I've always had serious problems with the way Albus Dumbledore operates. I don't think that would be any surprise to people who know my work, or how I approach the care of children. I think this story's existence as a whole is a refutation of Dumbledore's plans.

I think it's important to clarify, though, precisely what my problems are.

Let's start with one of the bigger ones, shall we?

One.

Sirius Black was no stranger to waking up in places he didn't recognize; he'd done it plenty of times, often without trying and usually with a hangover. Nonetheless, he was quite sure he'd never woken up in a space so . . . sour before. The first thing he noticed, when he regained consciousness—before he even opened his eyes—was the smell: a fetid mixture of manure, burning pitch, and despair.

It was . . . cold.

He pushed himself, with effort, to a sitting position.

It was almost impossible to see; the dark was stifling. It was a sentient presence, something Sirius couldn't parse, something he could barely take in when he breathed. Why did his chest hurt? Why did his bones ache? Why . . . ? What . . . ?

The first thought he was able to capture with both hands was that he was under attack.

Harry! Remus!

Sirius flung himself upward, stood on sore feet and trembling legs, flailing wildly to grab something so that he could gain his balance properly. His fingers groped into the void, and it only took forever to finally grasp something in the dark: something metal. Something so frigid that he thought his skin would rip clean off if he tried to let go.

The longer Sirius waited for his vision to adjust, the harder it was to breathe. It was like the air was growing thicker, like it was trying to claw its way out of his lungs as soon as he took it in. He could feel it crawling out of his body, pulling itself past his teeth. It was so thick, so cold, so . . . unforgiving. He could sense something approaching; something was coming up to investigate him, and it felt like his entire body was screaming at him: whatever he did for the rest of his life, he could not be caught here.

Then Sirius saw the creature's outline, hit by silver from a distant moon, and . . . well, nothing made sense, not really; that wasn't any different. But all the same, everything important in that moment fell into place. He didn't have the answers he wanted, but he had the answers he needed, and he would just have to make do with that.

For now.

". . . Dementor," he whispered, and his voice barely answered his mind's command.

It felt like he hadn't tried to speak for years.

He turned around, saw the night sky through a crumbling crack in the stone wall behind him; he used what little light there was to look down at himself. He was dressed in rags, his body was emaciated; he was scarred over with the ghosts of old wounds that he couldn't recognize.

Then Sirius looked at his right hand.

As soon as he focused his vision on something so instrumental, so pivotal, something as tangible as his dominant hand, the last heir of the Black bloodline felt the world upend itself and toss him aside like so much debris in a storm. He could see the Dementor now, even though he wasn't looking at it. He could hear its rattling breath, whispering, and he did the only thing he could remember how to do.

He settled onto the floor of this cell he'd never seen before—and yet, it felt more like home than Grimmauld Place ever had, or ever would—and let that ancient magic do its work.

The Dementor immediately turned its attention away from Sirius; because he wasn't Sirius anymore.

He was a dog.

Just a big dog, made small by hardships he'd never lived through.

. . . Or had he?

Two.

Headmaster Labeau—the creature called Kafell—sat upon the desk that once belong to him, one leg crossed over the other. He watched Albus Dumbledore like he was inspecting an insect. "I trust that you can understand my reasoning. You may be my inheritor, Albus, and I do not begrudge you the control that you have earned." His eyes flared, colorless, fathomless, eternal. "However, I have seen the results of your plans brought to fruition. I find the sacrifices . . . unacceptable."

Kafell hopped down to the floor, heaved a dramatic sigh, and rolled his shoulders.

He went on: "I am sure that you are struggling with the realization that I am playing with your world, with your reality, as I have. Perhaps you will take this time to reflect. There are a great many people in Wizarding Britain who wrestle with these same thoughts, in regard to your decisions."

Dumbledore didn't answer; not at once.

What he eventually said was: "May I ask what changes your alterations have made to this war?"

Kafell smirked; it was a sharp expression. Sharp enough to cut. "Ever the pragmatist," he said, nodding sagely. "I appreciate that about you, Albus. Very well. You may." He held up one finger. "First: the most obvious is that the most important piece on your gameboard has grown up in a healthy environment. Well. Healthier. I won't pretend that life as a nomad is the optimal choice for any child, but living on the lam with his godfather has proven a much richer and warmer experience for Harry James Potter than being tucked beneath a staircase with spiders and cleaning supplies."

Dumbledore didn't twitch; his face didn't move.

"Second: Sirius Black remains free to maneuver as he can. This is a great boon to your cause." Kafell gestured with a flick of one wrist. Gold and silver bangles rattled. "There is no good to come out of the most fervent and passionate of your soldiers being trapped behind bars. This is to say nothing of the black wraiths . . . pardon me. Dementors. This Sirius Black, unlike the one who caught my interest so long ago, is able to move in the open."

This seemed to interest Dumbledore more than anything Kafell had said about Harry.

"Third: Frank and Alice Longbottom remain capable of offering their wisdom and advice to your Order, even if it turns out that they are no longer suited to a battlefield."

"Remain capable . . ." Dumbledore repeated.

Kafell held out a hand and snapped one finger against his thumb. Dumbledore flinched, barely, imperceptibly—only someone like Kafell would have caught it—and then comprehension dawned on his weathered face as visions of aching sorrow from a hospital ward filled his mind. ". . . I see," he said eventually.

"Then, of course, there is Peter Pettigrew to consider," Kafell said. "Suffice to say, Albus, you might believe that I have made ruinous alterations to your canvas, and in so doing have brought ruin to your plans. I assure you, I have kept more intact than I have broken." He cleared his throat. "Now. Let us discuss what I have done for you, personally."

"What is that?" Dumbledore asked.

Kafell held out his arms; the air about him darkened, the shadows lengthened, the air swirled about his suit and howled in Dumbledore's ears. "James and Lily Potter named Sirius Black as their child's caregiver. Perhaps you think little of such oaths. Allow me to assuage you of that mistake, Albus: they are stronger, more sacred, than that." The creature's jaw flexed, cracked. Lightning crackled in his eyes and behind his teeth. "Breaking an oath to the dead is a grave trespass. As, my inheritor, is facilitating the breaking of an oath to the dead. In permitting this child of prophecy to remain with his chosen guardian, I have kept your honor intact."

"Do you mean to say," Dumbledore said, testily, "that I tarnished my honor by delivering Harry Potter to his remaining blood relative?"

"Do you mean to say," Kafell replied, flatly, "that you didn't?"