A retelling of the events leading up to and including the Second Wizarding War. Sequel to But He Didn't Want The Moon. Based on and (mostly) weaving through the events of canon.

Years ago, even before BHDWTM, I thought: "Wouldn't it be so intriguing to read the events of the Harry Potter books from Remus Lupin's perspective? Or like, ANY of the adults?" Then Stephanie Meyer did Midnight Sun and I realized I have never had an original idea ever.

But no matter, I did it anyway, and EVERYTHING has been leading me to this.

I will post this story in 7 parts (one for each of the seven books).

PLAYLIST FOR THIS FIC CAN BE FOUND IN MY PROFILE

Note about the playlist: these suggested songs per chapter are based on my reading pace, and everyone's pace is different. Sorry if it's super off for you. General rule of thumb is the song changes when the scene changes, but not always. Use your best judgement, or don't pay attention to the playlist at all. Up to you :)

A link to BHDWTM Stickers by can be found in my profile

I like reviews, the good the bad and the ugly. Don't deprive me of your feedback :)

Disclaimer: all characters and things related to the Harry Potter universe belong to JK Rowling

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Yes, Part III is the first part of the story. No it is not chronological.

From the playlist:

Blood on my Name - The Brother Bright

Paint It Black - Nicholas Yee

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AND THE SUN HELD HER BREATH

PART III

Even after all this time
The sun never says to the earth,
"You owe Me."
Look what happens with
A love like that,
It lights the Whole Sky.

- Hafiz

Chapter 1 - Free

July 22nd, 1993

"Ello, Minister."

Fudge nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the worn voice addressing him. Searching the ground for an imaginary loose bit of rock, he tried to make it seem as though he'd merely tripped. This was a very bad part of the prison for this to be occurring, very bad indeed - not that there was a good part of the prison for it to occur. These inspections were already frightful enough without having to converse with the inmates. The guards never entertained such nonsense.

When a weary chuckle floated up from the prisoner's lips like a wisp of smoke, Fudge realized who he had the displeasure of speaking with. The laughter had been permanently singed into his memory. Puffing out his chest, the Minister pivoted slowly towards the cell.

The man was seated, with one grimy hand extended out through the iron bars pointing to the newspaper in Fudge's grasp. "You finished with that?"

Pale as the parchment, Fudge didn't respond, and instead stared at the top of the man's head like he'd float through the bars to slit his throat.

The prisoner seemed to pursue his train of thought, and let out a deep sigh. "I can't very well sharpen The Prophet into a shiv."

…Odd.

He seemed very…coherent.

Very odd indeed.

Without getting too close, Fudge crouched to peek at him under the matted mess of obsidian hair. A set of sunken, but piercingly gray eyes stared back at him.

"Still pretty, aren't I?" The inmate mused mirthlessly.

"...Mister Black, I must confess: I'm surprised that you…" The Minister's focus drifted off towards where the dementors were hovering up ahead. "...appear to have your wits about you."

The inmate flashed some yellowed teeth. "...I reckon I came in here with a bit more wit to begin with than the rest of these sods; which is why I'd be tickled to have a look at the crossword."

Again, Fudge eyed him with apprehension.

"…C'mon," he coaxed. "Spare a newspaper for a man trying to keep his mind occupied."

The Minister thought long and hard about it, trying to come up with all the dastardly ways Sirius Black could use a newspaper - but each seemed less likely than the last. This inspection had gone on too long, and everything was giving him to creeps.

How much damage could one little newspaper do?

"...Oh, very well then," Fudge ceded, holding on to the furthest corner of the paper as he offered it to him. When Sirius's fingers darted out and snatched it, he flinched.

"Much obliged," Black muttered, staring intently at the photo on the front page and counting .

Fudge observed him, waiting to see if he'd made a huge mistake; but Black remained seated, and seemed to be content just to have something to read…though he wasn't thumbing in search of the crossword.

"Oh, and one more thing," he called out as Fudge had turned to leave.

The Minister jumped again. "Yes, what? What is it?" he stammered

Sirius grinned devilishly. "...Next time, I'll take a copy of Witch Weekly."

Pressing his lips together, Fudge piddled onward, trailing after the dementors.

As soon as the Minister and the guards passed out of view, Sirius slinked back into the darkness of his cell and held up the newspaper, trying to get his eyes to adjust. So it wasn't a trick of the light. To others, the rat sitting on the youngest boy's shoulder must've seemed like nothing more than a well-behaved pet. But Sirius knew.

That was, without a doubt, Peter Pettigrew on the front page of the Daily Prophet.

He skimmed the accompanying article: "Five of Mr. Weasley's seven children will return to Hogwarts in the fall to continue their studies."

He's at Hogwarts.

Sirius checked the date on the paper, then peered up at the tick marks etched into the back wall of the cell. He didn't need to count the days. He knew how long it had been.

He's at Hogwarts.

The phrase echoed in this mind, reverberating obsessively off the guilt that coated its every surface like a patina.

He's at Hogwarts.

July 25th

Jingle.

Scrape.

Clatter.

Slam.

He stood by the bars with his ears back and his knees bent. Though he tried not to shake, he could feel the damn tail trembling between his hind legs.

Jingle.

Scrape.

Clatter.

Slam.

Every day around this time, one of the guards came 'round with a cart of trays bearing the shit they called food. They didn't have to consume it, nor did they have eyes; so to them, it made no difference anyway. One by one, they'd crack open each cell, toss a tray of slop onto the ground, then slam the bars shut once more.

Jingle.

Scrape.

Clatter.

Slam.

Three cells to go.

Inmates had tried to push past the dementors before, and from what he'd heard - the grunts, the muffled screams, the rattling suction, and finally, the chilling silence - Sirius assumed that those prisoners had been permanently incapacitated, so to speak.

But Sirius had a hypothesis. One's mind tends to wander in the silence, you know. This would be his first, and possibly only chance to test it.

Jingle.

Scrape.

Clatter.

Slam.

Two cells.

He'd figured out early on - maybe a couple months in - that he didn't feel quite so ravaged by the dementors when he was in his animagus form. Most of the time, he just laid in the back of the cell as the dog. It was a bit less degrading that way, anyway; eating verifiable mush with no utensils and relieving himself and such.

Jingle.

Scrape.

Clatter.

Slam.

One more.

After a while, Sirius had put it together.

Jingle.

It couldn't be that they chose to leave him alone simply because they preferred the emotions of humans.

Scrape.

They were far too relentless for that kind of apathy.

Clatter.

Perhaps, Sirius thought, they couldn't sense the dog as well.

Slam.

Perhaps, they couldn't sense him at all.

And there was only one, potentially fatal way to find out.

Sirius held his breath as the dementor glided to the bars and lifted the keys.

Jingle.

The door slid back on its track - just a bit.

Scrape.

The already small opening was completely blocked by the decaying cloak - as per usual.

But the fuckers didn't walk.

So just as the dementor turned towards the cart, Sirius dove underneath the cloak and wriggled through the opening.

Clatter.

He didn't pause to check whether or not it had registered his absence as it dropped off the tray.

Slam.

He just ran.

Dodging another cart, he snuck past a second dementor working its way along the adjacent corridor, but didn't chance stopping to look at that one either. One hallway, and he could already feel his limbs protesting the exercise. Not enough calories and not enough movement over the span of a decade had done him no favors, but he kept pushing.

Ages ago when they brought him here, he'd been thrashing too much to track the layout of the place on his way in, and had regretted that negligence ever since. He was fairly certain they'd brought him up a few floors, but it had been so long, he wasn't sure he could trust his own recollection anymore.

Stairs or door, stairs or door-

Stairs!

Diverting through an opening in the rock, he scrambled down the spiral steps on all fours, nearly flying face-first onto the landing. But it led to nothing more than another level of cells. Of course it had to be a fucking maze.

Sirius pressed on, in search of the next door or set of stairs. The next time he ducked by a dementor with a cart, he thought it might've paused to look at him. He didn't slow down to find out.

More stairs.

More cells.

Keep going.

He's at Hogwarts.

Two dementors blocked the next hallway. Sirius waited for them to pass and kept pushing.

Another set of stairs.

Past the bars, and the slop, and the dementors and the darkness, he kept pushing.

Staircase-

Door!

The sliver of daylight peeking out at the base of the stairs seemed so unfamiliar to him, he wondered if he was misremembering what daylight was supposed to look like. As he bounded closer to the wooden door, he quickly realized he would need opposable thumbs to exit. With less fluidity than he might've liked, Sirius changed back, turned the knob, and thrust himself into what felt like blinding light.

Wheezing and covering his eyes, he finally came to a stop; but the wind had other plans. A forceful gale sent him careening right into a jagged rock, and he slammed into the stone with a yelp. The world outside the prison seemed so bright by comparison that he was having trouble opening his eyes. It felt like being born.

Something was drizzling onto his skin.

Water.

No.

Rain.

As the droplets cascaded down his hollow cheeks, Sirius lifted his head and squinted up at the sky in awe.

The sky.

He was thankful there was so much cloud cover; the full strength of the sun might've killed him. Soon enough, the crisp brine on the air made him lightheaded, and he had to lower himself down to sit against the rock as he stared and stared up at the magnificent, tempestuous sky. Running his fingers through his damp hair, he began to weep.

He'd never realized how beautiful a storm could be.

Then the lightheadedness gave way to euphoria, and Sirius staggered back to his feet. He roared because he could. Furthermore, he raised his arms and directed some rude gestures up at the prison.

It wouldn't be long before the noise drew the attention of patrolling dementors, Sirius realized. He was anxious to be rid of this godforsaken rock anyway. Checking over his shoulder, he moved quickly along the craggy shoal and headed straight towards the sound of crashing waves.

And, drawing some satisfaction from the long-forgotten rush of courting danger, he leapt into the arms of the North Sea as if it were a lover's embrace.

Arnold Bancroft had seen many a strange thing during his time on the fishing boat, but never a dog. Not out in the middle of the ocean, anyway.

Bundled in his PVC coat, he was just finishing up an after-dinner cigarette when he happened to spot what he thought was a little black bunch of kelp floating off the stern - but he was fairly certain kelp didn't paddle. He squinted into the dim light the boat was casting out into the night.

"Cor blimey," he exhaled when he realized, flicking his cigarette and jogging along the deck. "Man over- er… Dog overboard! Off the port side!"

Across the deck, his crewmates turned their heads. "...Did you just say-?"

"Call up the helm and tell 'em to heave to. And grab the dock ladder!" Bancroft shouted, keeping his eyes on the dog. "C'mon boy, almost there," he muttered, waving for it to swim towards the vessel.

The engines slowed, and eventually, someone brought the dock ladder along. With a bit of rope, they were able to pull the dog aboard. Frigid and weakened from the swim, it collapsed onto the deck, heaving.

Perplexed chatter settled over the crew.

"Someone bring a towel-!"

"God, it's skin and bones-"

"Skin and bones? That thing's huge! Are you sure we haven't picked up a bear-? "

"Why would a bear be out in the waves-?"

"I don't know! Why was a dog out in the waves-?"

"Look at it. It's not going to survive the night."

Kneeling, Arnold laid his jacket over the poor creature. "How'd you find yourself out there, boy?"

"What should we do with it?" someone asked.

Arnold looked up incredulously. "What do you mean, 'what should we do with it?' We're not putting it back!"

"So what, we just keep it? All the way to Suffolk?"

"He's just a dog, Murray. What's the matter-?"

"I'm allergic, that's what's the matter!"

"You and your allergies," someone next to Murray grumbled.

"Just don't make me bunk with it, alright?"

"Out the way!" called a younger gentleman as he ran up with towels, a bowl, and a can from the galley.

A few people helped to dry off the dog, then they watched as he practically inhaled the bowl of corned beef placed in front of him, so they brought another. When the mutt followed Arnold obediently to his quarters, he thought it even more strange that a well-behaved, trained animal should be found in such a predicament. He laid out the towels and some extra blankets on the floor, earning him a few licks to the face before he ascended back up to the deck.

When the door had closed and the footsteps faded away down the hall, Sirius transfigured into his human form and wiped his tongue off with one of the towels.

Free.