Time is moving quickly in this section, because the truth of the matter is that raising a child is a lot of monotonous work. Setting up a proper home for a child involves routine, it involves safety, it involves boundaries. The best space for a child to grow, and learn their boundaries, is a space that doesn't change much.

So there's only so much to cover.

One.

It was evident that, despite agreeing on principle that it was paramount for her to have protected her son, Merope Gaunt still wasn't able to make peace with the fact that her father's death was now a stain on her own hands. All the same, when Sirius asked her if she'd rather he had done it . . .

"No," she'd said. "No, I don't think so, Mister Black. I think it was . . . important. For it to be me."

"I agree," said Sirius. "For what it's worth, if you're haunted by the idea that a daughter ought not to do such a thing to her own father—what greater sin for a child than patricide?—consider what a father ought not to do to his own daughter." He held up a hand. "Before you take that any particular way, ask yourself this: would you do to Thomas any of the things Marvolo Gaunt did to you?"

Merope's face went pale as the ghost she would have been, if not for Sirius's intervention.

"Exactly," Sirius said. "I don't know who deserves death. I haven't the faintest idea how to decide that. I also don't know if it's any one person's right to deliver death. That sort of question is too philosophical for me. I'll never pretend to be smart enough to work that out. What I can say is this: the world is a better, brighter, place without Marvolo Gaunt in it. I can't think of a single person, whose opinion is worthy of respect, who would condemn you for what you did."

"That seems . . . too easy," Merope said. "It sounds like . . . I mean, anyone who would condemn me, you would just say that person isn't worthy of respect. That feels . . . very convenient, Mister Black."

Sirius nodded. "I guess it does," he admitted. "I don't think I have an answer for you, considering that. Let's just say, then, that I'm proud of you for what you've done. You protected your son. That's right. That's correct. Anyone who threatens a baby deserves what he gets for it. And anyway, you know better than anyone what Marvolo Gaunt was capable of. You know better than anyone what threat he presented to little Thomas. I ask you: if your father, if Marvolo Gaunt were placed in a room, alone, with his grandson . . . what do you think he'd do? Be honest, now."

Merope's face screwed up into an unreadable expression.

She didn't answer; not with words.

"Exactly," Sirius said again.

Two.

Days became weeks; weeks became months; a year passed by. On Thomas's first birthday, Sirius bought him the finest clothes he could track down; on Merope's twentieth birthday, he bought her a full set of textbooks as would be required for a year at Hogwarts.

"These books are meant for first-year students," he told her, "so you shouldn't have trouble with them. They'll be good practice for you, and they will give you a good primer on wizarding Britain."

"Does the school hand out these books in your time?" Merope wondered.

"Not all of them," Sirius said, "as there are authors who aren't born yet. But some are still well-regarded even in my godson's time."

Sirius made a point, as one year turned into many, to lavish his companions with as many luxuries as he could find. As expected, there wasn't a single merchant who shunned his gold, even though it was clear that some of them noticed the minting year on certain coins.

They likely assumed the whole thing to be a simple error.

After all, the gold was authentic.

"How did you come by this house, anyway?" Merope asked her mentor one day, apropos of nothing.

"I bought it the night I showed up in London," Sirius said. "You'd be surprised how quickly you can come into a piece of property when you have a sack of gold to offer. I won't pretend I didn't charm the owner a little bit, but I didn't shortchange him."

Thomas Gaunt grew into a quick-witted and clever boy, and Sirius wondered what Dumbledore would have made of him. He knew that his professor-turned-employer had personal experience with this boy—as Tom Riddle Jr.—but he didn't know what that experience meant. Somehow, Sirius was quite sure it wasn't anything like this.

Why, he couldn't say.

All he knew was this: the idea of little Thomas growing up to be Lord Voldemort was laughable.

Not because he was too noble or decent to delve into the Dark Arts, but because he was too smart. The boy had an intuitive grasp on magic and its effects, especially its consequences, and he knew how to navigate people and hide his true nature as a budding wizard—even when wild magic started manifesting at his fingertips—and all this boiled down to one simple fact: the notion of him breaking into a family's home and blasting off its roof in an ultimately futile effort to murder an infant . . .

No.

Certainly not.

"How are you so sure?" Merope wondered one night, after Thomas was in bed. "I surely haven't any intention of arguing with you. I don't think my son is capable of becoming a dark wizard, either. It seems entirely beneath him. But . . ."

"I'm reasonably certain he wouldn't kill a baby," Sirius said, "because I think the idea would offend him. He's young, but he has his pride. The heir to the name of Gaunt, lowering himself to battle with a one-year-old? To say nothing of abandoning his illustrious name for something as—frankly—moronic as Lord Voldemort? Absolutely not."

"Moronic?" Merope repeated. "I don't know about that. It has a certain romance."

"If you say so," Sirius said. Then he added: "Besides, if he did decide to kill a baby, he'd use a knife. It's simpler that way, it's cleaner, and it's much less likely to draw attention."

Three.

The man was dirty, dusty, covered in filth, and there was madness living in his eyes. Everyone who saw him gave him a wide berth, pretending that they didn't notice him; he was carrying on a conversation with himself, using a language that no one around him could understand. That said, the sounds he made were too deliberate to be mistaken for anything but talking.

He moved like a beast, hunched over, sniffing for something that no one else could discern.

He was tall—or, he could be, if he stood up straight—broad, corded over with muscle. He looked dangerous in that way that a dog was dangerous; powerful, wild, just as liable to strike out with his teeth as his hands. But there was something else guiding him, a different danger, a deeper danger, more akin to a scorpion. Or a serpent. Cunning, smoldering, patient.

A stranger accidently bumped into the man. "Oh! Terribly sorry, good sir!"

He prepared to strike, ready to rip out the stranger's throat; the only thing that stopped him was an old voice, whispering in the back of his mind. Enough, my son, the voice whispered in that language so many people didn't know. Remember why you're here. Don't be a fool.

Morfin Gaunt grunted, spat, then turned away.

He continued stomping down the streets of London.

He stopped, dumbstruck, when the boy stepped in front of him.

"Good morning," said the child, in his language.

He was nine or ten years old, dressed richly in black lined with silver; the only splash of color was a deep green scarf wrapped around his thin shoulders. His pale face was handsome, sharp, like a fine statue carved by an angry artist. His brown eyes were deep, rich, vibrant; they seemed to stare straight through Morfin's flesh and into his soul.

The boy's lustrous black hair tumbled to his shoulders.

His smile was bright, but somehow . . . dangerous.

"Who're you?" Morfin demanded.

"I'm hurt," said the boy, pressing the fingertips of his right hand against his heart, "that my own uncle would not know me." He laughed lightly, like he'd just told a joke that only he understood. "I bet Grandfather would recognize me. It's a shame he isn't here, isn't it?"

Grandfather.

Morfin's anger redoubled, and all at once he became wilder and madder than before.

"You!"

Just as Morfin made to leap forward, to do whatever it was that he intended to do to this half-breed that represented his family's greatest sin, an actual dog lumbered in front of him. Huge, with black fur and bright grey eyes, the hound growled, snarled, bared its teeth.

"I don't suppose you are looking for Mama, are you?" the boy asked lightly. "I thought the bloodline was important to you. Precious to you. Yet, here you are, growling like a beast, too wrapped up in your own self-pity to act like a proper noble." He gestured grandly. "Am I the only man in this family who honors his ancestors?"

The dog lunged.

Just as the huge animal was about to tear out Morfin's throat, time stopped.

"Don't worry," came a new voice. "She's doing just fine without you. Either of you."

The boy giggled.