society. It, too, to Harry's surprise, was dominated by purebloods. But these purebloods didn't hate Muggles or Muggleborns, precisely, but they used them.

"Yeah, Jennit Alley is thick with it," Sirius said, shaking his head. "Lots of Muggleborns… they're not allowed the sort of jobs that'll lift them up, are they?"

"No," said Harry, his eyes still wide.

"So they'll get snapped up by wizards and witches with no scruples," Sirius told him. "They're allowed their wands, but that's about all they've got going for them. Their handlers will…" A dark look crossed his face. "Well. A good few of them are sent overseas by illegal portkey, carrying illegal goods. They'll use Muggles for that, too."

Harry imagined Muggles carrying large dragon eggs, which were illegal in most of Europe, and forced to use transportation that they had no chance of understanding.

"My feelings exactly," said Sirius.

"That's evil," said Harry.

"It's lucrative for them," said Sirius. "But I've been doing a bit of lifting… they're making galleons and galleons. I've been liberating a lot of it from them."

"Good," said Harry.

Sirius had been working on his home, as well. Harry neglected to mention that he and Ginny had bought their own home, and had had several volleys of owls back and forth between themselves and Arthur Weasley, asking him to do the same sort of thing that Sirius was doing with his own house. Squirming in his seat, Harry signaled to Aberforth that he'd like another firewhiskey.

The conversation wound down after that. Sirius began asking Harry questions, doing so quite gently.

"Yeah," Harry said, in answer to whether or not he'd be taking his NEWTs here in 1979. "I don't see why not… I might as well. I could always take them… again, couldn't I?"

Sirius shrugged. "I don't know if there's ever been such a precedent. Which ones will you be going for?"

Harry listed all of his subjects. "And… Divination," he said cautiously. Glancing up, he saw Aberforth sweeping beside the giant fireplace. "Did you know…? About Old Bones…?"

Sirius's face fell. Genuine grief looked out from his gray eyes. "Is it so soon, then?" he murmured. "I honestly couldn't remember when he got ill… I only knew it was after the pox." He shook his head, his long hair swinging wildly. "It was after all of us were out of school. Merlin. I loved that old man."

"He's still teaching," said Harry. "Sort of. But he collapsed the other day. I don't know how long…" He thought for a moment. "And he's not able to teach every class… he's gone a lot. He was gone through January."

"It may not be just his illness," Sirius said gently. "Old Bones was well-known, you know. He'll get on his carpet and go anywhere he pleases."

Harry thought this was rather fanciful of Sirius. Old Bones was ill, after all.

"He was always disappearing off the Map," Sirius continued, half-smiling.

"Maybe he's still looking for something to help him," Harry suggested. "James — you know — said that he asked him for a favor but Fleamont said no."

Sirius shrugged, seeming to still look inward. "James never mentioned it to me," he said. His eyes met Harry's; the gray was bleak as winter. Harry knew, without having to be told, that this was one of the reasons why Sirius hated reliving these years. "But it wouldn't have done any good, whatever it is. Old Bones… well, it's a wizarding ailment no one comes back from."

"I wish," said Harry, "we could change that."

"As do I," said Sirius.

Harry let his head fall forward and traced a bit of the table, flinching when a splinter jabbed into his finger. There was, between godfather and godson, a moment of true understanding for the first time since Nurmengard. While sad, it was not Old Bones's tragedy that weighed him down. It was 1979… Halloween of 1981 loomed ahead of them in the dark. Two years seemed a suddenly short time; it would not be a sick and elderly man who died, but two young and healthy adults who had their entire lives stretched before them.

For the first time, Harry realized it was possible he might have to watch it happen while being able to do nothing. There was no guarantee that he and Ginny and Sirius would be gone by then.

"Sol…" he said. "I'm sorry you have to be here for everything. Again."

The sense of accord between them grew stronger. "Thank you for saying that, Harry," said Sirius. His shoulders slumped, and he muttered something Harry didn't think he was meant to be able to understand. "Thanks. I'm sorry it's been…"

"Me too," Harry said quickly.

For a moment, they smiled at each other. A trickle of awareness went through Harry then — there was quite a lot he was keeping from Sirius — but he didn't want to ruin this moment, which still seemed rather fragile to him.

Harry left the Hog's Head with a great deal more relief than he had expected. Perhaps it was not entirely the same, but Sirius had invited them to stay over Easter… they could spend more time together, they could talk…

As he looked forward to that, Harry felt slightly buoyant as he headed back up toward the castle. Therefore, the walk back up seemed much shorter than the walk down had. True, the NEWTs still loomed; Old Bones was still ill; they were still stuck in 1979. But Sirius was no longer in a burning rage at him, Harry, and a weight had slipped off his shoulders during the hour at the Hog's Head.

He sped up, wondering if he might be able to make it to Godric's Hollow for the last bit of mead tasting after all.