A Three-Part Song

Christmas Interlude: Locks and Bolts

"You're welcome here, my dearest dear, but locks and bolts do hinder." --trad.

It was morning, but the sun would not be coming up, in this latitude, for quite a while. He quietly made a pot of tea, carried a cup outside, and sat on the wooden back step. He was not claustrophobic. He just liked being outside, liked being warm, wrapped in one of the thick green Folberg cloaks, in the cold, damp morning. He stared down toward the water's edge, into the darkness. The air smelled fresh, green and woody; the tops of the trees swayed gently, black against a nearly black sky. Millions of stars. Small voices: a fox barking, a bird he didn't recognise. Movement nearby: animals of some kind. Nice not to be totally alone, even if it was uncertain who one's companions were. He smiled.

Nights could be difficult: the old anger, self-reproach, regrets, and (be honest) fears, often visited at night. Shapes of dementors still appeared, all too frequently, behind his closed eyelids. He had taught himself, those first few weeks at Remus's, not to jump up or cry out at night: just to stay still with his eyes closed, and wait out whatever demon it was. He'd wanted Remus to know that all the care and kindness were helping: having some effect. Besides, it was no use worrying a friend with problems that had no solution.

With the morning, it was easier to see the heartening side of things: he was free, first of all. He was alive. He had his sanity; he had loyal, patient friends. He was relatively safe. He was, if not doing exactly what he wanted, at least doing some good for people he valued. His powers had, if anything, increased. He was happy. A bit tentative about it all, but happy.

Things had been appallingly simple for him for a long time: for twelve years, all he'd had to do was sit in a small, dark prison cell and hide his emotions. For the times when he kept his human form, he'd come up with a strategy that had served him well: he formed a painstaking, elaborate mental image of a brick wall with a heavy, locked wooden door, concentrating with great care on how the mortar looked, what lines and chips might be seen in the bricks, even on tendrils of ivy growing up the side. He added heavy iron hinges, a massive lock, and strong bolts to his door.

He mentally threw the key far out into the ocean.

This was the wall between him and the dementors; between him and the sights, sounds, and smells of prison. It became quite easy, over the long, hopeless years, to retreat behind his wall whenever necessary, and stare at it with his eyes closed. At times, for his own amusement, he'd picture his wall in sunshine, after a rain: the bricks would be darker, the ivy fresher, the crevices holding drops of water. No dementor had ever been able to penetrate his defence: his mind was intact.

They'd locked him in; he locked them out. He'd built that wall very well.

His present task, it seemed, was to open that door in the wall, himself, and rejoin the world. He did want to, usually. He felt at ease in the world sometimes, in the small portion of the world where he could travel safely. Flying, his new skill. Running in the Forest, as Padfoot. Carrying out tasks for Albus. Getting to know Harry, a bit. Joking and laughing with Andie and Remus: his home, his family, his Pack.

Odd things caught and held him: things he'd never given much attention to, before. They stopped him in his tracks sometimes, overpowering him with their loveliness: the springy moss beside the water. The taste of chocolate. Andie's friend, the red fox: an incredible animal! Lichens on a rock. The school boats: bright with paint and varnish, perfectly proportioned, lovingly crafted. There were so many beautiful things in the world; it was too much, sometimes. How did everyone manage to get on with their lives? How had he managed, long ago?

And then there were all the things he'd never been very clever at, even before prison. Routines, customs, polite chitchat--these were now even more difficult to remember, leaving him hesitant and uncertain in company. Ready to retreat, sometimes. He grinned: completely uncharacteristic behaviour, retreating. No wonder the Pack thought he was not right yet.

Today, when the others woke up, they would be Apparating to Oslo's wizarding district, to go Christmas shopping. Andreas was taking them; he'd promised to show them the best shops. Christmas presents! The thought, the words, sent him back to childhood days, when things had been different. Exciting presents from their dad, useful or "improving" ones from their mother. (Where were they now, his parents?)

Choosing gifts for people: Harry would be easy. He had only to remember his own school days to think of any number of things a fourteen-year-old would be delighted to have. Things that wouldn't even get Harry into very much trouble... he grinned. But what could he possibly buy for Remus, or Andie, to let them know how much they meant to him? There was nothing good enough. He'd like to find something, too, for Paul and Cécile, who had been so kind. For Alice. Did he dare buy Dumbledore a gift? If so, what? He owed so much to them all. Were there rules about buying presents for people? Suppose he embarrassed one of them, buying a present when he wasn't supposed to. He was sure he'd known all this, once.

The door opened, behind him. "Sirius?"

He was Sirius, or had been. No, he was Sirius. For a moment, light from inside flooded the step where he was sitting, as Remus came out to join him. He looked up at his friend and smiled a heartfelt welcome. Things seemed less complicated with Remus around: he could feel more at home in the world, see the fun in things once again. He could expect Remus to understand. Remus had known hopelessness and misery too; had lived through his own long, dreadful nightmare. And come safely out the other side, seemingly whole and happy, like him.

They sat together and watched the darkness grow gradually less dark.

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The streets of magical Oslo were, if possible, even more crooked and crowded than Diagon Alley; most of the buildings were of wood, with brightly painted signs swinging from brackets above the doors. The words on most of them were in an old form of Norse that only Andreas and Remus could understand, but there were enough pictures that translations were not usually needed. The lanes were narrow and twisting, the crowds were cheerful, children excitedly running among the slower-moving adult shoppers. Several times, children from Folberg stopped to greet them, politely introduce their parents, and wish them a good Yule.

It was colder here than at the school: the wind whipped gusts of snowflakes in their faces, down their necks, into their hoods. Sirius threw back his hood and let the wind blow through his hair, stinging the tips of his ears and freezing the back of his neck. He grinned and stuck out his tongue, catching snowflakes as he'd done when he was small. Andie instantly spotted what he was doing; she laughed and imitated him.

Remus, watching them, rolled his eyes and laughingly explained to Andreas, "Not simple, exactly; just easily amused. Some day I'll allow them out by themselves...hold my hands, you two; we're crossing the street." They crossed the narrow, cobbled street, laughing. Holding hands.

His first purchase was for Andie. He remembered Remus saying once that she should wear red more often. So, when they passed a shop with a splendid, dark red, hooded cloak in the window, he lagged behind the group and went in. It was expensive: thick and warm but very light in weight, a kind of wool he'd never seen before, lined with silk of a dark green-gold colour. There were lots of pockets, too, which appeared and disappeared as one needed a pocket. It was enchanted, the clerk said, never to get lost; to protect from wind, cold, rain, dirt, and most curses; also to adjust its length to its owner's height. "Don't be trying it on before you give it to her," she cautioned, "or it'll shape itself to your giraffe height and trip up your young lady."

He paid her, thanked her, and wandered back outside, with a ridiculously strong sense of accomplishment. He reduced the parcel to a more convenient size, slipped it into his pocket, and walked up the street in search of the others. He'd bought a Christmas present, just as all the people in this street were doing. Gratifying. He grinned to himself.

The sign was unreadable on the shop that next caught his eye, but the accompanying picture was interesting: a sword, with a cauldron suspended from its blade by the curved bail. A hardware shop? He had to know. He went inside. Yes, a hardware shop. Swords, cauldrons, knives--perhaps Harry would like a knife. Spurs, of all things. Iron objects, presumably decorative, with no purpose that he could discern. Maybe they were just amulets or something, for keeping fairies away.

He wandered over to the case of knives, smiling at a clerk who hovered nearby, addressing her carefully in English. Yes, she spoke English. Yes, she could tell him about the penknives. This one, she said, was especially fine: it had attachments for breaking binding spells, loosening all cords, even ones with witch-knots; unlocking all locks and opening all doors. A fine thing, he thought, to be able to open doors. He would take it. An unspoken Christmas wish for Harry: never to be tied, never imprisoned. Yes, this would do. He took the knife in his hands, pulled out the various delicate attachments. It reminded him of his own set of Muggle picklocks, long gone, given him by Moody, his old mentor. He could feel the power in the knife as he held it; it seemed to be all that the clerk said.

Out into the street again. He looked around him for a sight of the others, saw two figures in green Folberg cloaks ahead of him. Not the Pack or Andreas: wrong shape and size. They turned to one side, preparing to go into a shop. Martine, the Potions mistress, and her friend Elli. They noticed him and waved, beckoning to him. "Sirius? Nice to see you! We're stopping for coffee; why don't you join us?"

Elli and Martine were very pleasant company. In the few days since the plot against the school had been exposed, they'd shed their reserve. They'd been to the cabin for dinner once, then had the Pack to Martine's for coffee. They and the Pack had fallen into an easy acquaintanceship. He caught up with them and went inside.

They hung up their cloaks on hooks by the door, and found a very small table; the coffeeshop was as crowded as the street. Sirius smiled; Martine and her friend were personable young women--pretty women. They were both blonde, both about the same size. Martine's hair was a bit darker--a light honey colour. It fell forward over her bright brown eyes in a thick fringe. Elli was much paler, grey-eyed, with very long, straight hair the colour of ripe wheat. He tried to choose which look he preferred, reaching no decision.

A young witch, barely in her teens, came up to take their orders, then smiled delightedly at them. "Mika, hello there," said Martine. "Is this your family's shop?"

"It's my auntie's," the girl answered. "She's letting me help out, to earn Yule money. My family has a farm, further north. I like being in the city, sometimes. I don't think I would like living here, though."

Martine nodded. "Yes, it's fun for a while, but at times it gets too confusing, doesn't it? I'm from a small village myself, but when I was younger, I quite enjoyed visiting Oslo. When I left school to work, I thought it very exciting to live in the city. Now, of course, I'm quite happy to be in the forest."

Mika took their orders and bustled competently away. The three grownups sat at the tiny table, knees touching, looking interestedly at each other, as relatively new male and female acquaintances do. Elli said something about her shopping; she would not have to finish it all today. Oslo was her home; she'd be staying here rather than returning to Folberg with Martine. Sirius collected his thoughts to say something polite about village versus city living, when Martine smiled at him and spoke first.

"And what about you, Sirius? Are you a city mouse or a country mouse? What is your work?"

Truth is always best, if possible--or at least some of the truth. "At the moment, I don't have a proper job, and I'm quite happy to be living as far away from people as possible. I live in a small house in the country, quite isolated." Hoping to redirect their attention, he asked her the expected, courteous thing: "What did you do here in Oslo? Were you here long before going to Folberg?"

Martine smiled. "Elli and I were best friends at school, so when it was time to leave, we looked for jobs together. Our skills overlap a bit: I had a gift for potion-making, while Elli has always been adept at healing and Herbology. We were lucky; we found a medical wizard who said he needed two assistants, and would take us on and train us."

Sirius nodded; he remembered the uncertainty of going into the big world after leaving Hogwarts. "That does sound lucky; what made you leave here and go back to Folberg? It seems that such a job would be ideal."

Martine glanced over at Elli before answering, an odd, questioning look in her eyes. Elli shrugged, and both women smiled.

Martine reached over to clasp Elli's hand: "Well, it gradually became clear that our boss, Rolv, was much more interested in training Elli than me." The two women grinned at each other. "And I, being attracted to him myself, chose to be outraged and quit. I applied at Folberg and was accepted on staff, barely two years after I'd left."

Elli took up the tale. "It seems impossible now, how miserable we all were. Rolv and I wrote to Martine several times. It took her a year to reply to one of my letters, finally saying she too was unhappy, that she was willing to forget her hurt feelings and be friends again. We visited, rather stiffly, a few times. It got easier each time, and finally, that spring, she was maid of honour at our wedding."

Martine smiled tolerantly at the injured young person she'd been. "All that was nearly eight years ago. Rolv and Elli belong together and I, at Folberg, am quite happy. Things have looked a bit brighter since our new headmaster came on the scene; he's quite interesting to me. Of course he mustn't be unprofessional with the staff. Still, perhaps one day..." The two giggled like the old school friends they were.

Mika returned with their coffee; it was only after she'd gone that they discovered there was no cream in the jug on the table. Elli got up, took the jug to be refilled, came back to the table. As she stood leaning over him to pour cream into the cups, her long, pale hair brushed his cheek. Just a fleeting touch: unexpected, incredibly intense. The sensation electrified his whole body. A woman's hair....it had been years. He wanted to reach up, let that soft, beautiful hair slide through his hand, bring her face down to his, kiss... He didn't even know this woman. She was married. She would be horrified. He took his cup, shakily, and sipped his coffee. He didn't like coffee.

He pulled money out of his pocket, laid it on the table, stood up. "I'm sorry, ladies, I should be finding the others. Somehow I got separated from Remus and Andie, and Andreas." He tried not to look at their surprised expressions as he took his cloak from the hook and walked out the door. He moved quickly down the windy street, feeling that he'd had a narrow escape.

It took him a few minutes to begin feeling foolish, a few more before he felt anger at his own clumsiness. No doubt Martine and her friend were giggling at his inexplicable behaviour this very moment. And he deserved it; what a stupid thing to do. Did he have to go back to being fifteen again? Women had never caused him any problem before. He liked women, enjoyed their company, enjoyed ... he cut off the thought, which replaced itself with another one nearly as disturbing. Except for Andie, he hadn't been close to a young woman since he was twenty-one years old.

He stopped in the middle of the pavement, unhappily staring at the crowds rushing past. He wanted to go home; he wasn't sure where that was. For want of any clear direction, he remained standing still: a tall, thin, dark alien amongst these happy, fair Norse.

Music: a group of fiddlers trooped by, playing in unison, a striding melody on the big, resonant Hardanger fiddles favoured by people up here. They joked and called greetings to the shoppers; one of them noticed him standing there. She left the group, ran over to him and kissed him on the cheek. He didn't dare respond. "Don't be sad, stranger! 'Up heart and be cheerful, and lustily sing'!" Her companions took up the words and began singing: obviously the refrain to a favourite carol. He watched them down the street, until they turned a corner.

What had he been doing? Shopping. He needed a gift for Remus. Impossible: there was nothing that would be adequate. But no gift at all would be even worse. He glanced around him, hoping for inspiration. Shops selling candles and soap; an owlery; a pastry shop; a shop boasting a sign with an enormous eyeball glaring down at him. Whatever was in there, he didn't think Remus would want any. He slowly began walking again.

"Ah, Sirius, my friend, have you had any luck with your shopping?" It was Andreas. Friendly, comforting Andreas. He knew where he was, now. 'Up heart and be cheerful.'

"I've got things for Andie, and for my godson, but I'm at my wits' end about what to buy for Remus!" He grinned at Andreas. "If you have any ideas, I'd be glad to hear them."

Andreas thought for a moment. "He's a scholar; he likes books. Get him a book. I know a very good bookshop, an excellent place." They walked more purposefully now, across the street and down a narrow alley to a shop that had only a small green sign with the word "Bøker" in faded gold leaf. They opened the door and went in. The proprietor greeted Andreas as an old friend, and entered into a cheerful conversation.

Even Muggle books contain a certain amount of magic. What is it, if not magic, that enables a person to stir feelings, create pictures in the minds of others, transmit ideas and information, unerringly, across space and time? How much more formidable, then, are books written by witches and wizards, using not only the written languages of Muggles, but their own enhancements to those languages.

This was, as Andreas had said, an excellent place. The air was so thick with magic, inside the shop, that he felt his skin prickle, his hair stand on end. He remembered the feeling from cildhood, visiting Remus and playing in the Lupins' bookshop. Why hadn't he thought of this sooner?

There was a quiet rustling from the corners; these books knew he was there. Watching the shelves carefully for any unusual movement, he turned his thoughts to Remus. It would have to be something special; Remus had grown up in a bookshop. Remus was well-informed in subjects pertaining to the Dark Arts, maybe something along those lines. But Remus was also kind, subtle, intelligent; the most civilised person he'd ever known. The books were quiet: listening, it seemed. He continued his mental requests. It wouldn't matter what language the books were written in: such things never bothered Remus. He strolled slowly up and down the aisles, reading a title here and there, keeping Remus in his mind. He tried recalling some of the titles of books Remus had owned, back at the Hut, long ago. He could remember some of them: a set of the writings of Roger Bacon, a twelfth-century Oxford wizard--there was a soft 'plop' behind him; he turned.

It was the same cover that he remembered. He looked on the shelf the book had fallen from. Yes, there were the other two volumes. He took all three of them, smiling ruefully. These were going to cost a pretty penny. Hand-written, huge, ancient, very good condition.... Well, there was no help for it. He tucked them under his arm and walked along the aisles, noticing how much bigger this shop became once one began exploring it.

It was a gentle whine, off to the left, perhaps the next aisle over. He walked to the end of the row and turned into the next aisle. There it was: just beginning to edge its way off the shelf. He pulled it the rest of the way out and gazed at the cover. Also very old. A grey book, mercifully smaller than the Bacon set, with black lettering: "Ulven." He opened the book to see a line drawing of a wolf, blinking sleepily at him, then grinning a decidedly toothy wolfish grin. It got up from its reclining position, stretched, wagged its tail, and lay down again. "All right," he thought, "you can come, too."

After a few wrong turns, he managed to work his way back to the counter, where Andreas and the owner of the shop were waiting. He'd been right: the Bacon books were very expensive. Still, a satisfactory ending to a confusing day; he hoped Remus would be glad to have them again. Perhaps, when he got back to the Hut, he could try replacing some of Remus's other books.

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They met Andie and Remus coming out of the coffeeshop. The books had stubbornly refused to be reduced in size, but had consented to be wrapped in paper. He carried them by the string, trying to make them appear lighter than they were.

Andie saw them first and waved to them. "We ran into Martine and Elli just as they were leaving here," she said. "They gave me your change." She handed him two Galleons and stared up at him curiously. "Three Galleons for three cups of coffee? They gave the small change to Mika for a tip. And they said you left in a hurry, that you seemed unwell. What was the matter?"

He took the coins and pocketed them, then looked away from Andie, out into the crowded street. "They were being kind," he said with a grimace. "I came within inches of making a fool of myself. You'd think I could make polite conversation with a couple of... pretty women..." He turned suddenly and grinned at his Pack. "Suppose I just stay with you the rest of my life as Padfoot? Don't you two need a family dog? I promise to bark at strangers and fetch your newspaper..." he sighed, "and you can keep me penned up so I don't annoy the neighbours."

Remus, from long experience recognising his friend's flippancy as distress, said softly, "You know we want you in any form you feel like taking, but this sounds deeper than just a sudden desire for dog biscuits. You'd better tell us; let's go home and we can make some tea."

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Safe around the kitchen table, Andie, Remus, and Andreas listened as Sirius explained. "...it was just that light touch, and the smell of her hair: it took my breath away. It caught me completely off guard! I swear I wasn't thinking of either of them in that way; I never expected that to happen. I even lifted my hand toward her; at the last minute I had the presence of mind to grab my coffee cup. She'd have thought I was a lunatic."

Andreas spoke first. "The fact is, my friend, you did have that presence of mind; you are not a lunatic. Beautiful young women have an unsettling effect on many people, who have not been in prison at all. I myself have shied away from the whole problem for years, even though I know it would be a fine thing not to be lonely... You have been shut away from the world for more than one-third of your life; be patient, and your ease in company will come back to you."

Sirius shook his head. "I suppose you're right, but at present I just feel like an idiot. There's nothing like social niceties to make me want to spend the rest of my life in the middle of the Forbidden Forest. Not a bad idea, that," he grinned. "Hagrid would feed me..."

Remus laughed at him. "If you'll stop and think for a minute, you'll remember that even on your best day, you never would have qualified for the diplomatic corps.

"I don't think the Forbidden Forest is the answer, though.You'd never be happy as a hermit, however strongly you feel about social niceties. And Harry needs you; we need you. Stay with us, Sirius. Folberg is small enough that you can be alone or with people whenever you want; Martine and Elli won't hold your retreat against you."

Andie nodded. "We can just tell them, the next time we see them, that you were struck dumb by their beauty. I'll tell them that you have the same reaction to pine cones and bedroom slippers, too. Don't laugh, I've seen you." She got up, moved behind his chair to put her arms around him, and went on, "Andreas is right: rejoining the world of people might seem difficult, but it will get easier. If you want to be the family dog while you regroup, that's fine. Just don't run away; don't give up."

He leaned back into her embrace and closed his eyes. Then he began to grin, and said plaintively, "It wasn't anything like pine cones or bedroom slippers."

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Yule preparations became mysterious, and fun. Andie had gone to Hogwarts. She wanted to see Dumbledore, she said, about Something. He'd given her Harry's knife, with the request to have Albus put it in with Harry's Christmas presents. The Pack had conferred, and decided to send cards to Paul and Cécile, Alice, and Albus rather than try to choose presents for them. Andie also sent a card to her mother, and to Hagrid.

They putup a Christmas tree, and invited Andreas and Martine to help them decorate. This proved to have interesting results. Andreas grumbled that he was expected to go to his parents' house for the holiday. His sisters would be there with their "proper" families: husbands and small children. He said, "It happens every year. I play innocently with the children, and somehow they, and I, are always scolded. These sisters of mine do not like anything that is fun."

Martine admitted to similar discomfort at going home to her own family: "I would rather spend the holiday with Rolv and Elli, or even by myself, but they do insist, and I have no strong excuse not to go."

Sirius suddenly recalled a pertinent bit of the conversation in the coffeeshop. He turned to Martine with a mischievous gleam in his eye, and said, "Don't let them bully you. You should spend Christmas however you want to. Why don't you and Andreas both tell your families you're spending the holiday with each other? A new romantic interest would be accepted by anyone's parents as an excuse to miss a family gathering. Then you could both do what you want, and have a perfect alibi."

Andreas and Martine looked at each other speculatively: startled, but, it seemed, not offended. They said very little for the rest of the evening, and left fairly soon. Andie looked out the window after them. She turned back to the Pack, grinning. "They're walking together, even though their cabins are in opposite directions! Sirius, that was brilliant! Who ever said you lack social skill?"

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Christmas morning. Tea. Breakfast. Presents. Andie presented Remus with her first knitting project: a thick, midnight blue woollen pullover in the traditional Norse style, with a snowflake pattern as a charm against cold, and bands of red and white across the shoulders for protection against things in the dark. It was slightly large for him at first, but as the morning wore on, he felt it curving a bit closer, forming itself gently to his body.

Sirius's gifts were well-received: Andie's cloak shaped itself perfectly to her, and she was delighted with it. Remus sat speechless, staring at the Bacon writings and the book on wolves. "What...how did you come to choose these?" he said softly.

"Well, it was a proper bookshop, like yours when we were kids," Sirius answered. "You know how to do it: if you know the person well enough, you can't go wrong. I just made sure they were listening, told them about you, and these were the ones that wriggled off the shelves. I remembered the Bacon set from your books at school and in the Hut, so I thought you might like to have them again."

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at how well you know me," Remus murmured. "My father gave me these, when I first started Hogwarts. He said I should read Bacon to learn how important it was to think for myself. Because of all the hostility people feel towards werewolves, you see. He was concerned that I'd be shunned all my life, and it would affect the way I felt about who I was. Bacon wasn't afraid of any sort of ideas, but he insisted that people try to see things for themselves. And the "Wolves"! My old one was in English, but it's the same book. It's a description of the sensibilities of wolves, their social life, their ethics...good people, wolves. My father gave me that, too." He paused, took a deep breath. "Thank you, Sirius."

Andie's gift from Remus caused a small diversion: it began kicking the back door, apparently annoyed at being left out of the gathering. At the Pack's urging, she opened the door and let them both in, happy and frisky, with "Where's the Party?" in their every movement. They looked almost deerlike: brown, dainty, with slender white legs, strange, intelligent eyes, good-natured little smiles on their faces.

"Toggenbergs!" Andie cried, and threw her arms around the nearest one. The other one crowded close, not to be left out.

"I thought they were goats," Sirius muttered quietly to Remus.

"So did I," he replied.

It appeared that Toggenbergs were goats: extremely sociable, small and delightful. They nuzzled each member of the Pack, tasted a few Christmas wrappings, collected admiring pats, then wandered off. In seconds, they had bounded onto the kitchen table, cheerfully surveying the cabin's interior.

"Look," enthused Andie, "they like high places, isn't that sweet? I know, you're Norwegian goats, dears, but I think I'll give you English names. " She turned to the Pack. "What if we name them after wildflowers? Help me think."

"Toadflax," suggested Sirius helpfully. "Prickly Pear? Skunk Cabbage?" His sister made a face at him and carried on talking to the goats.

"We've lost her," Remus said philosophically. "Why don't you open this?" He handed Sirius a brightly wrapped parcel.

Black leather: a jacket. A Muggle motorcycle jacket. Not the sort he had once owned: this one had no buckles, snaps or chains. It was more streamlined, with a narrow stand-up collar and a zip closing. It had closely fitting sleeves, and zips up the wrists to allow his hands through. The pockets were zipped shut, except for one, which had something sticking out of it: a lumpy, roughly cylindrical parcel, not quite a foot long.

He knew what it was, as soon as he put his hand on it. That particular weight. The hours he'd spent... he pulled off the shiny paper, untied the leather thong, and unrolled it on the floor. A motorcyclist's emergency tool kit: soft, worn, grease-stained leather, with little pockets to hold the various things securely, and a flap that folded over all. All old friends: adjustable spanner, screwdrivers, allen keys, a small socket set, pliers... things most often wanted in case of a breakdown on the road. At the end of the roll was a set of objects that were not part of the tool kit. There was no pocket for them.

"How did you...?" he said softly. He reached down and picked them up: a number of very small, delicate metal objects, some pointed, some with little spadelike ends, some curved to various angles. They were held together with a small ring, like a bunch of keys.

"Picklocks," he said, in answer to an enquiring frown from Remus. "Muggle housebreaking tools. Moody gave them to me, and taught me how to use them. It takes forever, but you can undo any lock if you're patient and if you know how." He paused, thinking what he'd just said. "You can undo any lock if you're patient..." He could be patient. He'd done it, for Moody, years ago. He shook off the notion and returned to the present.

"But where did you find my tool kit? It was in the Shadow..."

"I know. I told Andie where to look. It was under the seat, where you always kept it. Andie happened to find the Shadow, years ago, when she was working with Hagrid. He's kept it safe all these years, in his tool shed. We just thought you'd like to know. We wanted to bring it here for you, but neither of us felt up to the job of flying it over the North Sea. So, it's a symbolic Yule gift: you know it's safe, and we'll help you get it whenever you're ready. Hagrid still doesn't know about you; we'll think of something, though, if you want it."

If he wanted it? Of course he wanted it. But he could be patient. He felt a huge surge of happiness, welling up inside, overpowering all else. He gave Remus a grin, and a rib-cracking bearhug.

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Hedwig arrived with a note from Harry, later in the day:

Dear Sirius,

Thanks for the knife; it's great! We're having a Yule Ball tonight. All the champions have to bring a partner, a girl, and open the dancing. I am a little bit nervous because I can't dance. My partner is very pretty, her name's Parvati, but I don't think she likes me very much. But she did say yes when I asked her to come with me. I guess it's better than dragons.

Hope you're OK, and have a happy Christmas,

Harry

Sirius grinned and passed the note to his Pack. "Better than dragons, but just as forbidding sometimes, mate," he said ruefully.

Andie added, "And sometimes they both have to be faced."

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That night he had a dream: he was in a boat, gliding silently over still water, through a heavy mist. Suddenly, a hand and arm appeared straight ahead of him, thrust up from the water, as if in some mystical Arthurian legend. Instead of a sword, however, the hand was brandishing a huge, old-fashioned iron key, black and solid. And the voice, ringing out thrillingly over the water, sounded a bit irritated: "Who threw this?"

He took the key.