After three days trekking upriver on foot, stopping at every ramshackle trading post and seedy bar he came across, Sirius was well and truly fed up. He was tired, his cold-weather furs were not only cumbersome but were now heavy from rain saturation, having become waterlogged during a flash storm on the second day. The sodden garments were already beginning to give off a musty, unclean aroma that was making Sirius bitter and grumpy, because the heavy weight was also causing him to sweat profusely under his many layers of clothing.
In short, Sirius Black stunk ... stunk worse than an Immore Alley tramp after too many Firewhiskeys and a few nights sleeping in the cowshed.
Even his magic was no good against it. The cleaning Charms he cast on himself were utterly futile, lasting barely minutes before he was soiled again, and cosmetic perfume Charms equally as pointless, as the inclement weather would have washed away any deodorant, had be he able to conjure any. It was a sorry state of affairs.
Sirius couldn't even Apparate properly in this world, partly because the effect of Dust often made him end up wildly off-course, but also because this world was simply different to his own, and people materialising out of thin air just wasn't the done thing ... and was as likely to draw you a bullet in anger as a round of applause. In any case, Padfiette was corporeal again here, and that increased the chances of Splinching by a factor of twelve.
Sirius would have to warn Harry and Hermione about that, when they were old enough to learn the art of teleportation. He made a mental note to tell them about it ... if he ever got off this damned river.
For he was quickly beginning to appreciate the sageness of the advice he'd received in the fishing village of Mirna, where he'd begun this trek into the Siberian wilderness, as well as his own stupidity for not heeding it. He was told to wait for a boat upriver, to not attempt the journey on foot at this time of year, as it was far too treacherous. But Sirius Black was far too stubborn, too impatient and ... he crossly accepted ... far too arrogant to be held to the same restrictions as other, lesser humans.
And it was a lesson he was being taught in the harshest way.
For the Yenisei was a river in full throttle right now. Fast-flowing, swelled by meltwaters from the thawing permafrost, navigating this snaking waterway would have been tough enough for the hardiest of vessels. But Sirius only had the flimsiest of canoes, which he soaked in stabilising Charms and hoped for the best. It was cocky optimism that bordered on insanity, and the hardly-muffled chuckles of the Mirna fisherman should have been warning enough.
Two hours later, when the weather turned, and the headwaters rushed with fury and Sirius capsized in his pathetic canoe, he should have turned back. An hour after that, as he finished his first drying Charms and a surge of tide caught his charge in the peak, before casting it asunder against the sharp rocks that flanked the far side of the river, smashing it to a hundred jagged pieces, Sirius should have turned back.
But he didn't, not even when he gave up trying to rebuild the canoe by magic. He just shrugged, had a little chuckle, conceded Round One to Mother Nature, and ploughed on by foot.
Now, after three days of mud and rain and filth, and twelve more rounds to Nature, Sirius was on the verge of a major tantrum of frustration. Things had even come to a head between him and Padfiette, who had angrily asked to be put back inside her wizard until his stormy mood had cleared. That made things worse as they stopped speaking for several hours, and the trek was ten times more unpleasant for Sirius without his dæmon for company and counsel.
But then, on the late morning of the fourth day, things started to look up ... and it was the shaggy-furred bloodhound who brought good news to break the icy impasse that had sprung up between her and her human.
"Get up, you lazy cur! We're almost there!" Padfiette insisted in her grizzly growl, padding up to Sirius where he was slumped against a tree, dismally considering his life choices. "Now's not the time to give up."
"What are you talking about?" Sirius scythed back, pulling on his heavy stubble in his temper. "We are lost in the bum crack of nowhere, running out of food, having to lick rain water from leaves, and ... worst of all ... I'm down to my last couple of extra-strong Polos. My morning breath could cut through the door of a Gringotts bank vault. If you looked up Perfect Time to Quit a Bad Job in a dictionary, there would be a precise description of us right now."
"You have no magnificence in your soul, Sirius!" Padfiette cried. "You did this for Lyra, and for Hermione ... for our new family. But you also did it for our old family, for our Godson in particular. It was a chance to make him proud, you said ... but I imagine this is exactly what he'd be expecting of you in this situation. If he could see you right now, he'd be laughing his scar off and singing I told you so!"
Sirius chanced a half-chuckle at that. His dæmon was right ... right about it all, as she usually was. It didn't help the situation, but he couldn't deny her logic.
"I know, but maybe I'm not cut out for all these heroics anymore," Sirius suggested. "Maybe the adventuring is best left to someone else. Someone more outdoorsy."
"I'm sorry, but did we get old without my realising?" Padfiette quirked. "You're talking like a rickety old fart."
"Maybe I am one."
"Well, I'm not ... I'm in my prime!" Padfiette argued haughtily. "So you can't be so bad yourself. So, get up and stop moaning."
"Why are you telling me off?" Sirius quipped, wryly. "I only lose hope when all hope is lost. And the only hope I have now is that no-one comes by to see me in such a sorry state. I have a reputation to uphold, you know."
"Only with yourself, you vain bastard!" Padfiette laughed. "No-one ever said heroism was easy. Just look at Harry and Hermione ... they've had to come close to death to earn that status. Harry spent a decade in the dark underworld being poked and prodded by Muggle scientists, Hermione has had to endure possession by Tom Riddle and the virtual loss of her biological parents ... and they both have had to throw themselves into a fight against an enemy far bigger and more terrifying than either of them truly realises, all because saving each other was more important to them than giving into fear ... or giving up.
"Yet you're letting yourself be bested by a bit of rain and cold ... some father figure to Hermione you're proving to be!"
That stirred Sirius. It stung, too, but it roused him from his dark torpor. He'd never really considered what being a father would feel like, having always been more interested in the act of procreation rather than the messy business of parenthood. But his year as Harry's guardian had, astonishingly, awoken his dormant paternal instinct.
He would never openly admit it ... as he had to keep face in front of James ... but he was more than a little rueful at giving primary care of his Godson up, when Lily and James were thrust back into the magical world by their son's determined chivalry in clearing Sirius' name.
The truth was, Sirius missed taking care of Harry, and felt a touch lost without the little nuances of trust and intimacy that could only exist between parent and child. Harry, rightly so, turned to Lily and James for guidance now, and Sirius was relegated back to being the fun, slightly irresponsible Godfather. It was what he had always hoped to be to Harry when he was younger ... but he had never imagined he would ache so much at losing the unexpected role that was thrust upon him when his Godson had need of him.
Sirius had just started to enjoy being a father ... and then Harry's real parents had returned to take up their proper roles in his life.
Not that Sirius resented Lily and James one jot for it. They were his best friends, more like extra siblings than life-long buddies. They were the ideal family in Sirius' eyes and he felt lucky to be a part of it. But he couldn't help but feel a tinge of envy when he saw James and Harry frolicking together over Christmas gifts, or racing each other on their brooms, or Harry turning to James for relationship advice about Hermione. These were things Harry and Sirius had once done together, and Sirius missed being the one Harry came to with his problems ... in truth, he missed being needed by Harry.
Lyra told him this was all very natural, and that she'd been exactly the same when Hermione came into her life. Part of her had always been curious about motherhood, keen to atone for the universe handing her such troubled and complex parents of her own. She and Sirius were kindred spirits in that sense. Lyra's mother had been a bad example of the species, and Lyra was always interested to know if she'd be any better at it.
But it wasn't until Hermione tumbled into her life that she first really wanted to try her hand at it ... having decided that Hermione was simply the sort of girl worthy of maturing for.
Sirius knew precisely what she meant. He had grown very fond of Hermione since first meeting her under those bizarre conditions two years ago. Quick and clever, she was instantly likeable ... and she had captivated Harry. That was more than enough endorsement for Sirius. And now, through the most heinous of circumstances, Sirius had been presented with the responsibility of following Lyra's suit and becoming a secondary parent to Hermione, too.
The universe had smacked the poor girl in the face once again, and tasked Sirius with stepping into the breach to protect her ... and that was encouragement enough to haul his sodden body to his feet once more.
"You're right, Pad," Sirius nodded firmly as he stood. "I said I'd do this and I'm not going to let them down. We'll make it, to wherever we are going, no matter how hard it gets."
"That's the spirit!" Padfiette cajoled. "And if you look over that ridge just there, your doughtiness will be rewarded."
Sirius cocked his head at the smug dog, then hurried to the rise of the valley and looked down into the depression beyond. His heart soared at what he saw.
"That's it! We made it!" Sirius cried.
For down below, less than a mile away, was the sweeping port city of Astana. The Yenisei seemed to idle up to it, almost mockingly so after the raging torrent Sirius and Padfiette had been following for days, curling and sneaking past the large harbour before draining into the great Yenisei Gulf and from there swelling out into the Kara Sea.
The sight ignited renewed vigour in Sirius. He barrelled down through the bracken and mucky detritus of the woodland banks of the river, emerging onto the gravelly caravan road that wound out of the port. Carts laden with fish, and barrels of vodka, and exotic spices were pulled laboriously by woolly camels along the frosty path, while the Tartar tradesman kept their faces out of the harmful, icy sun under low-browed thresh hats. None, not camel nor man, paid any mind to the dirty wizard hurrying past in the other direction.
Sirius soon reached the bustling port. Traders and fisherman hurried around beneath cranes and wagons, loading goods onto trucks to be rolled into warehouses or heaved onto special trains to head into the city and further beyond. There was sound everywhere; the cries and calls of men, the squawks of seabirds both real and dæmon; the creaking, grinding noise of the cranes, the slamming of cart doors, the horns of ships as they moved away towards the breakwater.
After three days with only the rush of river water and his own complaints for a soundtrack, Sirius couldn't help but grin at finding life again.
Now, if only his quarry would be as complicit in being discovered ... for it had turned out that finding Malcolm Polstead was a task far easier said than done. Sirius had managed to trace him as far as Mirna with the help of Lyra's intelligence community friends at Oakley Street. Malcolm was one of their Agents, too, and the organisation had sent him into Siberia to investigate this business of the Magisterium targeting dæmons again. Malcolm knew as much about it as anyone, and Sirius had to find him and learn what he'd been able to uncover.
But that was harder than it seemed. With uncertainties over his magic, Sirius had been reduced to following Malcolm's trail the old fashioned way, by stopping at every hamlet and village to ask if he'd been by that way. Oakley Street had their own established route through the icy tundra and the Mongolian Steppe, taking the road much less travelled to avoid unfriendly, Magisterium-shaped eyes. But it was still a treacherous journey, one that was more dangerous in as many different ways as it was safer.
At least Sirius had managed to maintain a whiff of Malcolm's scent, as all the while his own aroma descended towards the rancid. It had the effect of making his interviewees more pliant, as they were quick to get rid of him and his stench. They gave up their information and Sirius moved on, with each step pointing him in the direction of Astana.
And now here he was. He had no idea if he was catching up to Malcolm, or if the wily adventurer-historian had moved on already, but the city at least promised a chance of rest and respite. So Sirius made his way towards Baraut's Inn, a place friendly to Oakley Street, where he might be able to purchase a room for the night and get a shower and some warm food.
What Sirius didn't expect on his arrival was to find Malcolm there, too ... much less for Lyra's old friend to have been waiting for him.
"Good afternoon," Malcolm quirked wryly, as Sirius made his way to his table on the beer terrace. "I thought you'd never get here."
"You've been expecting me?" Sirius asked, shaking hands firmly as he and Malcolm met.
"Of course," Malcolm confirmed with an amused smirk. "You've called in at every Oakley Street stop from Trollesund to Muscovy and every detour in between. And asked about me at every one. What did you think would happen?"
"Someone told you I was on your trail?" Sirius guessed with an understanding nod.
"Naturally."
"But how did you find out so quickly? How did you know to wait here?"
"By telegram," Malcolm explained. "Honestly, you wizards are backwards in so many ways. What would you do without your owls? You'd be almost hamstrung in terms of communication. And they are so slow. I tell you, waiting for Pantalaimon to bring Lyra and I news from Hermione at Hogwarts was as frustrating as Japanese Water Torture. A bit of modern thinking wouldn't go amiss in your world of spells and sorcery."
Sirius chuckled lightly. "You may be right. But that's a discussion for another day. For now, thank you for waiting ... for we have a lot more pressing issues to discuss."
"Let's do it over a drink, maybe some food," Malcolm suggested. "You must be hungry."
"Starving," Sirius confirmed with a smirk.
"I'll get the provisions, you take this," Malcolm went on. He handed Sirius a key with a small, diamond-shaped plaque hanging from it bearing a large number 7.
"What's this?" Sirius queried.
"Your route back to respectability," Malcolm replied lightly.
"I don't follow."
Malcolm wrinkled his nose in a grimace. "You stink."
"I know. How will this help?"
"I've rented you a room, third floor," Malcolm explained. "Take a shower. I've put fresh clothes in the wardrobe. When you aren't offensive to share the same air with, we'll dine and discuss things."
Sirius smirked and stood up. "Thanks, though it might take a bit more than clean clothes to make my presence acceptable to you."
Sirius saw Malcolm's eyes flash to the wedding ring on his finger, just as comprehension flitted over his face. "Maybe. But it's a start. Take half an hour, get yourself freshened up. We aren't in any sort of hurry right now."
The room was well apportioned, functional rather than homely. But the water was hot and plentiful, the bed far comfier than the forest floor, and there was an abundance of fragrant soap for Sirius to wash the grime away with. The clothes Malcolm had left fitted Sirius perfectly and were a pleasant relief from the damp attire he had to pull from his wet body. He showered gratefully, then saw that the inn offered a laundry service as he dressed, which he took them up on as he passed the bar on the way to meeting Malcolm again.
But when he reached the terrace garden again, he was not prepared for the person he saw Malcolm was now sitting with.
"Will Parry?" Sirius frowned suspiciously as he joined them at the table. "What are you doing here?"
"I was just asking him the same thing," Malcolm scowled.
"I'm here because Lyra needs me to be," Will returned firmly. "I think that's why we are all here. The Magisterium is bigger than any of us, gentleman ... and if you have any hope of succeeding, you are going to need my help. We are going to have to work together to stop them ... so we need to put aside personal differences and work towards that one goal ... of keeping Lyra safe."
Sirius looked at Malcolm. Mal looked at Will, and Will looked back at Sirius. None of Lyra's lovers, neither old nor current, spoke, but merely exchanged solemn, slightly begrudging handshakes before sitting down in crackling silence. For a good few moments, nobody dared open their mouths other than to drink deeply from glass tankards of Imperial Stout. It was the sort of heady lubricant needed to forge a covenant like this.
Eventually, it was Will who showed the most courage to stab at conversation, directing his words to Malcolm.
"I didn't see you at the wedding."
His eyes pinged to Sirius' golden ring, causing Sirius to bristle with awkward anxiety. Malcolm not attending her wedding had irritated Lyra for a little while, until she learned that he had been arrested by Consistorial Court of Discipline officers on some flimsy matter of disrepute or another, a charge that was designed only to throw him off the scent of his current investigations. Lyra had heartily forgiven him, once he had escaped his captors and found her to tell his story.
"I was detained," Malcolm replied coolly.
"Were you there, Will?" Sirius asked. "I don't remember seeing you at the Reception, but then I had drunk a lot of champagne!"
Will smirked balefully. "I attended the ceremony, but I thought I ought to leave it at that. I remember Lyra's feistiness and she seems to have lost none of it. I thought it prudent not to go to the party and see her under the influence of alcohol ... scenes might have arisen unpleasant to more than just myself."
Sirius nodded appreciatively. "Was it she who told you about me staying here, and about the situation in general?"
"No, I knew about the Magisterium's plans from my own position," Will revealed. "They have been steadily increasing their influence in our world, too, and these plans have been moving apace there since the events began here ... starting with what happened to that poor girl's parents."
Malcolm set his jaw angrily, his entire expression darkening like a snap storm cloud. "What do you know about Hermione?"
"Only what my contacts in the Magical World tell me," Will replied, crisply. "I work for MI5 ... a secret intelligence service. I managed to plant the suggestion with my Magisterium handlers that I was the best man for a liaison job with the Magicals that became available. I am discreet, I can be trusted. They fell for it, and manoeuvred me into the position. So now that's what I do ... I work with magicals who are spies for us in that world."
"Who?" Sirius spat viciously. "Give me the names of the traitorous scum that you are working with? I'd love to know just who it is that is passing secrets to the Muggles ... then take revenge on them after this is all over, for telling you anything about Hermione ... and who knows what else. Tell me, damn it!"
Will smirked wryly. He sipped calmly at his dark beer. "If you insist. My contacts are a couple of Magical versions of secret agents ... Unspeakables, I believe they are called. In this case, they are a husband and wife couple ... otherwise known as a certain Mr and Mrs Potter."
Sirius sat back sharply in his surprise. "What? Lily and James are working with you?"
"Yes," Will replied, simply. "Ever since they were given sanctuary in the secret city of Annwn over a decade ago, they have been assigned a liaison within the intelligence community. I was around when that deal was made, you know. Then, when they decided to leave and rejoin the Magical World, they sold us the idea of them acting as spies, to get an updated knowledge base to inform us on. When that was agreed, they were assigned a handler ... an intelligence officer who was actually from the Magical world, but who had taken a job with MI5 because he was ... what did he call himself? ... ah yes ... a squid."
"A squid?" Malcolm chortled, derisorily. "Why on Earth would he call himself that?"
"Apparently, in their world, that's the name they give to someone born to a magical family, but with no magical powers."
Now Sirius took a turn to chuckle. "No, Will, we don't call them squids ... but Squibs."
"Either way, it's the same thing," Will shrugged in reply. "This individual retired back to the Magical World, and I took his old job. So now I meet with Lily and James to compare notes on everything. They told me that Lyra is staying with them, and about what happened to the girl. In return, I told them what I know ... that the plan for that world is to turn all wizards unfriendly to Tom Riddle into these Squib things, then to control who gets magic from birth in much the same way as the Magisterium wants to control the symbiosis of human/dæmon in this world. I don't think I like this term 'Squib', you know ... sounds like an insult to me."
"I agree," Malcolm nodded. "But then I was never fussed on the word Muggle, either. A bit too much like muddled, if you ask me. My Hermione pointed that out to me, and I quite agree with her sentiment on it. Neither she nor Lyra could be called muddled about anything, in their own, rather different, ways."
Sirius lifted an eyebrow at Malcolm, his own expression stoning over. "Forgive me, Malcolm, but ... your Hermione?"
Malcolm narrowed his eyes. "Yes, Sirius. That's what I said. You may have married Lyra, and she told me all about what happened to Hermione's parents ... but we have bonded very closely over the last three years, Hermione and I. I have no children of my own, and she is as close to a daughter as I am ever likely to come. Furthermore, she is as close to as perfect a daughter as I am ever likely to want. I am lucky to have had the time with her that I have been blessed with, and I am here for her as well as Lyra. Whatever happens, now and in the future, that will not change. Hermione is very important to me, and I have no intention of leaving her life ... or of giving up my role in it ... while she has need or want of me."
Sirius and Malcolm looked fiercely at each other, while Will popped his eyebrows at the awkward stand-off and focused on his ale.
"Good," Sirius nodded, respectfully. "Just so long as we are both clear on that ... for I am going nowhere, either. She is in love with my Godson, and he is a good way to being head-over-heels in love with her, too, if he hasn't progressed from his teenage crush already yet. He is the boy this Dust of yours predicted Hermione would love and change the world with. Their fates are intertwined."
"Then it looks like the both of yours are, too," Will quirked with a grin. "And I will die before I let the Magisterium hurt Lyra. I already know that you both feel the same about that, so it looks like we'd better get used to each other. I bet the Magisterium and Tom Riddle will be quaking in their boots when they know that we've united against them!"
Will laughed heartily, and his mirth quickly passed to Sirius, who in turn infected Malcolm with it. Soon they were all chuckling like they'd just invented the funniest joke ever heard in any of their complex worlds. Almost on instinct, the three Lovers of Lyra ... and the two surrogate fathers of Hermione ... clinked their glasses in a gesture of peace, toasted to both ladies, and sealed their fellowship with a deep swig of strong, black beer.
"So, where do we go next from here?" Sirius asked. "This is your domain, Mal. What's on the agenda?"
"India," Malcolm announced stonily. "The Magisterium have taken up residence in the ancient Kailasa Temple. The underground networks are awash with rumour that they have found something while digging there, an old weapon of great power ... the Vajra of Indra ...and if they find it, we are all in trouble."
"Why's that?" asked Will, sitting up in alarm.
"Because, the Vajra is a thunderbolt weapon," Mal began darkly. "And just like your Subtle Knife it can cut between worlds ... but, in this case, right to the very source of creation itself. If the myths are true we have to find that weapon first, or we will have lost this war before it even starts."