Paper Wings

Running to Stand Still

Pounding feet, heaving sides, and still it followed.

Sirius ran, stretching every wasted muscle, oblivious to the pebbles lodged in the pads of his feet. The dreams pursued, and so he ran.

The first or second morning in Azkaban -- they bled together, but he knew he had not been with the dementors long -- he opened his eyes and remembered the dream.

A warm, sunny bedroom is cluttered with books and stray self-stick notes: Dinner at seven; Prongs floo-ed -- wants to know about Thursday; Fenwick needs more erumpent fluid; miss you; love you; see you tonight. The smell of breakfast drifts into the bedroom where he is curled shirtless amongst the pillows and blankets they share. The bedclothes feel like Remus; soft and worn, they envelop him. He rolls over at the sound of approaching footsteps and the familiar creak of hardwood floors. Remus steps carefully over the mixed-up piles of books and clothing, an overturned chair and bewildered toad, and sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress sags under his weight. Sirius pretends to be asleep as Remus leans toward him, shifting the covers ever so slightly and reaching out. Gentle, calloused fingers brush his cheek, touch his shoulder, play along the bare skin of his back and over his hip. Remus eases into bed behind him, curving along his spine, arm draped around his waist, cotton t-shirt pressed against his skin. Remus whispers in his ear, "Breakfast is ready." His breath, heavy with toast and bacon and eggs, is hot on Sirius' neck.

Sirius smiles and turns towards the parted lips. He opens his eyes--

--and the dementors are waiting.

Underneath the back hoods, harsh, rattling breath draws air and life, warm mornings and sunlight, eggs and bacon and deftly roaming hands from the nooks and crannies of memory.

They knew their work and did it well. They let him dream those first nights. They let his mind wander to the places and times he'd been most happy, but in the morning they would strip the joy away. Sometimes they took it all at once, a glut of emotion inhaled with one sharp stab behind his eyes; sometimes they savoured it slowly, dimming the light, quieting the sound, dulling the smell until the sunlit flat faded into the dark and stifling prison cell, surrounded by angry shouts and frightened screams.

Eventually, he'd trained his mind to turn from such flights of fancy; he stopped dreaming, and they stayed away.

Now the memories followed him, and he could not dodge them no matter how fast he ran.

It wasn't a plan, to run; it was hardly even a choice. It was no more than an open door as Remus left for the farm down the road, an empty cottage that wasn't the home he remembered. It was the white ceramic plates and the unfamiliar creaks and whispers of the aged house. It was the forest outside and birds pecking at an empty feeder. It was silence and shadows reaching for him, Remus staying carefully away. It was the pity in Mrs. Lupin's eyes. He'd changed his clothes, trying to shake the feeling.

The darkness was still there.

And Remus wasn't. Hand on the doorknob, Sirius had hesitated and turned back to the small den. The books were the same -- in shelves now, not haphazard stacks on the floor -- but the smell was wrong, unused and old. He ran his fingers through Remus' travelling cloak, patched and dusty, scent of places far away. His Remus did not live here, did not toast bread in this oven, did not shelve his books. His Remus did not have healing burns ringing his neck and wrists, did not look at him with wariness and guarded distrust.

This Moony cared more for Peter than Sirius and had granted him a mercy that no traitor deserved.

Then the chilling realisation dawned.

This was not home.

He denied them the dreams but they found another way. He could not see the black cloaks gathered around him, but he knew that they teased him with this -- this sunlit noon -- tormented him with this not-home, this not-Remus, this not-freedom. They were waiting for the fruit to ripen, fattening the pig for the feast. They lingered beyond the bars of the cell he could not see, ready to feed on the first glimmer of hope.

Sirius closed the cottage door behind him, hit the ground on four padded feet, and he ran.

***

He did not stop for the sunset, the moon, or the dark of night when only the stars lit his way.

The following morning, as the rising sun cast long shadows through the trees, a loud horn broke his stride. Sirius leapt into the brush as the truck sped past. He lay on the side of the road, chest heaving, tongue lolling. Scrambling to his feet, he continued down the road.

Noon now; the sun was high. His run had slowed to a limp walk, and his aching feet protested every step. The forest had thinned and small, tidy houses appeared on either side of the lane. Fences and hedges protected the cobblestone paths and trimmed lawns from the grit of the road.

"Hallo," said a small voice as he passed.

Sirius cocked an ear and turned his head. A young girl stood on the other side of a split-rail fence. Her long hair was in plaits with red ribbons at the ends, dirt smudged her nose, and her knees were green with grass stains. She smiled broadly, revealing a large gap where her two front teeth should have been.

"Come 'ere, doggie!" she called, then bent down to lift something by her feet: a stick.

Despite himself, Sirius trotted over.

She waved the stick in the air for a few seconds, and Sirius tracked it eagerly. A little voice in the back of his mind told him that a grown man should not be so amused by an airborne bit of wood, but the voice was quickly drowned by the whoosh of the stick being hurled through the air. Sirius launched himself after it. He snapped the stick up and returned to the girl. More he pleaded with a series of tail wags and pleading glances, more.

She threw the stick until her arm tired, and Sirius fetched it every time. Forgetting sore muscles and bruised feet, he thrilled in the chase. Memory had paused in its relentless chase, distracted by the mechanics of the game.

"Good doggie." She patted the top of his head through the fence.

Sirius panted, his tail wagging almost entirely of its own accord.

"Sarah!" a voice called from inside the house.

"It's lunchtime," the girl explained to Sirius. "Wait here, 'kay?" She ran off, pigtails flying behind her.

Sirius cocked his head and lay down in the new grass beside the fence. He began to lick the raw skin on his feet.

Sarah returned several minutes later with a handful of ham sandwiches, crusts cut off. Sirius' ears perked the moment he caught the scent.

"Mum said I could have an extra," Sarah whispered conspiratorially. "I told her I was really hungry. Here." She passed a sandwich across the fence. Sirius accepted the proffered treat, careful not to graze her with his teeth. Together they ate lunch as the insects buzzed and birds chirped. Sarah scratched his ears and began to hum a tuneless song.

"Sarah," called the mother again, "time to clean your room! Come on inside!"

She turned towards Sirius. "I gotta go," she told him sadly. "Bye!"

Sirius looked wistfully at the house for a few minutes before turning away.

***

He continued to wander, foraging in rubbish bins and sleeping in the brush. On the third day, he hopped onto the bed of westbound truck and rode until the driver noticed and chased him away with a large bat. As the truck drove off in a cloud of dust, Sirius broke away from the main road. The air was salty and he soon recognised several Cornish beaches and ports. The cliff road forked, and he trotted left. Soon he was following a wide dirt track through miles of forest and field. He stopped to rest for the night, doggedly continuing at sunrise.

When the small road opened upon a grassy hilltop, Sirius broke into a run. He knew this hill. He knew this grass, that gnarled old pine with the perfect branches for climbing in, that streambed with the World's Best Rock to sun on. He knew what he would see as he crested the ridge--

The small village below was built along a curving inlet; stone walls were carved into a hillside that dropped right to the water's edge. There were a few wooden boats in the bay and a church steeple at the far end of the green. Smoke rose from the smithy's fire, and the roofs clustered together in sheets of brown, red, and grey.

Godric's Hollow had been founded as a wizarding settlement, but over hundreds of years, many Muggles had come to live there -- first friends and family of wizards, then others had followed in search of a secluded, rustic retreat on the western shore. Now wizard and Muggle lived side by side. No one blinked an eye if an owl flew down the high street at noon, and no one looked twice at the telephone lines that had been strung around the village. That was simply a part of life in the Hollow, along with the krups barking in front gardens and Muggle rock music drifting out of the local pub, The Lion's Pryde. For its bucolic charm and close-knit community, the Potters had settled here so many years ago. When their son married, they gave him the old family house on the outskirts of the town and moved into the village proper under the pretence that they wanted to be closer to their friends.

Sirius skirted the cluster of quaint streets and ran along Chestnut Lane to the house that Lily and James had shared.

He splashed through a brook where he and James used to cool off during the summer holidays. On the far bank, he shook the water from his fur and relished the sudden chill of the late March breeze on his skin.

He passed the clearing in which he and James used to duel with wooden swords when they couldn't use their wands and fighting had been nothing more than a game to occupy lazy summer afternoons. He looked up at the tree in which they'd once found an augurey's nest. James' gran had told him it was a harbinger of impending doom, but his father had countered that it would be a useful predictor of the weather. The nest was empty now.

Sirius smelled dry ash on the air before he rounded the final bend.

Carefully he stepped closer, one paw in front of another, afraid to open his eyes.

The smell overwhelmed him, fogging his eyes, laced with memory: smouldering wood and plaster, broken glass, singed red hair, the hum of a motor, crack and fall of burning wood, a baby crying--

Sirius shook his head, shifting smoothly into human form and pressing his face against the raw skin of his hands.

Slowly, he lowered his arms to his sides and opened his eyes. He knew what he would see: the ruined house.

Untouched.

Digging his fingernails into his palms, he walked to the heap of cracked beams and fallen walls, a pattern of light and shadow in the morning sun.

In his dreams, it was always the moon. He'd found the bodies by moonbeams and the headlight of his motorbike. Lily. Sirius touched the ground. A pile of dust, disturbed by his movements, swirled in the air and blew away. Her hair was spread around her head in a dark copper halo, smouldering at the edges. Her eyes were open, wide and scared. She did not blink when he called her name. Her pale skin glowed in the light, and he had been sick. Right in front of her. Her hand was cold, limp as he held it.

He moved to the place their front door had once stood. Here. He'd seen a leg, the edge of a pair of trousers, had lifted a chunk of wall. Sirius fell to his knees. James. James' wand was still clasped in his hand, ready to fight. He hadn't run. Prongs. Sirius gathered the body in his arms, ruffled the already messy hair. James' glasses were broken on the ground, his eyes closed, face contorted with pain. Sirius had only held the body close; he hadn't cried. He hadn't noticed the coals burning his trousers and ankles.

Some things were too big for tears.

He'd forgotten to breathe, muscles shaking with the frenzy of hummingbird wings until the first dry sob wracked his chest.

He'd heard the tromping of Hagrid's feet, then a giant moan that rocked the foundations of the Potters' house. He tore his eyes from James' unmoving face.

And then the baby cried.

Bits of crockery littered the ground, glittering like a thousand broken stars. Sirius took a deep, shuddering breath.

This had happened.

This was real.

He watched stood there watching, hour after timeless hour, and slept that night in view of the house, nose tucked under one enormous paw.

***

The next day Sirius stood watch over the ruins again. Surrounded by the sounds of buzzing insects and chirping birds, he walked round the bones of the home that had once been so happy, letting the memories wash over him.

Finally the rumbling of his stomach broke his vigil, and he ventured into the town in the guise of the large, black dog, ready to beg scraps from the local shopkeepers.

An old man sat on a stone wall overlooking the pier. Below, the boats drifted lazily on the water. Several people waved to him as they passed, or stopped to make small talk. The man opened his pack and pulled out his lunch. Sirius' mouth watered at the savoury aromas that drifted over to him. He had just adopted his most pathetic canin expression -- the one guaranteed to win him scraps at any table -- when a breathless woman came charging up.

"Albert! Albert! Come quick! The Garden Shears are loose in the geraniums!"

Albert ran off after her, feet pounding on the pavement.

His lunch still sat on the wall.

Sirius looked around the street to ensure that he was not being watched. Then he snatched the package and ran up a nearby alley.

Heaving a doggy sigh, he settled in a shadowy corner and inspected the contents of the lunch. Inside the bag was a meal of fish and chips wrapped in newspaper, a large gherkin, a chocolate bar, and a bottle of cola. After bolting down the food, Sirius looked at the paper wrapping.

And he saw it.

Laughing on the front of the newspaper, now covered in grease stains, was a face, a very familiar face. Sirius snatched the paper in his teeth, careful to neither rip nor drool on it too badly, and ran.

He did not stop until he'd reached the remains of the Potters' home. There, he shifted forms and grabbed the paper from his mouth, wishing he had something to wash the taste of newsprint from his tongue.

The headline said it all, but he skimmed the article anyway.

"...keep your children inside and lock the doors: Black is back."

Below the words, below the maniacally laughing face he barely recognised as his own, there was a smaller, time-looped photograph.

In a windowless court room, a man was presenting evidence. He wore clean, pressed robes but looked as though he hadn't slept in days. Shadows ringed his eyes and he gestured with hands that had always been too thin. His eyes were wide as he spoke, pleading with the court. Sirius recognised the hands, the shoulders, the neck, the face. Moony--

Sirius' stomach clenched. He lowered himself onto a grassy tussock and studied the picture, watching Remus' lips, deciphering Remus' words. "I was.... only one... knew to look.... He cut... finger and transformed. Peter... Animagus... rat. He could... did..."

The photographic Remus spun, tense and taught as a guitar string. There was a blur of motion in the shot, then he was standing again, "I was the only one... you see..."

Sirius touched the picture.

Remus stopped speaking, raised his eyes, and looked out from the page. For a moment he gazed at Sirius and smiled. Then he continued to implore the photographic audience beyond the frame, "He cut off his finger and transformed...."

Sirius gasped for air, realisation exploding.

With a click and the whir of gears spinning in his head, everything made sense: the warden offering a cup of tea, the gates opening, the horrors parting to release him, Peter on the island, the nameless potion -- Remus' infernal conscience, that bloody, buggering conscience more dear to Sirius than anything in the world.

Remus found the traitor. Remus turned him in.

Sirius' vision blurred, and he felt a Quaffle-sized lump growing in his chest. He touched his face and found hot tears running down his cheeks. Though he shut his eyes, they continued to fall. Remus had found the traitor. Hands pressed into his face, shoulders shaking, Sirius began to laugh through the tears.

And sitting alone in the sun at the ruins overlooking Godric's Hollow, he began to remember.

***

After his eyes were finally dry and the last gasps had disappeared into the clear air, Sirius found the scrap of newspaper and folded it up in his pocket, wiped his face and looked around.

He had to make himself presentable. His hands were muddy from clutching the ground, and he'd no doubt spread dirt on everything he'd touched. His mouth tasted like grease, newsprint, and salt, but his heart was lighter than it had been in a very long time.

Wiping his hands on the soiled trousers, he stood, threw his head back, and took a deep breath. Clouds were rolling in from the west, but Sirius smiled at the afternoon sun.

First things first: clean clothes and a wand. London. He looked down at his hands -- bruised, filthy, sore, and covered in tiny scratches -- and decided that travelling by foot was a last resort. His pockets were empty; he would have to hitchhike halfway across the country. For a moment, he thought longingly of his old bike.

Shaking his head, he turned towards the main road. Glinting in the rubble, a tiny spark of reflected sunlight caught his eye. Sirius bent down to investigate.

Pushing away the ash and soot, he uncovered a single gold Galleon: exact fare on the Knight Bus from Godric's Hollow to London.

Sirius looked up at the sky. "Thanks, Prongs," he whispered.

***

Hailed by the kindly old witch who ran the apothecary, the Knight Bus burst onto the high street with a screeching of tires, yelping of bystanders, and thud of a rubbish bin that had to leap out of the way of the purple monstrosity.

The bus skidded to a stop in front of Sirius, and the conductor leaned out and tipped his hat. "Welcome to the Knight Bus," he announced clearly, "emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Algernon Wier, and I will be your conductor this evening."

Wier paused to flash his most winning smile. "So," he said, "where to Mister-- agh!"

Sirius looked up quickly. Wier stumbled back from the entrance as fast as he could manage, falling against the driver and steering wheel. "You!" he said, pointing a quivering finger at Sirius.

Sirius looked up at him, confused. Then he recalled the article he had just read: Madman... still guilty... not to be trusted... everyone knows that. A familiar anger tightened his chest and soured the back of his throat. "Sirius Black." He spat, then sneered at the conductor. "What of it?"

"I-- you--" Wier withdrew his hand and stood a little straighter. "Where'll you be wanting to go then?" he asked with only the slightest tremor to his voice.

"London," Sirius grunted. "Leaky Cauldron"

"That'll be one Galleon then," Wier replied tentatively. "Ye can just leave it there." He pointed to a small tray by the door. "If you could take a seat in the back. We don't want to be frightenin' off the other customers..." His voice trailed off as he looked at Sirius' dirt- and tear-streaked face. Holding his breath, he pressed himself almost into the driver's lap as Sirius walked by. Sirius settled on a bedstead at the back of the bus, gritting his teeth and grabbing a post as the Knight Bus jumped back to wherever it had been before his call.

After a restless night and morning of sudden lurches and death-defying driving the bus finally reached the streets of London. The wizard at the wheel was a half-blind old man who'd been driving the Knight Bus since before Sirius was born and, Sirius thought ruefully, would probably be driving it long after he was dead and gone. Narrowly avoiding the corners of several office buildings and nearly careening off the side of a bridge, it skittered to a stop.

"Leaky Cauldron!" Wier called, ducking off to the side as Sirius exited. "Well, have a good, long stay, then," he said, tipping his hat and quickly retreating into the safety of the bus.

Sirius barely heard him.

He was staring through the rain at the swinging sign. Water ran down his face and through his short hair. Down an alley, a cat yowled, and a rubbish bin clattered onto the pavement. Thoroughly soaked and breathing as though he'd just run a race, Sirius decided that he could delay no longer. Taking a deep, steeling breath, he pulled open the pub door.

Inside was dark and smoky; little light filtered in from the grey street. A fire crackled on one wall, and a few witches and wizards sipped their steaming drinks while waiting for the sky to clear. There was a low din of conversation, and Sirius stayed quietly in the shadows. He slipped out the back door, making eye contact with no one, but registering each surprised gasp and poorly-concealed stare. In the alley behind the pub, he released the breath he'd been holding and tapped an intricate pattern of bricks on the wall. Then he stepped into Diagon Alley.

He strode down the street to Gringotts. The goblins did not look at him twice after he had assured them of his identity. As the cart hurtled down to his vault, he thought with a pang of Remus whose hand should be holding tight to his shoulder, arm, or waist, breath caught in his throat, ready to tease him and kiss him in the darkness of the tunnels below.

He left the bank reluctantly, soaked through, his pockets weighed down with Galleons. Few people were on the street, and they were hidden beneath umbrellas, never looking up or to either side. He silently recited the names of the shops as he passed, noting which had opened, which had closed, which had new displays in their windows, new paint on their signs, new faces behind their counters.

Then he hurried to Malkin's for some fresh robes. She eyed him suspiciously, but the clink of gold kept her questions to a minimum. She was more than happy to dispose of his filthy clothing, but Sirius insisted on keeping the belt.

The rain was coming down harder and the street was dark when Sirius exited the shop, his shrunk-down package under one arm. All around him, shops were closing and people were returning to their families for the night. Sirius lamented the delay, but took a room at The Shifty Owl on Ware Alley, knowing he had one last stop to make.

***

In the morning, scrubbed clean and wearing new robes, Sirius made his way downstairs. The storm, unabated from the night before, continued to soak the narrow street outside. He ordered tea and sat at a small wooden booth that smelled of beeswax and old flowers. A hush gradually fell over the room, punctuated by loud whispers and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. The couple at the next table stared at him openly, and several other patrons were eyeing him suspiciously from behind the morning Prophet.

The serving girl's hand shook when she brought his tea, and the cup rattled in its saucer.

"Thank you," Sirius muttered, and quickly returned to his room, waiting to venture into the open once the morning shoppers had finished their chores.

He spent the time alternately staring out the window, pacing the narrow space, and trying to sleep.

Finally, he strode downstairs and exited the building without looking to either side. In Diagon Alley, shoppers crowded the street under umbrellas of every possible size, some small ones held in their hands, some as large as awnings floated over entire families of squealing children. Sirius walked up to a heavy, wooden door and pulled it open.

The bell jangled over his head, and he stepped into a small, dark space. What light there was from the street did not penetrate the grimy shop windows, but it was cool and dry, and Sirius took a deep breath, peering into the shadows.

"Sirius Black," spoke the deep, echoing voice of Mister Ollivander. Sirius could barely see the head of white hair in the shop's dim light. Wand boxes lay over every surface, piled high, casting strange shadows in the candlelight. Ollivander spoke again, stepping into the front. "I was wondering when I would be seeing you."

Sirius looked past the counter, down the long hallway leading to the back of the shop. He recalled the first time he'd been here and guessed that Ollivander did as well; the man never forgot a wand or a face.

"I... my wand..." Sirius began. Was snapped. He swallowed. Of course Ollivander already knew that. Everyone already knew that.

"You are ready for a new one, Mr. Black," Ollivander interjected. "It is the wand that chooses the wizard, as I have always said, but sometimes, the wizard will outgrow the one that chose him as a lad. As the wizard changes, so must the things he carries with him. Right arm, please."

Sirius gingerly held it out, palm up, steady in the damp air. His skin was scrubbed clean and the scratches were quickly fading. Ollivander examined his palm closely, then summoned a measuring tape and began to take measurements of his hand, arm, and though Sirius could not fathom a reason why, his ears.

"It is very difficult to fit an adult wizard," Ollivander explained as he worked. "A child's magic is honest, untamed." He smiled. "But you? You were not easy as a child, if I recall. Perhaps the opposite shall hold true." He met Sirius' gaze and held it for a long minute.

"Phoenix feather," Ollivander finally declared, "if I know my craft."

He disappeared into the back, humming softly to himself, and reappeared several minutes later with a large stack of long, narrow boxes. Several wands he held up in quick succession, replacing them in their cases without even handing them to Sirius.

"Hmm..." He tapped the end of his nose with a forefinger. "I wonder..." he mused, then ran back to fetch another box. With a flourish, he presented the wand to Sirius. "Eleven inches, holly, a single phoenix tail feather at the core."

Sirius reached for the wand, but drew his hand quickly away as it sparked and sizzled menacingly at his approach. "I suppose not," Ollivander said. "Curious."

"What's curious?"

"That wand, Mr. Black, is waiting, but not for you.... Perhaps..."

He trotted back with yet another box, this one deep blue. "Birch," he said, "A particularly fine tree in the western isles, twelve inches, rather inflexible. The bird that yielded this feather belongs no man, yet he has saved more than one. He is a great and loyal friend to man and beast."

Sirius took the wand and felt a cool tingle run up his arm. "Lumos," he breathed and felt the magic rush through him. A bright, blue light filled the shop. Ollivander blinked and turned away. Sirius ended the spell and held the wand reverently. He smiled -- his first real smile in a very long time.

"Well, Mr. Black," the wandmaker mused. "It seems you have been chosen. If I recall, your first wand was particularly well-adapted to the duelling arena?"

Sirius nodded. He would never forget Ollivander's words to him at age eleven. This wand, he'd said, was made to fight. You must temper its magic and take care that it does not lead you astray.

"This one is different. Yes, very different. Quick and ready when you are in need, it is particularly suited to Healing Spells." Ollivander smiled enigmatically and accepted the gold. Sirius left the shop for the rain-soaked street outside.

Remus.

The sky outside was dark and grey. Sirius grinned at the billowing clouds. Time to find Remus.

Back in his room, Sirius realised that this was easier decided upon than done. In his blind dash into the wild, he'd taken no note of where the cottage was. Shropshire, Wiltshire, Cheshire -- some-shire. Since when had England so many of them? He stared intently out the window, as though some sign, some pamphlet or post would tell him where to go.

Frustrated, he left the inn.

Perhaps a passing bird would croak a message in his ear.

No crows or signs appeared. The rain continued tapping on head and shoulders. Falling on Remus' cottage somewhere, Sirius thought, but where?

He drew the wand from his pocket. The wood was cool in his hand, quietly waiting. He could find Remus; he just had to think. Stop. Think.

He paced up and down the street. Rivulets of rain dripped off the end of his nose and under the collar of his shirt, clinging to his lashes and short-cropped hair. He shook it off.

The Ministry. The Ministry kept track of werewolves; they knew where Remus lived.

Sirius took five rapid steps, then stopped. He would just have to bang down the door of the Registry, demand that some terrified office peon release confidential werewolf records to a suspicious ex-convict, brave another harrowing ride on the Knight Bus with the conductor who could learn about manners and discretion from Hagrid, and arrive at Remus' door ready to beg forgiveness.

Sirius almost burst into hysterical laughter, but it died on his lips. A Fruity-Fizz soda can lay beside the curb, and he kicked it as hard as he could. The can soared into the air and landed with a clatter across the street. It rolled into a nearby gutter, where it finally settled, clinking softly in the falling rain.

No Ministry, then.

No Knight Bus.

There were other ways.

He briefly considered asking Remus' mum, but discarded the idea quickly. He could not face her five feet three inches of protective fury and explain that he had left her son... again.

Instead, he wandered into Muggle London and roamed the dark streets, shivering in the rain but unwilling to do anything about it. Water soaked his skin and squelched in his new shoes. He walked on, eyes cast down, heedless of puddles he splashed through. Over the Thames, he listened to the rain on the river, watched it shimmer in the glow of the streetlamps, followed the trajectory of the clouds until the spring storm tapered to a wet drizzle. Eventually, an early morning star broke through the mist, and dawn blanketed the city in a brighter shade of grey. Sirius ran a hand through his hair and walked back to The Shifty Owl for quick kip before he set off again. England was only so big, after all, and Remus was somewhere waiting.

Or not. He had no reason to--

Sirius shook his head. It was time to begin again.

***

A black dog trotted around the corner, sniffing the air as he went. He paused across the street from the old townhouse and studied the ivy curling up the walls, the old iron gate with the family crest. The windows were shuttered against the inclement weather, or perhaps against the escape of the things inside.

He crossed the street, careful to avoid the motorists. Last autumn's leaves lay decaying around the base of the fence. In the garden, bright green shoots of grass and unkempt flowers were poking out of the ground. The dog marched up to the gate.

Beyond was the old path. Chipped flagstones led to the front steps. The door was bare save for a silver knocker in the shape of a twisted serpent. Its steely eyes slitted when it saw the dog outside the gate, and its gaping mouth snapped shut. They eyed one another, then the dog stood on its hind legs.

Slipping one paw between the bars, he neatly slid the bolt and the gate swung open soundlessly. The dog winked at the door. Its guardian watched his approach and hissed in warning.

The dog grinned.

Then he turned and lifted his leg.

Sirius trotted away, tail waving jauntily as a loud clanging alarm sounded through the manor. He never once looked back.