Arthur tapped the table with a knuckle. "That look says you've still got business unfinished. Why die on principle when you could simply… say it?"
Sirius's jaw set. "What good would it do? No one believes the mad dog in chains."
"You haven't tried us," Arthur said. "The dying manage last words. You can manage a paragraph."
Sirius stared at him a beat, then exhaled. "If I said those twelve Muggles weren't mine—would you believe it?"
"I would," Arthur replied mildly, "as readily as I believe a rat doesn't live a dozen years."
A flinch. "You… know?"
"You're not the only Animagus I can smell," Arthur said. "Tell the room the truth."
So Sirius told it: how Peter Pettigrew—the smallest of the four—had taken the Fidelius at the last minute; how he'd screamed betrayal in the street, blown a crater into London, severed his own finger and fled into the cracks of the world as a rat.
"Then why didn't you say so at trial?" Harry burst out.
Sirius's eyes fell. "Because James and Lily died on my watch. It was my idea to use Peter. Whatever the technicalities, a debt's a debt."
Arthur rubbed his temples. "You've spent twelve years proving you can keep a secret. Congratulations. Now try strategy. Harry?"
Harry folded his arms. "Until we have evidence, I can't take your word alone."
"I'm not asking you to believe," Sirius said hoarsely. "I'm asking for a chance to make it right—to kill Peter."
"You won't be deciding that," Arthur cut in. "He murdered Harry's parents. The choice isn't yours."
Harry's mind was already racing. "But—rats don't live that long unless… unless they're Animagi."
"Exactly," Arthur said.
"Scabbers," Harry breathed. "Ron's rat. Missing a toe."
He half-turned for the fireplace; Arthur caught his sleeve. "Not by owl, not by Floo. You'll spook him. We wait for term. Ron brings Scabbers to school; we spring the trap."
Harry ground his teeth, then nodded. "Fine. We do it your way."
"Take me," Sirius said quickly. "To Hogwarts."
"That's up to Harry," Arthur said.
Harry hesitated, then gave a short nod. "All right. As Padfoot. Close, quiet, and only when Arthur says."
"Done," Arthur said. "For now, stick to the dog. Harry—didn't you owe Draco a billiards thrashing?"
Two duplicated pool tables later, the house had devolved into clacks, groans, and triumphant whoops from two very average players. Sirius, unbound, sat small on the edge of the sofa, eyes mapping a life he'd missed: a modern Muggle lounge; Snape of all people playing at being ordinary; Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter trading shots without hexes.
The front door opened. Mrs Granger swept in with Lia, and Sirius shot to his feet as if yanked. "Lily!"
Snape reached them in two strides, took the baby from Lia, and turned a winter-cold glare on Sirius. "This is Lia, not Lily. If your eyes are faulty, I can fix them."
Mrs Granger smoothed the awkwardness with gentle introductions. The facts left Sirius reeling—Snape, married; a child; a life. Harry, equally stunned, drifted to Arthur's side.
"Why does Professor Snape's wife look so much like my mum?"
Arthur opened his mouth; Snape's warning look shut it again. Arthur coughed. "Some answers you should find yourself."
That night, back in Privet Drive, Harry drew the story out of Sirius piece by piece—the pranks, the hexes behind the lake, the bitter history, and the childhood bond between Severus and Lily that curdled into a lifetime's scar. By the end, Harry had both hands in his hair.
"So Dad was… a menace. And Snape was Mum's friend first." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Right. Not thinking about the what ifs. Dad won Mum. I exist. Well stolen, Dad."
…
The next morning Arthur popped down Diagon Alley and returned with a flattened, marmalade-faced Persian: Crookshanks. Part-Kneazle, bright as flint, and so homely he wrapped back around to handsome.
"Welcome to the Zen Garden," Arthur said, depositing Crookshanks beside a luxuriously affronted Mrs Norris. The cat blinked, decided the fruit trees were acceptable, and went to bully a sunbeam.
Summer slipped by without further explosions. Arthur turned his focus to the Lands Between. Two years after his first step, he finally reached the shadow of the Erdtree.
Leyndell, Royal Capital rose like a hymn carved in stone. Somewhere at its root waited Morgott, the Omen King; somewhere deeper, the Erdtree's sealed heart. Arthur didn't head for the throne yet. He started where all empires end—the battlefield.
The second Defence of Leyndell had been fought here. Spears, shattered blades, and arrows lay like iron grass. Most striking were the great perfumers' lances—shafts buried like bolts, their hollow heads cracked open.
Arthur knelt by one. A breath of residue kissed his senses: a crafted vapour that rots, remakes, then blooms. No wonder the killing field was carpeted in impossible flowers—beauty fed by a physician's heresy.
"Curious," he murmured. "Even healers became poisoners, in the end."
He straightened, gaze lifting to the golden trunk that filled the sky.
"Right, Morgott," he said under his breath. "Let's see what your city remembers."
And from the Erdtree's light, something vast and watchful seemed to open one eye.
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