When I originally drafted this part of the story, I skipped over the vast majority of Sirius's time in the 1920s. I do not intend to do that here, but it does mean that it's probably going to feel like I did, anyway. The way this chapter ends will feel like the next step, so to speak.

But we're setting the clock back next time.

There's plenty to cover with Felix Mavros, I think.

One.

Sitting in one of Hogwarts Castle's innumerable empty classrooms, Remus Lupin taught young Harry Potter about the history of lycanthropy. He knew that he ought not be so cavalier about his own affliction, especially considering what could happen to him if it became widely known that he was a werewolf; however, the idea of lying to his best friend's godson, the boy he'd helped raise, felt abhorrent. So, he decided he wouldn't do it.

No matter what the consequences.

"A lot of non-magic people," Remus was saying now, "would accuse their fellows of lycanthropy throughout history. It was a convenient way of getting rid of people they didn't like. Similar accusations of witchcraft produced the same effect. These accusations were always leveled at people they were scared of; in honesty, it's quite rare that non-magic people will actually manage to pin such an accusation on a real werewolf." He frowned. "What do you think, Harry? Why might that be? Why would it be so rare for someone Accused of lycanthropy to actually have it?"

Harry hummed as he looked at the blackboard, where Remus had been writing notes for a while now. Eventually he said: "I guess it must be because werewolves hide a lot. They don't want to be found. It's not just the people without magic. People with magic are scared of werewolves, too. If you spend your whole life with everybody scared of you, what are you gonna do except hide?"

Remus beamed. "Very astute, Harry. Well done."

Harry looked quite pleased with himself.

"Now," Remus said, "though you do mention that there are similarities between non-magic and magical peoples, regarding their reactions to werewolves, it does get a bit more complicated. There are plenty of shapeshifting spells, for example, among other things that make it a bit messier. Do you remember what it's called, Harry, when a witch or wizard can transform into an animal?"

"Um . . . uh . . . it's a . . . anima . . . something."

"Animagus," Remus said, reaching back to write the word down on the board. "Now, it should be noted that that someone who learns the spells necessary to become an animagus does not choose which animal they become. It's . . . well, I won't call it random, but it's a unique element that depends on the caster."

"Uncle Sirius is an animagus," Harry said.

"That's correct."

"He can turn into a big ol' dog."

"Correct again."

Harry dutifully scratched something down in his little notebook. "Where is Uncle Sirius today? Isn't he supposed to be teaching classes? He shouldn't be going off on quests."

Remus laughed. "Honestly, Harry, I don't know the answer to that question." He gesticulated randomly. "Nonetheless, it's an important job and I'm sure he's making good on it. I wouldn't worry too much. Even if he doesn't end up with the time to properly plan his lectures for Monday, he'll make something up."

Harry put on an impish little grin. "Uncle Sirius makes stuff up all the time."

"It's an open secret," Remus said sagely. "Ahem. I believe this room is going to be used for a demonstration soon, so I think we'd best make ourselves scarce. Come along. Let's track down something to eat, shall we?"

Harry packed up his things and shot to his feet.

"Aye-aye, sir!"

Two.

All throughout Great Britain, magical or otherwise, the majority of people hadn't the faintest idea what was happening around them. They would see strange things, they would hear strange sounds, but rarely would any of them stay in anyone's memory for long. None of these people had any idea how close they were to a cataclysm, a rending of the world into something wholly unknown. There wouldn't be any explosions or floods, no storms or monsters, or anything dramatic like that; in all likelihood, if worse came to worst, most of these people would die without noticing anything at all.

The world would simply fold in upon itself.

It crossed Albus Dumbledore's mind that this was quite possibly the first time he'd really felt like a guardian for non-magic people. He'd been told plenty often throughout his life—and he'd believed it—that he was all that was keeping Muggles from doing inextricable harm to themselves. Plenty of his own contemporaries thought of Muggles like cattle: too stupid to live without someone like himself, a proper shepherd, to guide them. Thankfully, Albus had largely grown out of this trap at some point in his middling years.

But now, he actually felt like he was doing something to protect them.

Something he could do that they honestly couldn't.

"You have that look on your face," came Severus Snape's rasping voice, "that says you're feeling noble about something." He eyed his employer suspiciously. "I don't suppose you would care to share."

"I cannot help but feel like I am doing worthy work today," Albus said, as he pushed up his sleeves and set about casting the incantations that would reset Kafell's rifts. "It often feels like much of our daily lives are filled with busywork, after all."

"You do know that you're the man in charge of how much busywork we are called upon to complete in our daily lives, Headmaster."

Albus shrugged dramatically. "Oh, come now, Severus. You know what I mean."

"I don't think I do, sir."

"This is the sort of threat to public safety that we are imminently qualified to address, Severus," said Albus. "Does that not fill you with a certain amount of honor? Pride? Is it not important to take pride in one's work? I think this is a revelation I did not realize I needed."

Severus looked more skeptical than ever. Eventually, he sighed and shrugged himself, a bit less dramatically. "If you say so," he muttered. "What about Black? Did you uncover the mystery surrounding him?"

"I did, as a matter of fact," Albus said. "There is no need for you to worry, Severus. Everything is accounted for." At Severus's searching look, he went on: "Whether by use of a time turner or some other method, Sirius has come into possession of knowledge he would have learned in his own future. It seems that, eventually, the nature of your previous allegiances will become known to him. He simply . . . forgot what he ought not know."

Severus stared at the old wizard for a time, then grunted. ". . . I see."

"You sound disappointed."

"I was hoping for something more scandalous," Severus said, so sharply that it was difficult to tell if he was being serious or caustically sarcastic. "Time travel is so . . . mundane."

"Rather ironic, isn't it?" Albus laughed lightly.

Severus scowled. "Quite."

Three.

Remus wasn't sure what to expect. Even though Sirius had said he'd be back in hours, assuming everything went according to plan, he'd anticipated that his best friend would be gone for at least a month. He couldn't pinpoint why—Sirius was right, after all; when dealing with time travel, why would the length of his journey matter to Remus?—but he supposed it just made sense in his mind. Sirius was doing something important for the Order of the Phoenix; whenever that happened, it took at least a few weeks.

Dumbledore never assigned specific missions to anyone unless he deemed it vitally important, and that meant there was a time investment.

The fact that Sirius reconciled with Peter and gave him a task to complete filled Remus with a kind of dread that he couldn't banish no matter how hard he tried. It felt too much like old Padfoot planned on dying, or at least he didn't expect to survive. This was especially true given the fact that Sirius had avoided telling Harry what he was doing. He'd played it off, saying that there wouldn't be anything to worry about, that Sirius would be back before Harry had time to think about missing him.

Remus wasn't sure he believed that.

Remus wasn't sure what to believe.

So it was that he found himself seeking out one of the only sources of comfort he'd ever found himself able to rely on in times of trouble: his old head of house.

"You look like a man on the brink of a midlife crisis, Remus," said Minerva McGonagall. "You'll forgive me if I find that suspect, considering you are still quite young."

Remus laughed, halfheartedly. "I suppose you'll have heard now. What Sirius is doing, I mean."

McGonagall nodded sternly. "I have."

"What do you think of it?"

"I think it's madness." McGonagall shrugged her shoulders and turned to her blackboard, where she was writing various notes in preparation for Monday's lessons. "But you and your friends have always had a penchant for madness, and it feels like the normal options have been exhausted. Sometimes, to deal with extraordinary problems, one must opt for extraordinary solutions."

Remus sighed. "Extraordinary," he repeated. "I guess that is the word for him."

McGonagall didn't look especially proud when she nodded in agreement. "For as much as I tried to rein you lot in, it never worked. I can only hope that little Harry is easier to handle than his father, and his godfather . . . though I'm not holding my breath."

"It's hard to imagine any student being harder to handle than James Potter," Remus said.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when the door opened behind him.