What follows is a couple of experiments, the first and most pointed of which being the portrayal of Rubeus Hagrid. I dare any Harry Potter fan to meet/read/watch this…man…and not be enamored of him. Hagrid has a certain down-to-earth charm that you can't help but appreciate. Unless, of course, you're a heathen. You don't want to be a heathen, do you?

As I have mentioned previously, I've decided not to make reference to some of the more overtly British references and flavorings to be found in the books—even the "American" versions—because I get the feeling that I would get them hopelessly wrong. But in the matter of Hagrid…well, ignoring his particular speech patterns just didn't work.

So if I got him horrendously wrong, I beg forgiveness.

It's my first time.

That said, let us continue.

One.

As sight faded, and his mind could no longer understand anything of what was happening to his body, Sirius Black watched with blank, thoroughly confused eyes as the creature in black cloth—the creature that might have been a person—looked away. He followed the thing's gaze, and saw something in the air; something hazy, something smoky. It made no sense.

He didn't understand. Sirius only saw a flash of bright blue light, heard a voice cry out, "Damn it!" and all was gone. All was removed.

All was quiet.

When he regained consciousness, Sirius was lying flat on his back, outside, staring up at the night sky. He shifted his weight, and felt something sharp dig its way into his back. He struggled to his feet, barely able to hold himself upright, and stared bleary-eyed at his surroundings. For an agonizingly long time, he was unable to comprehend what any of his senses were telling him. The sounds, the smells, everything felt alien.

It felt like everything slammed into him at once. Years and years of memories, experiences, thoughts and dreams and waking nightmares, suddenly crowded his mind and threatened to drive him to his knees again. But with that mystifying cacophony came a sudden sharpness, a certain acuity, and he finally recognized that the frigid pain that was assaulting his bare skin meant that it was cold. Those parts of him that were passably comfortable were draped over by clothes. He looked down at himself; for a moment, he wondered why he was not wearing robes. Then he remembered that he hated robes, and it made sense that he would be wearing jeans, boots, a button-down shirt and a long leather coat. Unlike a great number of his contemporaries, Sirius had passed for a Muggle plenty of times without the faintest of strange looks.

It paid off to study certain things; even if your only motive was to infuriate your family.

He reached up and rubbed his face, feeling like he had been asleep for several years, and wondered why he was clean-shaven. It seemed to him that he should have had a beard. But as his fingers explored the skin of his face, he didn't find the faintest traces of facial hair. Filing this away as yet another mystery, he decided he would take advantage of this…facsimile of understanding to figure out where he was.

He looked around; the entire arena of his awakening was coated with snow. He saw sweeping hills of the stuff in between the pitiful, coated things that were trying to be houses, a ways off in the distance. His mind was torn between thinking the sight was pathetic and sublime, and there was a certain ache of nostalgia coming from…somewhere.

Sirius began to walk, his boots crunching as he sifted through Winter's sugar bowl. Certain landmarks drew him onward; it wasn't until he passed the church and its attendant graveyard that he recognized where he was completely, and his pace quickened.

The quaint little residential district was much more…respectable up close. He passed a great number of cottages, finding a smile cross his face. It was a peaceful stroll, he thought, and the air was just cold enough to be bracing. He actually gave a contented little sigh as he turned his attention straight ahead…

When he saw the shattered ruin, it wouldn't have been enough to say that his heart skipped a beat. It ran itself to a dead stop, and Sirius Black felt fear for the first time in his memory. An inarticulate moan of denial struggled out of his throat as he broke into a run, stumbling over himself, his boots kicking up a snowstorm.

"No no no damn it no God please," Sirius stammered through his clenched teeth, all traces of pleasant thought run straight out of him in a rush of frigid panic. He knew it was no good; as soon as he'd seen the house, that splintering splotch of blasphemy where his best friends' house should have been, he'd known. He'd known, damn it! And what was he doing now? Gawking at some mockery of a memorial like Muggles always did when cars crashed?

He stopped in front of the Potters' cottage, his breath coming in haggard little shrieks, almost choking as his wide grey eyes drank in what this meant: the Potters were dead. It couldn't be possible, it can't have happened…but here it was.

Sirius had never been prone to "seeing the bright side." He stepped into the remains of the little house and began tossing debris aside not in some hope of finding proof that his friends and their son had escaped; he was not nearly as much a romantic as that. He was doing it because some part of him said that he should. "Just in case." It was the same part of him that'd thought his family would someday grow to appreciate that its prized heir was a Gryffindor. The same part of him that'd thought nobody would really care if word got out that Remus Lupin was a werewolf.

It was probably the same part of him that'd thought Peter Pettigrew had enough grit to be a Secret-Keeper, too.

Whatever mad delusion passed for optimism in Sirius Black, it was pushing him onward; pushing him to pick up splinters as thick as his arm, to take up bits of broken crockery, to toss aside shattered and blackened sections of wall. James and Lily Potter, that perfectly beautiful couple who had befriended him, supported him, protected him; James and Lily Potter, who offered help and comfort long before he ever thought to ask them for it; James and Lily Potter, who had named him their son's godfather, were—

He heard it, and for one horrific moment thought he'd snapped his mind. A baby, off to his right, behind the only wall that was even halfway upright anymore, began to cry. Sirius felt energy surge through his limbs, and he propelled over the heap, up to the wall and past it all in a single blur of motion.

There, big as life, small as hope, sat Harry Potter. On the floor and surrounded by what had once been his crib, the infant was wailing despondently at the air, tugging and pushing on something that—to his horror—Sirius recognized as a person's arm.

No. Not a person.

A…body's arm.

"Oh, God…" Sirius whispered, and sank to his knees.

Two.

Rubeus Hagrid, like Sirius, entered Godric's Hollow and looked upon the Potters' home with a kind of stunned disbelief. Beneath his massive beard, the man's mouth hung open.

He didn't run, too senseless with shock to do anything but walk, almost shuffle, forward. It was with absolute numbness that he saw James and Lily Potter, cold and battered and lifeless, lying next to each other in front of the ruin. Their eyes were closed, and between them James's right hand had been placed over Lily's left.

Sirius Black stood off to one side. His faded blue pants, dark boots, and heavy black jacket were wet with melted snow and dusted with more. His face—barely in profile—was unreadable as he stared down at them. His long black hair was snapping about in the wind like a curtain over an open window. He had a bundle of some kind against his side.

"…Sirius," Hagrid murmured in his deep rumble.

Sirius turned, and Hagrid saw that the man held little Harry, sniffling and babbling quietly, in his arms. "Hagrid," he murmured to himself, like he was trying to remember who that was. "Look at this. Look at…look at what's happened. Because of…because…"

He didn't seem able to finish the sentence, nor even the thought. His grey eyes went blank, and he turned back to James and Lily as though hoping they might finish it for him. Hagrid saw that Harry's forehead, covered by his smattering of messy black hair, was marred by a scar. Like a burn mark, not a cut, in the shape of a miniscule lightning bolt. Tears streaked down the boy's cheeks, but he wasn't crying right now. He looked cold, and certainly unhappy, but there was a sort of calmness in him, too. Bright green eyes stared avidly at Hagrid, curious.

"Least Harry's safe," Hagrid mumbled, unsure of what else to say. "Count blessings for that, eh? How's he doin'?"

Sirius turned his attention to the boy. "Found him sitting next to Lily, crying fit to die. He knows something's wrong. Managed to get him calm, somehow. I think he remembers me. Haven't seen him much."

His thoughts were jumbled, his sentences random, but if he noticed he didn't seem to care. He wasn't paying any sort of attention to anything but the scene in front of him. Being the Hogwarts gamekeeper, Hagrid knew his way around animals more than he did people, and he thought Sirius Black looked like a dog cornered by some predator it didn't know: panicked, but resigned. But there was something behind the sheen of slate in his eyes. Like he was, at this moment, plotting revenge.

But all the same, he was clinging to the Potters' only child like a drowning man to a buoy, and even though he looked like he was itching to rush out and find the Dark Lord and strangle the life—or what passed for life—out of him, he was loathe to leave Harry. Sirius looked rooted to the spot, and could have stayed standing there forever if he needed to.

"You don't know what this means yet," the last Black heir murmured to his godson, turning the infant so that he could see his parents. Harry reached out a chubby hand to touch them, letting out a little whimper. Sirius took hold of that hand. "…Try and remember it, anyway. Your mother, and your father…were stupid, naïve, hopeless…bloody heroes."

And he began to cry.

Hagrid closed his eyes and bowed his head for a long moment. "Yeh shouldn' talk like that about 'em, Sirius."

"They were stupid, Hagrid!" Sirius snarled through his tears. "They were blind and stupid! They…they trusted Peter…they trusted me…and it fucking killed them!" The man's eyes were blazing now, boring into Hagrid's very soul. "Do you understand that? Do you? James and Lily are dead…because they were bloody well idiots enough to listen to me!"

Three.

"What d'yer…?"

It took Sirius a long time to remember that Hagrid had never even been told about the Fidelius Charm they'd used to hide the Potters, much less that Sirius should have been their Secret-Keeper. He wondered idly if Hagrid even knew what a Fidelius Charm was.

Sirius shook his head. Something about this situation didn't feel right. It didn't feel like it was going the way it was supposed to have gone. But he ignored that; it was as helpful an observation as saying snow was cold. Of course this wasn't going the way it was supposed to! He was holding onto a boy whose parents were corpses freezing at his feet!

"Hagrid," Sirius said, feeling a sudden compulsion to speak that he didn't recognize as his own; he felt like something…else…was making him do it. But he was too dumbstruck to resist it, and so he continued, "we…that is, the Order…had a plan. To protect them. We all know Voldemort—" The half-giant flinched violently "—doesn't forgive easy. But…but we had a spell that we cast for them. So long as we kept our mouths shut about where they were, he'd never be able to find them. If Peter…if he hadn't…he must have…!"

The realization came full force then.

What this meant.

What this…implicated.

Somehow, even though he had known it as soon as he'd seen the house, it hadn't hit him full yet. But now he stared at it, bald and glaring right up at him: Peter Pettigrew had let it slip. He'd gone from his hiding place…and now the Potters were dead.

Had Voldemort gotten hold of him?

Had…had Peter given the information…willingly…?

"What?" Hagrid asked, snapping Sirius out of his musings. "What're yeh thinkin' about?"

"…Voldemort's got to Peter, Hagrid. That's the only way this could've happened." A new compulsion took him. "Dumbledore. We have to find Dumbledore. The Order has to hear about this!"

"He 'as, Sirius," Hagrid said. "Found out same's you did, I 'spect. Sent me ter bring Harry to 'im. Says Harry's ter live wit' his aunt 'n uncle."

Something snapped in Sirius's mind. "…W-What? What aunt and uncle?"

"Lily's sister an' her husband. They're all little Harry's got left, now."

Grey eyes narrowed to slits. "I don't think so," Sirius said, suddenly breathless. "Oh, no. Not after this. You can't do this to me." Sirius sent a spasmodic, panicked look to the bodies. "They said…I was to look after Harry, if something happened. They named me his godfather, Hagrid. That's all that's left of them I've got to hold to now. You can't…you can't take that from me."

"Dumbledore gave me orders, Sirius."

"No! Damn it, no! Do you hear me?"

"Dumbledore knows best what's good for 'im now."

Sirius glared at the hulking man, every hint of murderous anger he'd ever felt landing right on that red, bearded face. Everything he felt for Voldemort, for Peter, for himself and for Dumbledore and every other damned fool who hadn't been able to protect his godson's parents, came out in a look that could have frozen the sun.

"…I'm coming with you. I want to hear straight from that old bastard's lips what game he thinks he's playing." Hagrid's own eyes flashed at the insult, but Sirius had never been easily intimidated.

He gave one last look back to his fallen friends, shook the hand he was still holding so that Harry waved goodbye to the parents he would never remember, and stalked off into the snow, leaving Hagrid to catch up.

Four.

The halls of 12 Grimmauld Place are quiet. Almost desolate. Like it was built as an afterthought with spare bricks and mortar, and no one had actually entered it in years; an archaic cemetery, where even the newest residents are hundreds of years forgotten, and the flowers have long since crumbled.

An elf in a shining-white tea towel passes by through the hall, holding a variety of cleaning utensils; he's muttering to himself. Up the stairs, through another hallway. Past doors and nooks and old portraits. An empty coatrack.

A sound.

Down the hall, in a room far off in the distant shadows, music. Someone is whistling. The sound seems to reverberate through the walls, to echo, to linger and haunt like a ghost that can only be heard.

Inside the room, a man lounges on a stuffed chair. He is dressed all in black, with a red tie. His brown hair is streaked with white. He looks too pale to exist. He raises a thin, almost delicate eyebrow, and gestures to an empty seat near him.

"Sit," the man offers, smirking.

The chair is stiff, but manages to be somewhat comfortable after a getting used to it a while. Looking at him full in the face, this man looks too sharp. His eyes, his mouth, his nose, his chin; he does not seem human.

"So," the too-sharp man says, "it would seem that things are underway. Master Black is beginning to…leave an imprint on the past. I had intended for him to remember everything from the future he has already experienced, so as for him to be better equipped. Alas, I was…interrupted. He is left with fragments, little sparks of intuition."

Far from being disappointed, the too-sharp man looks amused.

"But you know," he continues, "perhaps that is all right. He always was better at relying on instinct, after all. Why, even now, he's already managed to…well. I knew that having him appear in Godric's Hollow before the arrival of delightful Master Hagrid would be a good thing. See how he's already latched onto his responsibilities? Most admirable, really."

The too-sharp man's eyebrow raises even higher over a bright blue eye.

"Hm? Oh, don't be ridiculous. Of course they don't know about this. Do I look a fool?"

The too-sharp man chuckles.

"Don't worry yourself into a fit," he says. "Just…leave it to me. Little Kafell has everything in order. Now, then." He gestures to a kettle of tea on a small table near the chairs. "While we watch Master Black's new life unfold…would you care for some tea, Father?"

This story is, first and without reservation of its implications, a character study. I beg you not expect to see canon events as they might have unfolded if Sirius had replaced the Dursleys. I've run into that road-block before with another project, and it always ends up more trouble than it is worth.

There is a reason for the title of this work. The story will unfold in an entirely different direction than Mistress Rowling's did. What will remain the same are the characters. Their personalities will remain as faithful to their creator's vision as I can make them, and if ever you question a choice I've made with one or any of them, please ask. Bring it to my attention.

You are just as much a part of this story as I am.

Let us shape its future together…while we have the chance.