Remus arrived at St. Mungo's an hour before moonrise and allowed himself to be chained. The restraints were less paralyzing since the invention of Wolfsbane, but they were still quite secure. Beside him, Edward Holmes was bound much more heavily, because he was hysterical and the Calming Charms seemed to be having no effect at all.

"It will be all right," Remus said when the Healer left. "Not pleasant, but all right."

Holmes nodded and calmed somewhat, his eyes searching the high window for the first sight of the moon. When it came, he froze, his muscles stiff. Remus fought to keep his eyes averted, wanting Holmes to see a familiar face for as long as he could.

Holmes's transformation began with a sharp jerk of his head. His eyes, reddening in the darkness, turned to Remus, looking mad and betrayed. "It hurts..." he cried, and then words were taken from them both.

Tonks wasn't sure when she'd started to feel that she was "looking after" Hermione and Ginny. It wasn't that she didn't still enjoy their company and think of them as friends, but--unlike this summer--she was very much aware of being at a different place in her life, and she found herself wanting to advise and counsel them from the far side of the vast seven (and eight) year gulf that separated them. They, after all, did not have school chums planning old-fashioned birthing parties this April, or long kisses from dear friends still burning on the skin of their foreheads like angels' brands.

That wasn't fair, and Tonks knew it. She remembered the complexity of all sorts of relationships in school (Try the complexity of the first boy you ever kissed becoming a father or of trying to interpret the skittish needs of the world's most closed-mouthed man), and all of the conflicting desires that went into them. Plus, Hermione and Ginny had things on their minds that were far more important than who was kissing whom (let alone what it all might mean) and had less pleasant signs of impending life changes than Maddie Apcarne's Amazing Expanding Waistline.

And of course, it wasn't as though these two needed counsel and advice, or would take it if they did, if they were anything like other Gryffindors of Tonks's acquaintance.

Ginny, at present, had buried herself in one of the trunks that Tonks kept at Grimmauld Place. Hermione watched her indulgently from the divan in the room they shared, where she was doing an Arithmancy assignment. The boys, it transpired, were doing something for Divination.

"Probably making it up from whole cloth," Hermione said with less disapproval than she would undoubtedly express to Ron and Harry. "As usual."

"Of course they are." Ginny emerged from a growing pile of loose clothes around the trunk, wearing a glitter-speckled red shawl and straw hat with a wide, floppy brim. Tonks tossed her a pair of sunglasses to complete the look, and she put them on. "How else would you do Divination?"

Tonks raised an eyebrow. "Well, you could follow the instructions in the books."

"They don't work," Ginny said.

"That's true, but it's not like Trelawney marks you on whether or not your predictions happen."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "So if it doesn't work by the directions and she doesn't mark you by whether or not anything happens, why not make it up, for all the good it does?"

Tonks got up and took the glasses from her, tweaking her nose. "Why not just do the work? Seems like a bit less of a headache to me."

"It's rubbish anyway," Hermione said.

"My Dad's a Seer."

"Oh, er..."

"He more or less agrees with you."

"Oh."

"That's got to be strange," Ginny said. "Your Dad being able to See it if you're going to break rules and such."

Tonks laughed. "Dad says I'm totally unpredictable."

"Do you believe him? Or do you think he knows how your whole life is going to go and just isn't telling you?"

"That's just disturbing, Ginny." Tonks stretched out on the narrow bed Hermione slept on. "Dad told me that there's no such notion as 'inevitable,' so it's pointless to worry about it. Things mostly change in the future when you change them yourself right now. Or so Dad says, and I suppose he'd know."

She half-expected them to ask about the prophecy and whether or not Harry's fate was inevitable, but then remembered that neither of them had the slightest idea that such a prophecy existed. Which was a good thing, as Tonks did not consider any knowledgeable opinion on the subject to be particularly comforting. She didn't know the exact contents of the prophecy--only Dumbledore knew it particularly well--but she'd never heard of a bona fide prophecy that predicted happily ever after.

Instead, the conversation drifted away from Divination and the future to matters of more immediate interest--what on Earth Ron had given Hermione for Christmas, a subject neither of them had been willing to shed light on, though Harry seemed to know--and not, to Ginny's frustration, care. Hermione had apparently hidden it from her as soon as it was open on Christmas morning, and she was wild to find out what it was. "I could find out from the twins," she said after the third time Hermione refused. "They were shopping with him when he got it."

"Has it occurred to you that it's none of your business?" Hermione asked primly, but Tonks could see her eyes twinkling--the issue of the present had become a game now.

"Hmph."

Tonks rolled her eyes, glad that Ginny's curiosity was more focused on Christmas than on New Year's Eve. "Where are the twins anyway?" she asked. "I haven't seen tonight."

"They went to Bill's after dinner," Ginny said. "They said something smarmy to Mum about how much they wanted to spend time with their older brother. I'll bet they're doing something fun."

Bill Weasley's brothers had come to his house, but for once, fun was not, in fact, on their mind. For that matter, going to Bill's seemed to have been an afterthought, and--unlike Ginny (and certainly their mother)--he hadn't for a moment misinterpreted it when George said, "We wanted to pay a visit to our older brother." This clear understanding may have been helped along by a bitter coda that Fred hadn't included at Grimmauld Place: "And we thought you might like to join us."

Bill, although he himself had spent most of the autumn stifling an urge to throttle Percy, was disturbed by the identically intense looks on the twins' faces, and had joined them with less thought of backing them up than of holding them back. Percy had done a great many hurtful things since summer, including insulting Dad, but Christmas had been a new low, and an intolerable one for the twins: he had made Mum cry. Fred and George might delight in tweaking Mum's easily tweakable temper, but she and they were fiercely devoted to one another. They were too much alike for it to be otherwise.

"He's not here!" Fred kicked the door of Percy's Diagon Alley flat when he failed to answer. "Where is he?"

Bill, more than a little relieved, let out a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding. "Look, Fred... why don't we go a have New Year's drink? The three of us. None of the older/younger, twin/non-twin business, just three Weasley men toasting nineteen-ninety-six together?"

They didn't agree at once, but when repeated pounding and kicking at Percy's door only brought out an old neighbor lady who poked her wand through a crack in the door and threatened to Curse them still until Magical Law Enforcement arrived, it seemed to sink in enough to let Bill steer them away, to the Leaky Cauldron.

Which turned out to be, quite unfortunately, a popular destination for Weasley men that night.

George saw Percy first, and was halfway across the room before Bill even registered what was happening. Fred--because of that damnable shared mind they'd always seemed to have--had already cleared most of the difference. Percy, all unknowing, was sitting at the bar, his shoulders hunched in a protective way, when they grabbed him and dragged him over to the wall, shoving him into it with a jaw-jarring thud.

"We want a word with you," George said, but Bill saw that his fist was not just drawn back, but already flying in.

There was nothing else to do. Bill caught his brother's wrist and pinned him with one arm. With the other, he raised his wand, pointed it at Fred, and said, "Impedimenta!"

"Let me go!" George demanded.

Bill spoke as calmly as he could. "I'll break your arm before I let you hit your brother like that."

"What did you think we were coming to do?"

"Why do you think I came with you?"

Both twins glared at him. Percy looked from one face to another, less frightened than he had reason to be, but still obviously nervous. Something else was in his eyes as well, but Bill didn't have time to figure it out. "Now," he said, "I'm here to raise a glass to the New Year with my brothers." He swallowed hard, reminding himself as he had since childhood, I'm eldest. They're my job. "All of them who will drink with me."

For the first time, Percy's gaze went to him fully, and Bill was stunned to recognize the look in his eyes. It was hard to miss. It was naked, unchecked hunger. "P-please?" he said. "Sit down."

"Like hell," Fred said. George nodded.

As tempted as Bill was to agree with them and slap Percy's face, he couldn't. He was eldest, and he'd seen that momentary flash of hunger--starvation, almost--even though it was already fading back to cultivated disinterest. Damn. He turned to the twins. "Then the two of you can go back to Mum until you finish growing up."

"Oh, right," George said, his voice sharp with betrayal. "We'll see if she's stopped crying yet."

Percy looked down, his face flushed, as they stalked outside. Bill had a feeling that he'd better watch his own back until they were back at Hogwarts and had a chance to calm down.

"Are you going to sit?" Percy asked. "I know that show was for them, not me."

Bill didn't argue, but he did sit down and order a glass of wine (a habit he'd picked up from Fleur). "Whatever misery you're in, Percy, it's your own damned fault."

"Penelope left me."

"Good for her."

Percy turned to him, his eyes hurt but still needy behind the lenses of his tortoise shell glasses. "Leave me alone."

Bill sighed. "Why are you telling me to do what you're most afraid I'm going to do?"

"Isn't that what we were taught?" Percy asked quietly, looking down at his drink. "To face what we're most afraid of in order to do what's right?"

"That would be more convincing if you were listening to your conscience instead of your ambition."

"Right. It can't be conscience if it doesn't agree with Albus Dumbledore."

"It can't be conscience when you're ignoring plain facts--and people you know perfectly well--just because they're inconvenient to your career."

Percy studied his short, even fingernails, then took another swallow of his drink. "How's Dad?"

"Go and see him yourself."

To Bill's utter surprise, Percy's face twisted painfully. He ripped his glasses off and covered his hand with his eyes.

"You should go," Bill said, baffled.

"I did." Percy blinked violently and managed to avoid crying in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron. "I tried to go on Christmas Eve. I guess he's been talking about what a disappointment I am. Or the rest of you have. The Healers said I'd upset him." He drank. "When I got home, the jumper was there. I shouldn't have sent it back."

"I'm glad you know that. I can talk to Dad, if you want to go see him. I'm sure he'd--"

"Be glad to let me grovel?"

Bill nodded. "I think we'd all be happy to let you grovel, if your pride is the only thing that's keeping you away."

"Never mind a scenario where I'm not groveling."

"Percy, you're in the wrong, and you insulted Dad, and you hurt Mum. On Christmas Day. Groveling is owed."

Percy shook his head.

"I am going to walk away after one drink," Bill said.

Percy nodded. "I understand."

They drank together without speaking, and when Bill finished, he stood up and turned to go. "Come home, Percy," he said without looking back.

There was no answer before he left, but all the way to the fireplace, all the through the queue he waited in to floo out, he could feel Percy's hungry eyes on him.

Dudley Dursley stood in an anonymous hospital corridor, his hands shaking and his heart racing. He could just see a sitting area a bit further down, and Mr. Levinson's wife, who had served him such a lovely tea this afternoon, was rocking back and forth in a chair there, her face covered with her hands. Dudley had tried to talk to her earlier, but she had looked at him with flat hate in her eyes, and he'd fallen back. She didn't know--couldn't know--that it wasn't just a coincidence. Lewis, or whoever he was, couldn't talk about that sort of business. But she knew. He knew she did. They all did. Somewhere in the backs of their minds, they knew.

Bloody Harry, he thought. None of these people would come near me if it weren't for him, and Joe Levinson wouldn't be off in a closed room with a great plastic tent around him, while doctors make ridiculous guesses about what's wrong with him.

He didn't know what all of this had to do with Harry, of course, but he thought the guess was safe enough. Harry was going to have a broken bone or two this summer, hopefully right at the beginning, when no one could do one of their cheating quick-fixes.

When the doctor came out and stood in front of Mrs. Levinson, Dudley sidled as close as he could without catching her attention, but he still couldn't hear what they said. Still, he couldn't mistake the vast relief that swept through her. It was definitely not sudden grief. The doctor led her into the room where Levinson was, and Dudley took several deep breaths, then let himself out and took a taxi to the train station, and the train back to Surrey.

He'd told Mum and Dad that he and Piers were going to the city to have tea at the home of a fictitious Smeltings friend, and it was so far past tea-time that Mum was starting to worry. Dudley considered telling her that he'd gone to visit Mr. Levinson (the man she unfailingly referred to as "that old Jew"), then thought better of it and just asked if dinner was ready instead. She happily set out a huge meal with all sorts of sweets that she knew Dudley couldn't eat anymore, and looked at him like a martyr when he turned them down. Dad cheerfully ate the excess.

Later, she came up to his room and asked him what he'd rather have next time, then got straight to business. "That fellow of Dumbledore's--he hasn't... done anything, has he?"

Dudley shrugged. "Nothing."

"I should still report him. I don't like... them... being there."

Another shrug. "If Lewis tries anything, I can take care of him."

"Of course you can, dear."

They talked a bit longer, but Dudley's mind was elsewhere. What kept coming back to him was that Lewis had told him the truth. He didn't like it. But he also didn't like whatever had been done to him and to Joe Levinson, and it definitely couldn't be fixed by people who had no idea what it was.

Well, he'd told Lewis that he'd be by to talk. He'd meant to gloat about being right while Lewis was wrong, but as much as he hated to admit it, he supposed that there might be something else to talk about as well.

Sirius brushed a cobweb irritably away from his face and threw back the canvas cloth over another pile of old junk in the attic. Last time he'd been up here looking for the present he'd meant to give Harry on Christmas night, he'd found Kreacher digging through things, and if he'd broken the mirrors in his malice...

He stopped and breathed deeply. How much nonsense was up here, anyway? Had the family kept every bit of Dark Arts paraphernalia they'd collected since the place was built? And every damned bloodline record? And every portrait? There were at least seven portraits up here who weren't in any condition to hang on the walls downstairs, and they muttered disconsolately about their lot in life at every opportunity. One, a flat-faced medieval painting with a gold-leaf halo, kept his counsel in muddy French. The frame was intertwined ebony serpents and the faded background a suspicious rusty color in which he could vaguely make out upside-down figures hanging from what Sirius took to be trees, though the paint was so degraded that he couldn't be certain. He didn't much like the look of the bloody sickle the man was carrying, though, and didn't make any effort to translate the unceasing monologue. There were things he didn't want to know about the blood in his veins. He remembered enough of his endless childhood French lessons to tell the portrait to shut up, but it did no good at all. He thought about asking more forcefully, but the children were asleep downstairs, and he didn't want to wake them.

The house had only been built in the seventeen-hundreds, which was a subject of his dark fascination, though he didn't admit it, even to Remus--not only had the family kept everything once it moved in, they had moved all of this junk from wherever they had lived before. Every time he reached the end of it, he found another of the carefully stacked metal plates that contained a storage spell. Some of these plates had then been Transfigured into other objects altogether, and Sirius didn't discover what they were until he tried to destroy them. The river of Black memorabilia never seemed to dry up.

He supposed it was possible that Mum had simply destroyed the things he'd left behind when he ran away, burned his possessions out of the house the way she'd burned his identity out of the family tree tapestry, but it didn't seem right, not in this house where the only things considered expendable were the people who lived here. No, Mum would have gone to the room he and Regulus had shared, bundled his things up while Phineas Nigellus gave a caustic commentary, and brought all of it up here. He couldn't picture where Reg was during this process--probably sitting stupidly on his bed, trying to get Mum to calm down--but it didn't matter. Reg wouldn't have lifted a finger. He never did.

"Where did you put it?" he grumbled. "And what did you make it?"

"Master should not speak to himself," Kreacher said from the shadows, startling Sirius. "People will talk."

"Go away."

"Master needs help with work. Kreacher is here to help Master."

"Oh, yes. I'm sure of that. Quite convincing."

Kreacher gave an obsequious bow that went badly with his glittery, calculating eyes.

"All right," Sirius said, "if you're in such a helpful mood, tell me--what did Mum do with my things after I ran away?"

He expected sly laughter at best, but Kreacher clapped his hands instead. "Oh, Kreacher knows, Kreacher knows."

"Well, then Kreacher can bloody well tell."

Kreacher capered over to a creaky old bureau and opened the bottom drawer. He took out a filthy piece of cloth and handed it eagerly to Sirius. Sirius unwrapped it. Inside was a small, heavy object. He took it out curiously.

It was a cast iron doorstop, showing a woman who looked like Mum had once looked, before she'd run mad, with a long knife sticking out of her back and a hateful expression on her face. The figure's head turned upward, and it hissed, "Traitor!"

No wonder Kreacher had been so gleeful.

Sirius dropped it unceremoniously on the floor, pointed his wand at it, and said, "Incendio." Of course, like the others, the storage Charm protected it, and its shape immediately shifted into one of the storage plates, the same as any of the others. Sirius broke the Charm and a sheet tied into a bundle appeared on the attic floor.

"Master's things," Kreacher said.

"Yes, I see." Then, gritting his teeth. "Thank you, Kreacher. You may leave. Now."

Kreacher cackled and went downstairs.

Sirius untied the sheet, and the detritus of his childhood fell out of it. No stuffed bears or comforting blankets here--such things were not fitting for the heir of the House--but there was a toy broomstick, and a jigsaw puzzle with large wooden pieces. A tiny wooden box that had always sat on his bureau contained all of his baby teeth and the hair from his first haircut (this box had been on his mind quite a lot in the last years of the war, when he wondered if Bella had access to them and could use them against him somehow), and a stack of well-loved books tumbled out in dusty good cheer. His first letter from Hogwarts was tucked into one of them. There was a picture of James and Remus and Peter, taken in Diagon Alley--pity Peter was in it; Harry might have liked it otherwise--and all of the well-marked essays from his first two years at school, which he'd brought home in the hope of convincing Dad, at least, that being in Gryffindor wasn't a total waste of his mind. He'd given up this quest fairly early, not especially caring after a certain point, but here were the bits of parchment, piled together and looking utterly antique. Minerva McGonagall's spiky handwriting praised the way he thought in her class (she was difficult to please and less than free with her compliments, and he had genuinely been proud of himself when she took the trouble to tell him that he'd done well).

Sirius frowned. He had expected that Mum would keep his things, but it had never occurred to him exactly how much he had kept. When had he ever been so attached to things?

It didn't matter. Of all the quirks he could have picked up from the family, he supposed this incipient hoarding behavior was the most harmless. He tossed aside the junk on the top of the pile, and finally found what he was looking for, sunk to the bottom.

The mirrors were still unbroken.

Nelwyn Pettigrew was arranging her curls at her dressing table, getting ready to go to bed for the night, when the owl swooped in through her chimney. She shrieked by habit--she had never liked the birds, and the nasty things they'd been bringing her of late had certainly not endeared them to her.

This one flew to her and landed on her mother's silver-handled hairbrush. It pecked her arm before dropping its small white envelope onto her lap and flying away.

Nelwyn looked at the envelope with deep misgivings. It was addressed not to her name, but to the address of the house. Slowly, she opened it.

What was inside wasn't nearly as unpleasant as the package of ancient hair, but it was utterly incomprehensible.

It was an ancient ticket from the Hogwarts Express, dating from a time in the mid-seventies, when her poor Peter had been attending the school. It was for the return trip to Hogwarts, following the Christmas holidays. Over it, someone (Sirius Black, her mind supplied) had drawn a red lightning bolt. And the entire ticket had been overlaid with a dark black "X."

A small note fell out of it.

Give this to Lupin, it instructed her. Although I'd recommend waiting until morning.

Nelwyn's hands shook around these objects, and she looked out the window, to where the full moon was beginning to sink in the sky.

Why does he torment me? she thought. Why can't Sirius Black just leave an old woman alone?

There was no question of sleeping now. She went down to her conservatory and drank tea, and just before dawn, she swallowed her distaste, and brought her post owl in from the shed. She tied a fresh envelope to his leg, containing both objects and a brief note.

"Find Remus Lupin," she said. "I suppose this will make sense to him."

The owl flew off. Nelwyn sat back down in her wicker chair, and looked solemnly up at the photograph of her poor lost son.