The bathroom the witch guided him to was a small, narrow, windowless affair, with a kitsch wallpaper on its ceiling, which resembled the night sky, complete with flickering stars. He waited until he heard her leave the house, before starting the water and finally peeling off his grimy clothes, throwing them at a distance onto the hallway. He waited for her to leave in order to leave the door open - the small bathroom, made even smaller now by the steam emanating from his bath made him feel claustrophobic.

Slowly, feeling his joints crack with every big movement he made, Sirius got into the bath, and pulled his knees close to his chest in the small bathtub. He was thankful for the small bathtub, as his muscles were so sore that he could barely hold himself up. He closed his eyes, and leaned against his back, slowly submerging his head in the water.

It was a long time until he could bear to turn to his left and look at himself through one of the witch's mirrors. That was him. For better and for worse.

It wasn't as if he never had the opportunity to look at himself in the past year. He saw himself numerous times in the Daily Prophet, however, he could lie to himself that that wasn't was his madness of his mistakes, the madness of Azkaban and the Dementors. That was not Sirius Black.

However, the man looking back from the mirror, his details fuzzy from the clouds of steam, was certainly him. And he looked just as miserable as the Sirius Black from the Daily Prophet. He cupped water in his hands, and splashed his face. Once. Twice. Thrice. He rubbed his face harder and harder with each splash of hot water, until he could see his reflection turn bright red.

Useless.

He closed his eyes, and slowly laid back. He welcomed the warmth of the water against his hair, filling his ears, and held his breath as he slowly submerged himself under the water. His entire body welcomed it, and for a few seconds, Sirius felt at peace. For a few moments, he felt safe, as if no one could find him there, in the warm, wrinkling embrace of the small, filled bathtub. He slowly raised himself, and opened his eyes. The wallpaper he earlier considered kitsch was half-hidden in the steam, the illusion of stars flickering now seeming almost real, and he could briefly imagine himself outside.

"I need a wand." he whispered, to no one in particular. He needed a wand, he needed access to his stash of money at Gringotts, he needed to go back to Grimmauld Place and get it ready, get it prepared for that one day, soon enough, that Harry could live with him…

After he finished bathing, Sirius wrapped himself in an array of towels from head to toe, before going out of the bathroom and dragging his old, tattered robes into one pile, pondering what to do with them. What to do now, with the last remnant of his false imprisonment? Momentarily, he just pushed them into one corner, unceremoniously stepping over them..

The house was smaller than he imagined. It reminded him somewhat of Remus's place, the one he got right after they graduated. With a deposit from his parents and some money he gave him, he'd managed to find a place almost like this one. A small kitchen connected to a living room, the bedroom he was in, and the one that most likely belonged to the witch. Without a second thought, he entered it, and chuckled to himself at the robes strewn across the bed and floor, the unmade bed, and an ungodly amount of mugs scattered around the desk, one of which seemed to act as a holder for her wand.

"What idiot doesn't take their wand with them…" Sirius mused, and picked it up. He chuckled to himself as he examined it closely. With a wave of his wand, the robes arranged themselves, all neat and folded, inside a trunk, while the mugs followed one another into the kitchen. The room smelt of old books or parchment, and as a gesture of courtesy, he flicked his wand to open the window, before exiting the room and closing it behind him.

Wand still in his hand, he lit the logs in the old fireplace at the far end of the kitchen, before taking a seat on her couch. The more he looked, the more he started noticing more and more strange aspects about the house. There were rugs, blankets and shawls strewn everywhere, enough to grab one from wherever one was sitting or standing in the house.

Strange person.

Deciding to take advantage of his host's strange habits, he grabbed two shawls from the back of the couch, and threw them on himself, on top of the towels.

Waves of warmth from the fire engulfed him from head to toe as the logs cracked in the fireplace, and he was slowly realizing just how tired he was. Without a second thought, he laid down, not sure when the witch would come back after leaving Buckbeak. With her wand by his side, he felt safer, and closed his eyes, hoping to get a good night's sleep.

And a deep, dreamless sleep indeed he had. Without much of a clock inside the house, he didn't know if he had slept for minutes or days.

With difficulty, Sirius used his elbow to half-raise himself from the mountain of towels and shawls. His mouth was dry - all the moisture from his body seemed to have escaped outward - he'd either been drenched with a bucket's worth of water, or he must have been sweating profusely for hours upon hours. He ran a hand through his hair, finding it still damp. Looking around, he found the fire had been smothered, however a small lamp lit up the witch's face. She was sat at a table, reading through what looked like the Daily Prophet.

"Good morning."

"Is it?" he rasped, watching the witch grab a glass of water and offer it to him. He nodded a thanks of appreciation, and gulped it down as she responded.

"Not yet… should be dawn soon, so we'll have to make a move."

"Where?"

"Oh, I thought I… back to my house. I don't - gosh, I don't live here. I know it shouldn't matter when you Apparate, but I would prefer we do this in the night. See, according to the Daily Prophet, you're apparently out of England, so this is our best chance."

"Do they?"

She handed him the paper, and lifted her finger, the light of the lamp increasing until he could see once again the entirety of the living room. 'Signs of Sirius Black seen at the French border' the headline read, and he chuckled to himself, reading on about the obviously fabricated details of his escape. He couldn't help but scoff as the Prophet proceeded to relay Snape's version of events, and he tore the bit of the paper mentioning Fudge's conclusion on the matter.

"You know, that's not what happened."

"I know they like to embellish."

"Embellish is not enough said about those vultures," he muttered.

"You can tell me about that when you're safely at my house. Which reminds me… I got you clothes as well. I found yours in the corner and took it upon myself to ah, well… burn them." she raised her shoulders, and Sirius chuckled amused, assuring her those were his plans as well.

"'Suppose you didn't get me a wand as well?"

"Well… I see you made yourself comfortable with mine quite quickly."

Muttering half an apology under his breath, Sirius gave the witch her wand back, taking in exchange the change of robes she had brought him. She mentioned she could get him more to his specific requests, and he thanked her quickly, wrapped still in some of his towels as he stumbled back to the bedroom he had slept in before to change.

The witch's actual house was plunged into darkness, save for the light coming out from the tip of her wand. A forgotten, heavy iron pot laid in one corner of the kitchen, filled with what smelled like hearty stew, still bubbling lazily from an enchantment to keep it warm. This house was bigger and more reminiscent of the bedroom she was in. There was an enormous bookshelf in the living room, couches and chaise lounges strewn along. The kitchen was an elongated beast, with a pantry at the end of it.

She took him upstairs, her trunk following lazily behind them.

"You can take that room at the end. There's a bathroom attached to it, same as this one. And this time, here, I would appreciate you not inspecting it while I'm away, regardless of intention."

Sirius watched her trunk clunk against her bedroom door, and she opened it to let it in, before guiding him to what was now his room.

"If you make me a list of what you need, I can get it tomorrow or so..." She started gathering various objects, shawls and robes strewn around much in the same way they were in the room she was in at the other house. "There's food - help yourself with anything you see downstairs. Dumbledore's friends are always welcome, always have been."

Sirius watched her struggle with the armful of objects she collected, too amused to comment or help her. It was only when she asked if there was anything he needed that he responded, watching the rays of dusk light up the sky.

"Do you have anything to drink? Anything strong…"

Before he knew it, Sirius was back downstairs, laying on a comfortable couch across from his host as she poured a dash of clear liquid into two mugs, handing one to him, and clinked her mug against his. He took a whiff of it - it smelt revoltingly strong, and he welcomed the fiery drink burning down his throat. He groaned in delight as the drink hit his stomach - it had been thirteen years since his last drink, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the memories it brought.

Memories of late nights with James drinking covertly from his father's bottles, of trying to make their own firewhisky, of graduating - and not remembering much of it, of James and Lily's wedding…

"It's not firewhisky, this… is it?" Not that he remembered much of what good food and drink tasted like.

He reached for the bottle to pour himself more, double the amount the witch first gave him. It dried his throat and made it swell with each sip, and warmed his organs with each passing. So much so that he barely heard her next words, and asked her to repeat.

"I said it's not, it's a Muggle drink from where I come from."

"Is it now…" Sirius cleared his throat, and decided, pushed by his drink as well, to finally ask a question that had been on his mind since he first arrived with Buckbeak. "Tell me, why does Dumbledore trust you?"

"I could ask you the same. After all, you came into my home, in the middle of the night. You entered my space and took my wand." she pointed onto her neck, and Sirius became suddenly aware of his tattoos from Azkaban, and gathered his robes more at the neck.

"My mentor, she was on Albus Dumbledore's side during the war. Died during it. Albus made sure, in all that time of secrecy, of mistrust, of needing to keep each action measured, that her body arrived home safely. He made sure we received her and could dignify her in death. I continued rallying foreign wizards to fight for Dumbledore's cause, even went to Britain myself when he called for me. That is perhaps how he trusts me - I have done my part.

And… well, after the war, there was an incident, in which he put in a good word for me at your Ministry. Saved me from some troubles. And I promised him since, anything I could do to help him, I would. And he requests things now and then - usually minor.

However, having to host someone wanted by both Muggles and Wizarding Britain is one of the biggest tasks he seems to have given me."

Sirius sighed, and finished the drink. He pondered how to even start on his side. Start from the beginnings of his friendship with James? Start from the beginning of the war, or start from the night of the attack? Everything was fresh in his mind, and his heart started racing. By this time last night, he had that miserable rat at his mercy, and was ready to execute him. He could have had it all, he was so close he was salivating when thinking of using the killing curse on that pest.

And now, he was uselessly lying about, making himself small. Harry was surely safe at his uncle and aunt's house, if not now then in a few days, when his third year at Hogwarts would end- Dumbledore would take care of that. Just like he took care from the point James and Lily died.

After all, Harry had been safe for thirteen years without him - what would a few days more be?

"I don't even know how to start."

"Beginnings are a great start."

"The beginning is the problem."

"Endings work just fine."

"Well, the end is that I am here."

"And before?"

"I was with my godson."

"And before?"

"And before that, I was imprisoned in Azkaban for thirteen years, for a different crime tham the one I was imprisoned for… you know the-... You know, for killing Muggles and apparently Peter Pettigrew, when my crime was trusting him in the first place to-..."

He stopped for a second, before realizing that it didn't matter. It didn't matter anymore - it already happened. Thirteen years ago, on that October night…

"I thought I could trust him, James and I both did. And he sold them - the fucker sold everything, himself, James, Lily, Harry - everyone, to Voldemort. So when I had the chance, I escaped to find and finally murder the man that I was imprisoned for murdering. I escaped to finally do the crime I was imprisoned for. And to watch over my godson, to know he's safe, to see him, for the first time in-... the last time I saw him, it was when he was a baby. It was on the night his parents, my best friends, were murdered.

Who does that? To a child? To a kid in diapers? And to those who-...? To the friend- to…well… "And Harry would have been next, if it weren't for-... well, I don't really know…"

His voice was trembling, and he wiped his forehead of sweat. He wasn't talking to her anymore, he was simply talking to himself, trying to make heads or tails of the situation he was in. He had ruminated on the mistakes of his past many times over in his head, but before he had finally met Harry, Remus, and everyone else those two nights ago, he had never voiced them out loud, for hear of who would hear.

For all those years, there was only one person who knew he was innocent.

He remembered Walburga had the guts, the nerve, to visit him in Azkaban once. The rumors of him turning to the Dark Arts, having allegedly murdered Muggles in broad daylight, killed his best friends… it must have reached her ears, and piqued her interest. So when she went to visit Bellatrix, the cousin she wished she had as a daughter instead of his Muggle-loving, blood-traitor son, she stopped by his cell as well.

It was his first month in Azkaban. He had already screamed and threw everything he could against the cold walls of his cell, and had no voice, or will, to confront anyone, let alone his mother.. Walburga had the tip of her wand lit as she peered in his cell, and he knew she was reading him like an open book. She looked triumphant, thinking he had finally seen reason, until she saw him, young, weak, and stupid, without any strength - by the time she left Azkaban, Sirius knew that his mother knew he had the same convictions, and that he had been framed.

To say no one knew he was innocent of killing those poor Muggles for those thirteen years was an exaggeration that sat heavily in his heart. He knew his mother would not tell anyone. He unfortunately knew that she would have him rot in Azkaban for renouncing them.

"And… have you?"

Sirius raised his head, lost in his own thoughts. He apologized briefly, and asked the witch to repeat herself once again.

"Have you killed him then? Peter Pettigrew? Is he dead?"

He hadn't. Once again, he escaped from right under his nose, and who knows where he was hiding now.

"That's my next move. To find him again. And this time, finally kill him. Third time's the charm." Even if Harry wouldn't approve of it. He would kill them with witnesses, he would bring his fresh corpse on Fudge's doorstep if needed, like a cat brings its prized mouse, dead between its teeth.

All he needed was a wand, and a plan. Maybe not now, while the Ministry was hot on his heels, but soon enough…