Harry was back inside five minutes later, cradling a mixing bowl of leftovers. The big black dog didn't care what it was—he inhaled the lot, licked the rim clean, and sagged onto the pavement with a long, grateful sigh.
"Thank you—truly," the voice brushed Harry's mind. "You're a good lad."
"You've been on your own all this time?" Harry asked, taking in the jut of ribs beneath the matted fur.
A slow nod. Azkaban to the northern sea, half a day in freezing water, a fishing boat, then half of Britain under paw—hunger had chewed all the edges off him.
"Come live with me, then," Harry blurted. "If you want."
That tugged something fierce behind the dog's eyes. Won't it cause trouble? the mind-voice ventured, flicking toward Number Four and its tidy hedges.
"It'll be fine. I have… a special way to talk to my aunt and uncle," Harry said, thinking of Arthur's sacred ritual: wand in one hand, Galleon in the other, and suddenly the Dursleys found reason very compelling.
Two Galleons later, Vernon Dursley decided that housing a large dog was the most sensible idea he'd had all year.
…
The next morning a parcel arrived from Arthur: two bottles of Albanian olive oil, corked and ribboned. "Liquid gold," the note claimed. "Apparently miraculous for everything from salads to skin." Harry wrote back his thanks—and asked if he could visit. Arthur's reply pinged on the iPad almost at once: Come by. Harry bought a bag of chocolate as a thank-you, whistled to his new companion, and set off.
Arthur opened the door… and Harry stopped dead. Inside were Snape—stooping over a pool table—and Draco Malfoy, who pointed his cue like a duelling wand the second he saw Harry.
"You two want to trade breaks?" Arthur said dryly. "Or hellos?"
Harry managed an awkward greeting. Snape gave him a curt nod and turned back to a very serious attempt at being mediocre. Draco twirled his cue. "Fancied a match?"
"I'm more curious about him," Arthur said, chin tilting toward the big black dog at Harry's heel. "No introduction?"
The dog had been a model of silence since crossing the threshold. Hard not to be, with Severus Snape of all people in the room. Run and you abandoned the boy. Stay and… well, stay.
"This is Regulus," Harry said. "My new mate."
"Regulus. Good name." Arthur's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Any relation to a certain older brother named Sirius?"
Every muscle in the dog locked. Then he wheeled for the door.
Arthur flicked two fingers. Magic snagged the Animagus mid-leap and held him hanging, paws bicycling uselessly.
"Problem?" Harry asked, voice tight but trusting the only person in the room who hadn't hexed him at least once.
"Professor," Arthur said, without looking away from the suspended hound, "we seem to have a visitor claiming to be an old colleague of yours."
Snape had already set the cue down. The name Regulus pulled old, barbed threads. He stopped in front of Harry, gaze flat.
"Regulus Black joined the Dark Lord and died under… unclear circumstances over fifteen years ago," he said evenly. "He had a brother. Sirius Black. Believed to have betrayed your parents to Voldemort. Convicted of murdering twelve Muggles. Escaped Azkaban last week."
Arthur handed Harry a copy of the Daily Prophet. Below the block letters—REWARD: 10,000 GALLEONS—glowered a gaunt, hollow-eyed man whose face Harry recognised from a wedding photo in the album Hagrid had given him.
Harry swallowed. "Are you really Sirius?" he asked the dog.
The dog didn't meet his eyes.
"Easier to check," Arthur murmured, and traced a short, silvery glyph in the air. The Anti-Animagus Hex bloomed. Fur shrank, bones twisted, and a thin, unshaven man dropped to his knees on the rug.
Cleaned up, he wasn't the newspaper's scarecrow. But he was—undeniably—the man from James and Lily's wedding. Standing beside Harry's father, laughing.
"Draco," Arthur said, half-smiling, "aren't you going to greet your uncle?"
"My—what?" Draco's jaw dropped. "No, thank you," he added hastily, as if refusing seconds at tea could distance him from a wanted man.
Harry stared at Sirius. The recognition landed with a thud, followed by the burn of fury. He seized Sirius by the front of his shirt. "Why lie to me? Why betray them? Why—" He broke off, voice cracking to rawness. "Were you going to kill me too?"
Bound, breath hitching, Sirius didn't fight. "I… never meant you harm," he rasped.
"Liar!" Harry's hands jumped to his throat.
"Enough," Arthur said, voice like a snapped string.
Harry flinched, dropped his grip, and stepped back, horrified at himself. "Sorry," he muttered.
"Let me ask," Arthur said, moving in.
Sirius lifted his head, defiance struggling with shame. "I won't talk. Do your worst. Kill me if you must."
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. "Merlin save me from noble idiots. There's always one of you. Ten minutes of straight answers would save us two hours of melodrama."
Sirius blinked. "What?"
"Option A: the polite way—tea, biscuits, sentences with full stops. Option B: the quick way—I pull the truth out and we skip the waltz." Arthur's wand turned lazily between his fingers, eyes steady. "Choose."
Before Sirius could, three sharp raps rattled the front door. A fourth, impatient. From outside came a clipped voice, magnified by charm:
"Auror Office! Open up!"
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