Chapter 2: Lost Souls Inn

I would have died! I would have died rather than betray my friends, as we would have done for you!

~Sirius Black~

James looked stern. "I didn't suck up to heaven, I just know how to ask."

Sirius nodded, his attention sharpening as he took in the details around him.

The layout of James' Diagon Alley mirrored its mortal counterpart, though the shops were distinctly different. Instead of Zonko's, there was a joke shop named Mischief Managed that seemed to saturate the air with a sense of fun and mischief. It wasn't just a store; it felt like a beacon of chaos, an invitation to joy that would have made Fred and George proud. The thought that pranks were still allowed in the afterlife warmed Sirius' heart.

Where Gringotts once stood, a gleaming castle now occupied the space, surrounded by a charming village. A stunning bridge arched across a roaring river, connecting the wizarding shopping district to the castle district. An ornate wrought-iron sign read, "Welcome to Goblin-town." Sirius raised an eyebrow and gestured toward it. "Whose idea was that?"

James shrugged casually. "Well, I'm not the only one with building rights around here. Think of it as a cooperative effort. And since there's no real need for gold—at least not as currency—there was no need for a bank. But there's still a demand for goblin-inspired goods and a space where Goblin-kind can socialize and, well, live a little more comfortably."

James looked stern. "I didn't suck up to heaven, I just know how to ask."

Sirius nodded, his attention sharpening as he took in the details around him.

The layout of James' Diagon Alley mirrored its mortal counterpart, though the shops were distinctly different. Instead of Zonko's, there was a joke shop named Mischief Managed that seemed to saturate the air with a sense of fun and mischief. It wasn't just a store; it felt like a beacon of chaos, an invitation to joy that would have made Fred and George proud. The thought that pranks were still allowed in the afterlife warmed Sirius' heart.

Where Gringotts once stood, a gleaming castle now occupied the space, surrounded by a charming village. A stunning bridge arched across a roaring river, connecting the wizarding shopping district to the castle district. An ornate wrought-iron sign read, "Welcome to Goblin-town." Sirius raised an eyebrow and gestured toward it. "Whose idea was that?"

James shrugged casually. "Well, I'm not the only one with building rights around here. Think of it as a cooperative effort. And since there's no real need for gold—at least not as currency—there was no need for a bank. But there's still a demand for goblin-inspired goods and a space where Goblin-kind can socialize and, well, live a little more comfortably."

James took hold of Sirius's shoulders and spun him around to face a tall, two-story fire-engine red brick building with large display windows showcasing sleek, stylish brooms for all occasions. Sirius' eyes moved to the marquee, and he read aloud, "Potter's Broom Cupboard." He glanced at his friend and asked, "Broom cupboard?"

James explained, "The Dursleys kept Harry in a broom cupboard until he got his Hogwarts letter." He looked up at the marquee again. "Lil hates the name, but to me, it reminds me of his strengths. His... resilience." He shrugged. "But hey, check this out."

He led Sirius closer to a particular broom, prominently displayed. Sirius took in the design—a black cherry wood that gleamed like ebony. The broom's tail...

"Phoenix feathers?" he asked, his eyes scanning the small plaque on the handle: Phoenix Flame with Seeker Ed. 1991 beneath it.

James sighed. "I designed it in honor of Harry becoming Seeker his first year at Hogwarts. Have you seen him fly?"

Sirius nodded, a grin tugging at his lips. "Yeah. He's scary good."

James nodded proudly. "Come on. The pub's just this way."

The men crossed the street and wandered away from the shopping district, down a tree-lined road. Fairies flitted in and out of exotic trees, their wings shimmering like tiny rainbows in the dappled sunlight. A large two-story building loomed ahead, perched at the corner of an intersection. The Inn's aged brick façade was softened by the ivy that climbed its walls, giving it an almost timeless feel. Above the porch, a crooked signpost hung low, its placard swaying with every gust of wind. It read Lost Souls Inn in whimsical lettering, the font almost teasing. James smiled. "I like this place."

Sirius raised an eyebrow, questioning his friend's sanity. The name was unsettling, and the atmosphere seemed even creepier, with flickering candlelight spilling from the windows and a soft, ethereal glow that surrounded the Inn like a faint mist. But despite the ominous vibe, he followed James up the creaky steps to the wrap-around porch, its wooden boards groaning beneath their feet, and into the Inn.

Had Sirius lingered for just a moment longer, he would have noticed a large black raven land upon the signpost. The bird, with its dark eyes gleaming, watched the pair disappear through the door with more curiosity than any mundane bird might have shown. It settled in to wait, as if it knew that timing was everything.

"Let me guess," Sirius queried, "Another citizen built this?"

James nodded. "Yep."

The Inn's interior was a striking blend of old-world charm and gothic medieval aesthetics. The walls were built from dark stone, softened by rich tapestries depicting legendary wizards and mythical beasts. Towering wooden beams arched high above, supporting a vaulted ceiling adorned with wrought-iron chandeliers that bathed the room in warm, flickering candlelight. The scent of aged oak, spiced mead, and something faintly floral—perhaps enchanted incense—lingered in the air, adding to the inviting yet enigmatic atmosphere.

The main hall was both cozy and well-appointed, with a restaurant, bar, and private seating tucked into alcoves framed by heavy crimson drapes. The polished wooden bar gleamed beneath shelves lined with bottles of every hue, some of which glowed faintly with their own magic. A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, its roaring flames casting playful shadows across the floor.

A man sat at an antique piano tucked into the corner, his fingers coaxing a soft, bluesy melody from the keys. The tune carried effortlessly through the room, weaving into the quiet murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses. Sirius paused, tilting his head as he listened. It was brilliant—soulful and rich, the kind of music that made you feel nostalgic for things you hadn't even lost.

While Sirius took in the pub's amenities with growing appreciation, James made arrangements for them to be seated near the fireplace. A beautiful woman, her ethereal features unmistakably Veela, led them to a pair of high-backed leather chairs positioned before the hearth, a polished mahogany table set between them. The firelight played across her porcelain skin and silken hair as she handed them their menus, her smile both practiced and enchanting.

James immediately focused on ordering. Sirius, however, was otherwise occupied—utterly enthralled by the waitress, leaning in with his most roguish grin, lavishing her with compliments and flirtatious quips. The exchange stretched on far longer than necessary, and James rolled his eyes as he finally took matters into his own hands, placing Sirius' order for him.

Only after the Veela sauntered off did James discreetly flick his wand, erecting a series of privacy wards. The subtle shimmer of magic settled around them like an invisible veil, muffling their conversation from prying ears.

At last, he leaned back into his chair, leveling Sirius with a knowing smirk.

"Can we get to the serious—no pun intended—conversation now?"

"There's a lot you need to know, Padfoot. You've been kept in the dark." James' expression was unusually grim. "Dumbledore took you off the chessboard a long time ago. He's been… less than honest with you. With Harry."

Sirius narrowed his eyes. James rarely spoke ill of others, and his anger now was palpable.

James took a steadying breath. "I'm going to say this quickly because I hate talking about it. But you need to know—especially if you're going back."

Before Sirius could scoff at the absurdity of returning from the dead, James dropped the bombshell.

"Harry's a Horcrux."

The words hit like a hex to the chest. Sirius went deathly pale. His lips parted, but no sound came out. He shook his head, mouthing a silent no. His hand trembled as he reached for his drink, downing it in one go. Then he poured another, filling his glass to the brim, and tossed that back too. Smoke curled from his lungs as he exhaled sharply, but for once, he was too shaken to be amused.

James watched him with quiet concern.

"I know it's hard to believe. Impossible. Disgusting." James slammed his fist on the table, his voice thick with barely restrained fury. "That there is anything—" he spat the word, "of that monster in my son!"

Sirius finally found his voice, though it was hoarse. Dozens of questions clawed at his mind, but one emotion rose above the rest—rage. A slow, simmering fury toward Dumbledore, who had once again kept the most important truths from them.

For a brief, vengeful moment, he considered returning as a ghost just to haunt the old man.

"How do we get rid of it?"

James exhaled sharply, rubbing his face in frustration. "We don't. We don't know how."

Sirius' fingers curled into fists. "You don't know?" He wanted to hit something, preferably Dumbledore's smug, twinkling face. Taking a slow breath, he forced himself to think. "Alright. Fine. So… what exactly do you want me to do, James? What can I do? I mean, I know I'm fabulous, gorgeous, single, and rich—well, was rich—but that doesn't mean I'm bloody Jesus Christ." He threw up his hands. "I've never heard of anyone coming back from the dead, and I certainly don't know how to do it!"

James leaned back, crossing his arms. "What about phoenixes? Or Voldypants." He smirked. "Or Jesus Christ."

Sirius shot him a glare. "Do not compare me to a bird that molts or that lunatic, please." He paused, then shrugged. "Jesus, I don't mind."

James huffed out a laugh despite himself. "Yeah, figured."

"There is only one way to get rid of a Horcrux, Lord Potter, as you well know."

James and Sirius sprang to their feet, wands drawn in an instant.

The voice belonged to a rather intimidating older man standing proudly before them. He was dressed in black, impeccably tailored robes that all but screamed nobility, prestige, and sheer, unrelenting power. In his hand, an ebony cane topped with a gold raven with ruby eyes gleamed under the flickering firelight.

"Good evening, gentlemen. Kindly sheath your wands."

James, to Sirius' eternal amusement, blushed and shoved his wand away like a chastised schoolboy. Sirius, on the other hand, merely lowered his, still gripping it loosely in his fingers.

A fact that did not go unnoticed.

"Sirius Orion Black," the older man intoned, voice like a disapproving headmaster, "you will sheath your wand."

Sirius twitched at being addressed like a misbehaving child, then sighed dramatically. "Yes, Grandfather." He slid his wand back into its holster with all the enthusiasm of a man conceding defeat in a duel. "I do apologize. Clearly, I've forgotten my manners… though, you seem to have done the same, barging into our very private conversation unannounced." He cocked an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Arcturus Black grimaced, though whether it was at Sirius' tone or James' expectant glare was unclear. "Perhaps I should have announced myself sooner. But your conversation was… very enlightening."

James, no longer looking remotely flustered, narrowed his eyes. "Excuse me, sir, but what exactly did you mean by—'Only one way to get rid of it?'"

Sirius glanced between his grandfather and James, an uneasy feeling creeping up his spine.

Arcturus studied James with an expression so serious, so utterly final, that it sent a chill through the room. Then, with the weight of an executioner's verdict, he said:

"The boy must die, James. And at the Dark Lord's own hand."

A thick silence followed. The kind that pressed against their ribs like lead.

James paled. Sirius forgot how to breathe.

Then, with a voice far too casual for the horror just spoken, Sirius muttered, "Well. That's just bloody fantastic."

James, despite his shock, couldn't help but agree.

Sirius would have loved to punch Arcturus, but he was too busy holding James back from doing something spectacularly stupid—like trying to murder a dead man. If that was even possible. He figured it'd be pretty damn difficult, but James sure as hell looked like he was willing to try.

James had the body of a young, strong man. Sirius… well, Sirius was a little more seasoned—marinated, even. Aged like fine whiskey and battered like a well-loved broomstick. Wrestling James took effort, but before it could turn into an all-out brawl, Arcturus merely flicked his hand.

Thick vines erupted from the floor, twisting around James and pinning him in place.

"My house, my rules," Lord Black said smoothly.

"You built this place?" James gritted out, eyes narrowing as another vine coiled around his arms, binding them tightly to his torso. He had that look now—the I'm going to prank you so hard you'll cry for your mum look.

Sirius suddenly felt very concerned. Did his mere presence in the afterlife bring chaos? Or was it always like this?

With caution, he released James and turned to Arcturus. "Perhaps you should explain."

Arcturus inclined his head. "As long as there is a Horcrux, Riddle cannot die." He let that sink in before continuing, "Destroying a Horcrux is extremely difficult. Your son—" he nodded to James, "—discovered one way in his second year at Hogwarts."

James immediately caught on. "The diary. Basilisk venom."

Sirius frowned. "Wait! That diary?" His mind raced. "Harry rescued Ginny Weasley from the Chamber of Secrets. Killed a basilisk." He shook his head in disbelief. A basilisk. Sirius was a full-grown wizard, and he wouldn't want to take on a full-grown basilisk alone.

"The diary was a Horcrux?"

The realization hit him like a rogue Bludger. The truth had been right in front of him the whole time. Why had he never asked the right questions? Why had he never demanded more details?

Dumbledore's bloody secrets.

Did Harry even know? Of course not. Harry had to believe he could win—otherwise, he wouldn't fight. Dumbledore needed him to have hope.

Sirius' stomach twisted in sudden understanding.

Dumbledore had raised a sacrificial lamb.

He wanted to smash something. Preferably something expensive. Preferably something Dumbledore owned. He was suddenly envious of Harry—for having something tangible to stab.

"I'd gladly stand here discussing this like barbarians," Arcturus said dryly, "but I would prefer to sit and continue this conversation like civilized men." With another flick of his hand, the vines released James, a third chair appeared, and Arcturus took an uninvited seat.

A glass from the bar soared across the room, landing gracefully on the table. Arcturus poured himself a measure of firewhiskey, then leveled his grandson with a pointed look. A look that was less of an invitation and more of a dare.

Sirius huffed. So magic didn't require wands here? At least not for Arcturus. Was that an exception… or the rule?

With a last glance at James—who, to his credit, only looked mildly murderous now—Sirius retook his seat. James followed, albeit reluctantly.

The conversation was far from over.

Sirius hated insincerity. Political machinations and pureblood traditions made his skin crawl. He despised namby-pamby sycophants—butt-lickers, like the rat.

He gave his grandfather a long, considering look and said, "Please, continue."

It wasn't that Arcturus was one of them. He wasn't. The old man—who didn't look a day over forty, annoyingly enough—was neither a groveler nor a schemer. Sirius would never bow to him, but there was no reason to sow discord where none was needed.

Still, he couldn't deny it. He and Lord Arcturus Black shared at least one deadly sin: Vanity.

The old man had a certain style that Sirius, despite his best efforts, had found himself emulating over the years. It was maddening. The more he tried to forge his own path, the more the currents dragged him back to the same damnable shores.

"One question," he said, glancing around the room. "My mother isn't going to pop up next, is she?"

James, who had been taking a cautious sip of firewhiskey, immediately choked and glanced over his shoulder. He'd met the woman a handful of times—each encounter worse than the last. She had looked at him like he was something foul stuck to her shoe. And then she'd strained his pureblood manners to the breaking point by calling him a filthy blood traitor.

That was the summer Sirius had run away from home.

Arcturus shook his head, almost pityingly. "No, Sirius. She won't be bothering you." He paused. "She's in solitary confinement. No world builders wish to share their afterlife with her."

Sirius snorted. That sounded about right. His mother had never liked people. They simply infuriated her. She would hate sharing anything—let alone an entire afterlife.

Shrugging off the unpleasant thought, Sirius gave his grandfather his full attention as Arcturus began listing the known ways of destroying Horcruxes.

"Basilisk venom. Fiendfyre. By pure chance, Godric Gryffindor's sword—since it absorbed the basilisk's venom when Harry killed the beast. And, of course, Riddle can destroy his own Horcruxes. But the problem," Arcturus said, letting the weight of it settle, "is that Harry is the Horcrux he never meant to make."

James went utterly still.

Arcturus continued, "Harry was meant to be the sacrifice. When Riddle's spell backfired, it destroyed his body, but a fragment of his soul latched onto Harry instead. As for why Harry survived…" He shrugged. "Perhaps a combination of Lily's blood magic and Harry's own innate power. Regardless, the result is the same." His voice turned grave. "Harry is a Horcrux. An accidental Horcrux. But a Horcrux nonetheless."

James exhaled sharply. His hands curled into fists. "Okay, can we stop saying that?" he ground out.

Sirius felt like he'd been kicked in the gut. He muttered a string of curses unfit for the heavenly realm.

"Aren't you just a right ray of sunshine?" he grumbled, slumping back in his chair with a groan. "Bringing us good news and glad tidings."

James stared blankly at the wall, white-knuckled around his glass.

"So that's the solution?" Sirius asked, voice hoarse. "Let Harry die?" He shook his head violently. "No. It's impossible. We'll find another way." He turned to James, resolute. "Arcturus doesn't know everything. Time Turners didn't exist until someone figured it out."

James took a long sip of firewhiskey. Then another.

Sirius clenched his jaw.

They would find another way.

They had to.

"I said that Harry had to die at Riddle's hand. I didn't say he had to stay dead." Arcturus shrugged. "Death can't hold him if he's the Master of Death."

At the two men's blank stares, he sighed. "The Hallows?"

James was the first to catch on. "The cloak! It's one of the Deathly Hallows." He shrugged. "It's not a big deal, really. My ancestor, Ignotus Peverell, created it. It's supposed to be one of a set of three magical artifacts—from the children's tale The Three Brothers."

Sirius gaped. "You mean your invisibility cloak is the cloak from Beedle the Bard?" His eyebrows climbed in astonishment.

James shrugged again. "Well, yeah?" He glanced between Arcturus and Sirius. "I grew up knowing the story, but it was a family secret—I couldn't talk about it. Not that anyone would have believed me anyway." He chuckled. "Dad said every family has its own artifacts, and this was ours. He made sure I knew the story behind the cloak when he gave it to me, along with the family grimoire. I always knew about the Hallows, but that doesn't mean I believe they're anything more than three very cool magical items."

Arcturus nodded approvingly. "It speaks well of you that you kept those secrets. Unfortunately, your son knows nothing about them. If he's to survive Voldemort's killing curse again, he'll need to unite the Hallows."

James and Sirius both sucked in sharp breaths, imagining yet another deadly confrontation between Harry and old snake-face. As if hunting down all of Riddle's Horcruxes wasn't enough, now he had to track down two more Hallows.

James ran a hand through his hair. "There's another secret Dumbledore's been keeping from Harry," he admitted. "I loaned him my cloak at his request. Said he wanted to study its origins—claimed he was looking into improving existing cloaks. And I gotta admit, mine can't be damaged and works just as well for Harry as it did for me. But I think Albus knows about the Hallows."

Silence settled over them, each lost in thought.

Arcturus was the one to break the silence. "So," he said, eyes locking onto Sirius. "You're dead. Died without accomplishing a damn thing." He shook his head, disappointment heavy in his voice. "I expected more from my heir."

Sirius smirked. "Sorry to disappoint," he said, sounding anything but sorry.

Arcturus sighed. "You have a body, and you can go back. But, of course, that comes at a cost." He paused, then looked at James. "So, are you going to be able to kill Sirius to send him back?"

James paled. "I... I..." He swallowed hard. "Well, I won't do it if he doesn't want me to, of course," he added quickly.

Sirius frowned, suddenly feeling lost again. "What do you mean, kill me?"

James gulped, buying time with a sip of whiskey as he searched for the right words. "I really wish Lily were here. She's furious with you, Padfoot. Said I wasn't allowed back in the house until I got you to agree to this insane plan of ours." He cradled his head in his hands for a moment.

"Just spit it out, boy," Arcturus growled impatiently.

James shot him a glare before clearing his throat and turning back to Sirius. "Okay. So Lily figured it out. She has a keen understanding of something she calls quantum physics and temporal magic. She says the theory is sound—we just don't know what the result will be." He took a breath. "We can send you back in time. The problem is, we can't predict how far back. It could be the moment of your birth—" He paused, suppressing a chuckle at the thought of a baby Sirius with the memories of a grown man. But Sirius's sharp look made him think better of it. "—Or just before you fall through the Veil." He sighed. "That part is random, which makes this complicated."

He licked his lips and pushed forward. "Also… you need to die here in order to go back. You'll be a spirit—we think—and taken back in time. Then you'll have to, uh, possess yourself." He said the last part quickly.

Sirius blinked. "That's some pretty dark magic," he muttered. The idea of dying again didn't thrill him, but what really unsettled him was the thought of taking over his younger self's life. Was that fair? Right? Moral? He wrestled with the concept—until another thought completely derailed him.

"I could end up back in Azkaban," he realized, shuddering.

Arcturus shrugged. "Or you could end up falling through the Veil over and over and over again." His gaze was steady. "Doesn't mean you won't leap at the chance to set things right."

He stood then, nodding to James before scrutinizing Sirius with grave intensity. "I'll give you one last pearl of wisdom before I leave you for the evening. You must assume the mantle of Lord Black. You need the power to change the wizarding world—and like it or not, Sirius, that power resides in the halls of the Ministry. You can tip the balance of the Wizengamot toward the Light, or at the very least, set your own agenda. You'll find power in the halls of justice and magical law. You will never defeat him by sitting on the sidelines and allowing him free reign over the Ministry. Stop acting like a pawn and put yourself back in the game."

He nodded to James. "Lord Potter, please give Lily my regards."

Finally, he turned back to Sirius, his expression unreadable. "I wish you the best, son. It's time to take over the wizarding world and make it dance to your drumbeat." He winked and then strode away, leaving James and Sirius in stunned silence.

Sirius sat in silence, watching Arcturus leave, and realized—however much he hated to admit it—the old man was right. But there was still so much he didn't know, so much he hadn't considered. He wasn't ready to return yet. He needed a plan.

He sighed and turned to James, who sat quietly, staring down at the pocket watch in his hand. Sirius recognized it immediately—James was watching Harry.

A new resolve settled in his gut.

Finally, he asked the question that had been nagging at him. "Why didn't Lily come with you again?"

James let out a long breath, rubbing a hand through his already-messy hair. "She's mad at you, Pads. Thinks you made a right mess of things." He sighed. "Told me not to come home tonight unless you agreed to help Harry."

Sirius winced but nodded. He'd earned Lily's anger, he supposed. But if she was that mad, it meant she still cared.

"Well," he said, squaring his shoulders. "I'll do it. Whatever it takes."

James looked up sharply, surprise flickering across his face before he grinned. "Yeah?"

Sirius smirked. "Yeah." He stood, stretching like a man shaking off old chains. "So I guess that means we go see Lily."

James laughed, clapping him on the back. "Merlin help you, mate. You've faced Death Eaters, Dementors, and Azkaban, but you still might not survive a pissed-off Lily Evans."

Sirius chuckled. "Bring it on."

And with that, they left to face their fiercest challenge yet—Lily Potter's wrath.

Sirius polished off the bottle with one last deep swallow before setting it down with a satisfying clink. He and James stood, neither walking quite as straight as they had when they arrived.

Outside the inn, James led them to a weathered crossroads sign. The North-South markers read Diagon Alley – Goblin-Town, while the East-West signs pointed toward Potter Estates and Potterville.

Sirius barely had time to wonder about the names before James grabbed his arm. "Potter Estates," he said firmly, placing his free hand on the wooden post.

The pull felt like a Portkey, but smoother, more fluid. In the blink of an eye, they landed lightly on a dirt road beneath the glow of a full moon.

Sirius took in their surroundings. A country lane stretched ahead, winding gently uphill through an apple orchard. The night sky was vast and filled with stars, their light shimmering off the leaves. James grinned and gestured up the road.

"It's pretty isolated here," he explained. "But if you follow that way, you'll reach Potterville. A lot of our old allies have settled there."

Sirius, however, wasn't paying attention anymore. He stood rooted to the spot, hands shoved deep in his pockets, head bowed. James frowned.

"Coming?"

Sirius shook his head, his voice almost petulant. "She'll hit me. Or yell at me." He hesitated, then muttered, "What if she doesn't forgive me?"

James smirked. "Well… I guess you'll have to sleep in the doghouse."

Sirius snorted, then laughed outright. "I guess so."

He squared his shoulders, summoning every ounce of Gryffindor courage, and started walking.

As they turned the bend, Sirius caught sight of Potter Estates, bathed in moonlight. It was beautiful.

A large barn and several greenhouses sprawled across the land, evidence of a well-tended farm. But it was the house that truly took his breath away—a grand, two-story antebellum-style home with a wrap-around porch. Wild roses trailed up the white columns, their petals bright even in the low light. Flowers bloomed in abundant, overflowing beds. Warm golden light spilled from the windows, glowing like a beacon in the dark.

It looked like home.

James led him inside, where Sirius caught glimpses of a spacious, open-concept living area. Large windows framed a carefully landscaped garden out back. Everything about the house spoke of warmth, of family, of life.

James pressed a finger to his lips and gestured toward the stairs. Silently, they climbed, though Sirius had to stifle a chuckle at the absurdity of sneaking around like schoolboys.

At the guest room door, James whispered, "See you in the morning, Pads."

Sirius barely managed a nod before his gaze landed on the bed. Exhaustion crashed over him like a wave. Without bothering to take off his shoes, he collapsed onto the mattress.

Sleep claimed him instantly.