Outside the window, the velvety early-morning sky was dark blue, fading to pink in the distance. The sun was coming up again, as it insisted upon doing every single morning, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was not wanted. Sirius Black rolled over and pulled his musty brown quilt over his head. There was absolutely no point in getting out of bed before noon.

Sirius sighed and wondered, as he did every wretched morning, what his godson was doing that instant. Harry was probably heading down to breakfast in the Great Hall at Hogwarts with his friends. Far from cheering him, this thought impelled Sirius deeper into the murky depths of depression. He felt an acute pang of loneliness and sighed again before drifting off into an uneasy sleep, which was punctuated by the insistent scratching from Buckbeak the hippogriff cloistered in Mrs. Black’s room on the next floor.

Sirius had considered feeding the beast, but he just couldn’t muster the energy. It was much easier to sleep. He couldn’t bear to face the empty house (well, Kreacher the demented house-elf lived there, but that was no comfort) that held so many painful memories of his youth.

Sirius awoke, much to his displeasure, several hours later to the obnoxious ringing of the doorbell, followed immediately by the screeches of Mrs. Black’s portrait.

“Shut the bloody hell up, you evil old hag!� Sirius snarled at the still yelling picture as he reached the landing. He yanked the curtains closed in front of the portrait of his mother, silencing her, for the moment at least. As he reached the door, it opened seemingly of its own accord, hitting Sirius’s forehead with a sharp thud. He grunted in pain and anger as the knot on his head throbbed in time with his rapid heartbeat.

Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, stepped into the house, smiling serenely as he took in Sirius’s rather alarming appearance—rumpled clothing, four-day beard, sallow skin, hollow cheeks, wild black hair, and dark circles under sunken dark brown eyes. Sirius also smelled stale, and there was a definite stench of alcohol in the air.

“Good morning—or should I say good afternoon!� Dumbledore intoned in what Sirius believed was an unnecessarily chipper voice. Sirius was not at all pleased to see the man standing before him, as it was Dumbledore’s fault, Sirius felt, that he had been cooped up in this deplorable prison all summer, unable to experience fresh air or sunlight, unable to escape Kreacher and his hysterical rambling, unable to see Harry, his only reason for living at the moment.

“Why did you ring the doorbell?� Sirius demanded with no pretense of warmth. Nearly everyone who came and went at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, knew how to enter the old Black family residence without sounding the contemptible doorbell, and Dumbledore certainly did. “You know how my mother is!� Dumbledore merely chuckled and gazed intently at the sullen face in front of him; the twinkle in his cheery blue eyes was as maddening as ever.

“I just thought you might have been in dire need of a wakeup call,� Dumbledore said lightly, though his tone and the calculating look on his face definitely implied that he would have liked to have said, “Sirius, get yourself together! This is ridiculous! You’re a grown man brooding like a five-year-old who has broken his toy broomstick! I expect more from you! Now, for Pete’s sake, grow up!�

A long pause ensued, during which Dumbledore grinned absurdly and Sirius frowned. Sirius was actually a bit transfixed by the asinine black ribbon Dumbledore had tied into a bow about halfway down his long, silver beard.

“Yes, Sirius, I’d love to join you for breakfast!� Dumbledore said, sounding sincerely delighted, accepting an invitation that Sirius did not recall ever extending. Sirius grumbled and stalked off toward the basement kitchen, Dumbledore in his wake.

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After a meal of rather runny, over-peppered eggs, undercooked sausage, and burnt toast, which Sirius had prepared quite unenthusiastically, but which Dumbledore apparently savored all the same, Dumbledore rose abruptly from his seat at the long wooden table and began pacing in front of the large fireplace. Sirius followed his progress, noting that Dumbledore likely had a great deal of practice in the art of pacing, as he did it so expertly, so beautifully, so adroitly…actually, Sirius knew quite well that Dumbledore was a frequent pacer, as he had observed him in the act numerous times on the Marauders’ Map during his days at Hogwarts.

Sirius suddenly giggled; Dumbledore stopped in his tracks and eyed his companion appraisingly but decided not to comment. He resumed his path, seeming not to notice or care that Sirius’s face had flushed a brilliant pink in whole-hearted embarrassment.

Another minute or so passed in much the same way—with Dumbledore pacing and Sirius watching and Kreacher scuttling around just outside the kitchen muttering under his breath. Then, without so much as a backward glance, a word of farewell, or any explanation as to the purpose of the visit, Dumbledore strode briskly through the kitchen door, up the stairs, and out of the house. Sirius remained seated at the kitchen table in stunned silence, and then shouted at Kreacher to shut his filthy mouth and go upstairs. Meanwhile, Dumbledore stood outside on the front walk, chuckling to himself.