Kingsley Shacklebolt sighed and sat back in his chair, wearily rubbing his eyes. A mess of maps, transcripts and sundry documents littered his desk, and the hum of Aurors at work around him pounded painfully in his skull. They were no closer to catching the murderer Sirius Black than they had been on the day he escaped Azkaban. Never in his career as an Auror had Kingsley had so little success completing a job. It was as though the man had vanished from the face of the earth. And every day that went by without result was one more night Kingsley drifted off into troubled dreams, knowing the man he was responsible for catching was at large and a threat to wizards and muggles alike. Bleakly, he stared around his cubicle. From every inch of available space, Sirius Black stared back at him, blinking out of the hundreds of photographs that had been meticulously hunted down and tacked to the walls.





Giving up the maps he had been marking as a bad job, Kingsley stood, pacing his office restlessly. It was only fifteen minutes until he was off and there was no point in staying late again. Since the night two years ago when Black had inexplicably escaped Hogwarts (and Kingsley had been promoted to the head of the search), there were virtually no new leads. With an inward groan, the memory of that night surfaced like a bad aftertaste. Fudge had come raging back to the Ministry, bowler hat askew and in near hysterics over the botched job. The news of the Ministry’s embarrassing failure had been splashed all over the Daily Prophet for days. Though he would never say so, Kingsley could not help but feel that had he been in charge of the operation, things might have turned out differently. In an uncharacteristic moment of bitterness, Kingsley scowled at a clipping of Fudge making a statement to the Prophet. How on earth the Minister could have been foolish enough to leave a criminal like Black in an unguarded room…





But there was no help for that now. No help and no leads. And with unsettling rumors of aroused activity among Voldemort’s supporters seeping through the grapevine, it was of more importance than ever to re-capture Black. As he had found himself doing increasingly over the last weeks, Kingsley turned his attention to the photographs and clippings plastered over his walls. It was a mismatched collection in no particular order, a collage of a life. There were new pictures and old pictures, wanted posters and baby photos. Black as a young child, Black with his family, Black with his friends, at school, on holidays, in news articles…Kingsley stared at each in turn, hoping as always to make some sense of the murderer, to find some clue to the man. He viewed it as a puzzle, something to piece together. Making up his mind suddenly, he circled the cubicle, carefully plucking pictures from various spots on the walls. Quickly shuffling them into order, he sat once more at his desk and summoned his last powers of concentration. Ruefully aware that his superior Rufus Scrimgeour would think he was wasting his time, he nevertheless began to turn the photographs over. Studying each one with care, he searched for inspiration, willing himself to see something new. And, as had happened every time he performed this fruitless exercise, he was again visited with the nagging feeling that he was missing something.





There was Black as a small child, an old, bent photograph that had been found in a raid of one of his relative’s estates, forgotten among family records. The three-year-old Black grinned mischievously up at him, brandishing a stuffed dog and tugging at the fussy dress clothes he was wearing.





There was Black at nine, standing stiffly before a grim-looking hearth in a family portrait. Behind him stood his parents, haughty and forbidding. Next to him on a chair sat his brother, clearly pampered and blissfully untroubled. Narrowing his eyes, Kingsley looked closer. Sirius alone appeared out of place. His hand was laid protectively but uncertainly on little Regulus’s shoulder, his young face closed and stubborn, unable to hide the lost look that crept into his eyes. Kingsley moved on.





Next came a series of pictures taken at Hogwarts. Some were only undistinguishable fragments, clearly taken as jokes; nearly all of them featured the same three schoolmates. James Potter. Peter Pettigrew. Remus Lupin. In every image Sirius Black was unmistakably happy, full of energy, full of laughter. Staring at picture after picture of the playful, affectionate foursome, Kingsley found it hard to believe that one day the handsome, grinning young man would grow up to cause the death of two of his three friends.





Flipping to the next picture, Kingsley came upon one he had often looked at before. This too had been salvaged from other records of the notorious Black family, and it was the last one anyone had been able to find of Black before he left his home. It was an updated family portrait taken when Black was perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old. Sirius Black did not often appear in this particular picture; his photo-self was forever stalking out of the frame, or else being dragged forcibly back by the image of his father. Today he planted himself in open rebellion in the middle of the picture, and Kingsley was free to study his likeness as he pleased. Here the happy, carefree youth of Hogwarts was gone. Sirius Black stood, erect and glaring, defiance etched in his face. No longer was there any sign of a connection between the Black brothers; Regulus stood loyally next to his mother, his thin face sullen. Scrutinizing the young man that would one day become a murderer, Kingsley thought that beneath the challenge he could see a note of pain hidden in the boy’s carefully guarded eyes.





Sighing, he sifted through the remaining photos, all of which pictured Black during his seventh year or else after Hogwarts, all of which told the story of a confident and caring young man. Setting down a picture of a radiant Black at the Potter’s wedding, Kingsley placed it next to the final photograph in his stack, the one that had been taken upon Black’s arrival at Azkaban.





If he had not known better, Kingsley would have said they were two different people. In the former, Black’s face was brimming with joy and jubilant laughter, his love for the couple next to him as clear as printed words. In the latter, the man facing the camera was completely unrecognizable, his face drained of the characteristic charm and fearless energy Kingsley had come to expect of old pictures. Here Sirius Black stared nakedly into the camera, his gray eyes wide, stunned, empty. His glossy black hair fell in disarray over his face and a nasty bruise discolored one eye. He looked as though he had no idea where he was or what he was doing; the card with his prison number was held slackly in his hands. Kingsley needed to go no further. The next photograph was the current wanted poster, and the Auror knew each detail of that by heart.





The story made little sense, he mused. There was no sense of continuity, no transition from faithful friend to cold-blooded killer. Staring from the laughing young man to the lost soul before him, Kingsley Shacklebolt mulled over all he knew of Sirius Black and wondered for the hundredth time what crucial piece of the story they were all missing. An irrational, persistent voice in his head insisted if he could find this, it would help him find Sirius Black.





“Shacklebolt.�





Kingsley looked up, the photos slipping from his hands. Mad-Eye Moody was standing in the doorway of his cubicle, his bright blue magical eye whizzing around in his head, the other trained on Kingsley. Kingsley frowned faintly, wondering what the ex-Auror was doing in the Ministry tonight. He stood.





“Yes?�





“I have some theories on the Black case that I want to talk over with you. Free tonight?�





His alerted instincts relaxing, Kingsley repressed the urge to sigh. He had a great deal of respect for the legendary Alastor Moody, but a throbbing headache was building behind his eyes, and listening to the paranoid ex-Auror’s far-fetched theories was not going to help. He could almost hear his bed at home calling him.





“Could it wait until morning? I have rather a lot on my plate at the moment.� He gestured to the maps and transcripts littering his desk, hoping Moody would not be offended.





Moody set his jaw, his magical eye apparently scrutinizing the occupant of the neighboring cubicle through the wall. “‘Fraid not. It’s a bit urgent.� Something crept into his scarred face, and in his exhausted state Kingsley would almost have said it was ironic amusement. If he had not known Moody. But the old Auror was already talking again, and his next words blotted the notion from Kingsley’s mind.





“I think we might have a sighting on our hands.�

The early summer night was warm and balmy, but high in the air the wind whipped chill against Kingsley Shacklebolt’s powerful frame. He gripped the handle of his broom with numbing fingers and chanced a glance beside him. He knew that Alastor Moody was flying almost knee to knee with him, but the Disillusionment Charm he had cast was a good one; Kingsley could only make out a vague ripple in the air next to him. He looked down to his own hands, a slight heat wave above sprawling London City.

“This is a bit unorthodox,� he observed, his slow, deep voice sounding muffled in the wind.

“Necessary,� grunted Moody. “Got to pick up Tonks on our way.�

“She can’t Apparate?�

“Too tired to be safe. She’s been on assignment with Mundungus Fletcher for almost forty-eight hours, told her not to risk it.�

“Is this Fletcher in the Order as well?�

“Yes,� growled Moody, sounding thoroughly disapproving. “We’ll be picking him up as well, I suppose—they’re on our way there.�

There. Normally unflappably calm, Kingsley felt his heart thump a little harder in anticipation. He had left his cubicle a few hours earlier in a state of high confusion. In response to his immediate inquiries, Moody had explained shortly that an outside source had sighted Sirius Black days ago, but that there might be some important information worth looking into. Moody seemed disinclined to talk, and discouraged Kingsley from alerting anyone or even bringing anything along. Hopes of a new lead fading, he had nevertheless followed obligingly, noting with a frown one of the younger Aurors rolling his eyes as Moody stumped past.

They had taken the Floo Network to Moody’s own well-fortified home where Moody had quickly explained in low, terse tones that he had brought Kingsley there under false pretenses, that he had been sent to collect him because Moody’s own reputation for paranoia would ensure that he could lure Kingsley away without arousing suspicion, that they were not there to discuss Black at all, but rather, the return of Lord Voldemort.

Kingsley had been silent during Moody’s hurried explanation of the mysterious events surrounding the Triwizard Tournament. He had had to sit down when Mad-Eye got to the part about the reunion of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters, but looked up again when Moody mentioned, almost casually, that certain people felt the Ministry was mired in denial, that certain people believed immediate action was called for. Kingsley had stared into the mismatched eyes of the battle-scarred ex-Auror and wondered if he knew what he was hearing.

“You’re a smart boy, Shacklebolt. What would you do?�

Kingsley had measured his words before replying slowly, “Take matters into my own hands.�

Moody grinned lopsidedly. “That’s exactly what we wanted to hear.�

After reinforcing a host of anti-intruder and anti-eavesdropper spells, the ex-Auror revealed that Albus Dumbledore had reformed a group that was dedicated to bringing Voldemort down. He explained the trouble they had had recruiting people under the Ministry’s nose, confided that Kingsley had been watched for a long time to make absolutely certain of his loyalties, and outlined bluntly the dangers attached to joining such a group. For Kingsley there had been no decision to make. He had accepted immediately.

“But isn’t this dangerous, telling me all this?�

“Don’t have much choice, do we? We need more people. Besides, I know your work, and Tonks knows you as well; she vouched for your character.�

“Nymphadora Tonks?�

Moody nodded. “Inducted her a few weeks ago.�

Kingsley frowned, his practical mind unsatisfied. “What if I had said no?�

“Then you’d find yourself outside your home, remembering only that my tips
came to nothing and that you seemed remarkably preoccupied tonight.�

Kingsley had looked up into the formidable face of the ex-Auror and smiled grimly. He had no doubt that was exactly what would have happened.

Now, several hours later, they were flying to headquarters. There. The frustration of the past months was wiped away in a rush of purpose. He was not a man to rush into things, and Kingsley was surprised that he felt so comfortable being inducted into this mysterious Order. But he had no illusions about the Ministry for which he worked, and if the likes of Alastor Moody and Albus Dumbledore were in charge, he was ready to follow their lead.

Before he knew it, they had touched down in a grotty little alley in the heart of London, where an exhausted but cheerful Tonks (“Wotcher, Kingsley�) and a grimy, shifty character with a lumpy rucksack that Kingsley could only assume was Mundungus Fletcher awaited them. Once all of them were Disillusioned, they set off, London fading once more to a network of pinprick lights beneath them. They flew on in silence for perhaps twenty minutes more before Moody called for a landing.

It was not what Kingsley had expected. The houses before him were grim and sullen, paint peeling, windows resolutely shut against the summer night. The smell of old garbage wafted over to them as they regrouped. Kingsley had to squint to make out the hazy outlines of his companions. There was a small scuffling sound, and Tonks appeared out of thin air, Disillusionment Charm lifted and hair shockingly purple against her dreary surroundings. To her left, a huff of outrage punctuated the scuffling.

“Oh give it up, Moody; no one’s watching and we can’t see each other like this.�
Ignoring Moody’s invisible protests, she withdrew her wand and cracked the air over her head to her right. Mundungus Fletcher appeared, rubbing his head.

“That ride was summfink ‘orrible, think I got a splinter in me thumb. Oi, Mad-Eye,� he complained, staring at a spot a good four feet to the left of where Kingsley knew Moody to be. “G’wan, then, you’ll never find it like that; and I’m perishin’ of ‘unger out ‘ere!�

Growling under his breath, Moody lifted the charm and appeared, still rummaging in the pockets of his robes. Kingsley followed suit as Moody finally extracted a slip of parchment and handed it to him.

“Memorize it.�

Fidelius Charm, Kingsley realized, glancing at the parchment. Quickly, he memorized the address of his new headquarters. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Somewhere in his brain, the address rang a bell, but he was too focused on what was to come to take note of it. Nodding once, he lit the parchment on fire with the tip of his wand; it ghosted brightly to the ground before he stamped out the flame against the cold asphalt. Turning to the houses before them, he stared at the crack between number eleven and number thirteen, concentrating on what he had read, waiting and still. Slowly, Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place squeezed into view. Kingsley’s heart hammered back into place in his chest.

Moody’s gravelly tones punched the silence. “Everyone in, and quick.�

They moved as one to the forbidding threshold, Kingsley noting with some trepidation the twining silver serpent that formed the knocker.

“What…?�

Tonks grinned at him. “Oh, it’s a bit gloomy, but we call it home, eh chaps?� Brightly, she reached out to ring an old-fashioned doorbell.

At once, several things happened. Muffled shrieks sounded from the other side of the heavy black door, Moody cursed; Mundungus chuckled, and Tonks clapped both hands to her face. “Sorry,� she moaned from between her fingers. “I forgot.�

Utterly bemused, Kingsley strained to distinguish the words of the shrieking voice. It sounded as though someone was dying. Before he could ask, however, thumping footsteps and a man’s bellowing voice caught his attention.

“Tonks! How many times? For the love of Merlin, you ghastly old woman, will you stop that horrible noise!�

Momentarily shocked, Kingsley glanced at Tonks, who had not said a word. Apparently not offended, she merely stared sheepishly at the door. As none of the others seemed surprised, Kingsley concluded the voice must have been referring to someone in the house. Glad he hadn’t said anything, he listened as the footsteps and voice grew louder.

“No, Remus, I’ve got it, just shut her up for me, will you?�

Clicks and screeches of many locks being opened, a drag of the heavy door, and a tall, dark-haired man stood before them, wearing long gray robes and an exasperated expression. Kingsley’s sharp intake of breath was lost; the man looked straight past him.

“Why do you even need to ring the doorbell, you’ve all got wands—�

“—Sorry, I just keep—�

But what Tonks kept doing was never discovered. Kingsley’s wand arm flew up instinctively; red light bloomed against the dark doorway as Sirius Black was blasted off his feet.

For a moment there was chaos as the threshold of Number Twelve erupted in noise. Tonks said, “HEY!� very loudly; Mundungus let loose a stream of colorful expletives; from inside the house, alarmed shouts mingled with the full-blown shrieks now pelting out into the night.

“—DISGRACE TO MY BLOOD, SHAME OF MY LIFE, BRINGING FILTH INTO YOUR FATHER’S HOUSE—�

The door to Number Thirteen flew open as its occupants stared past to Number Eleven to see what all the commotion was about. Snarling, Moody bodily shoved the other three inside and slammed the door behind them.

Suddenly finding themselves cramped together in a dark hallway, the confusion peaked as the shrieking was intensified three-fold. Shouldering his way through the flailing limbs around him, Kingsley stared around with wide eyes, body tensed, searching for—

There. On the floor. His wand flew up again—and kept flying.

“Stop! STOP!�

Everyone froze. A pale, drawn man with gray-flecked hair stood in the middle of the hall, arms outstretched, Kingsley’s disarmed wand in one hand, his own wand pointed at Kingsley. Behind him, several more people crowded at the other end of the hall, craning their necks to see what was happening. At his feet, the stunned figure of Sirius Black lay crumpled on the molding carpet, a small burst of blood spattered over his nose and mouth. For a moment, the shrieking, which Kingsley could see came from a portrait of a deranged old woman on the wall, screeched alone into the otherwise silent hall.

“Everyone just calm down,� the man reiterated. Squinting against the murky light, Kingsley thought the man looked familiar. Taking in the light brown hair, the weary eyes, he tried to imagine the man smiling and young.

“Remus Lupin,� Kingsley murmured warily, eyes flicking between the wands in the Lupin’s hands.

Lupin looked just as warily back, wand still ready.

“It’s all right, Remus,� Tonks piped suddenly, over the shrieking voice. “He’s with us; Mad-Eye just inducted him. Kingsley’s in charge of the hunt for Sirius,� she finished, looking inquiringly back at Moody.

Lupin’s gaze switched to the ex-Auror. “You didn’t tell him?�

Bemused, Kingsley turned to Moody, who shrugged, rubbing his grizzled chin. “Probably shoulda done that first, come to think of it.�

Kingsley forced himself to remain calm. “What exactly is going on?�

Lupin sighed, looking hopelessly from the group at the door, to the people behind him, to the portrait, who was still screaming with all her might. Dropping his wand-arm, he rubbed his eyes.

“All right. Just—everyone hold tight for a minute. Arthur,� he called, and a redheaded man Kingsley recognized from the Ministry hurried forward. “Take care of the portrait, can you please?�

The man nodded and began struggling vainly with the moth-eaten curtains on either side of the painting. Lupin looked back to Kingsley, his face apologetic. “I’m sorry about this,� he said kindly. “If you’ll just wait a few minutes, I promise we can explain everything.�

Kingsley stared at the inert form lying between them. “But—�

“He’s not really—well, don’t worry—we’ll explain.� With this vague assurance, Lupin knelt quickly and muttered, “Enervate.� Sirius Black stirred, groaning, and sat up, looking dazedly up at them all. His gray eyes fell on Kingsley. As one, both men tensed, Black’s hand flew to his robes.

“Oi, careful there,� Mundungus advised nervously, as Moody and Lupin each laid a restraining hand on Kingsley and Black.

“Everyone calm down,� Lupin repeated soothingly, helping Black to his feet. Black glared at Kingsley, wiping the blood off his face with the back of one hand.

“Who’s this nutter, then?� he demanded indignantly, shouting a bit above the continued screams of the portrait, which Arthur Weasley was still struggling to silence.

Lupin hid a smile as Moody stumped forward. “Kingsley Shacklebolt, new member of the Order.�

“He’s the Auror in charge of the hunt for you,� Tonks offered helpfully.

“Ah.� Sirius Black cast an appraising look over Kingsley. “Huh. Nice reflexes, glad I didn’t run into you earlier. Hold on a sec, can you?�

Kingsley watched in bewilderment as Black turned his back on them all and matter-of-factly launched himself at the curtains with which Mr. Weasley was still struggling. With an almighty effort, the two men finally managed to drag them over the screaming portrait, and blessed silence fell over the hall.

“Thank God,� muttered Black, facing Kingsley once more. “Now then,� he continued in a whisper. “Did you attack me out of habit or are you just high-strung?�

“Moody didn’t tell ‘im, mate,� Mundungus murmured, sending a whiff of stale whiskey through the hall.

“Didn’t tell me what?� Kingsley growled, his normally tranquil voice rumbling dangerously. He did not appreciate being left in the dark.

But Black was rounding on Moody. “You didn’t tell him?�

Moody shrugged again. “Didn’t think it was safe mentioning you where anybody could hear—�

“This is safe?� Black interrupted, waving a hand at his bloodied nose.

“Meant to tell him on the flight over. Must’ve slipped my mind,� Moody mused, unperturbed.

“Slipped your mind? How could it slip your mind; it’s my house!�

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Now Kingsley remembered why the address had sounded familiar.

Moody glared right back at Black, refusing to give ground. “Well you should know better than to open the door, shouldn’t you, when you don’t know who’s on the other side?�

Black blew out an exasperated sigh. “You’re completely out of your head, you know that? I ought to hex you into next week.� He glanced back at Kingsley. “Not really, though.�

“Sirius Black.� Kingsley forced the words out evenly. Someone was going to answer him.

Black eyed him cautiously. “Yes.� And, as Kingsley opened his mouth with an unformed question, he raised one hand to stop him. “Not here,� he said firmly. “It’s a very long story and I intend to be comfortable while I tell it. Or make Mad-Eye tell it,� he added blandly. Tonks snorted, and the corners of Black’s mouth twitched in a tired way. “Don’t worry, I promise not to kill you before you understand.�

“Sirius,� Lupin warned, and Black snorted.

“All right, all right, bad joke. Here, listen, why don’t we all…just have a cup of tea and get out of the hall before the bloody portrait wakes up again.� He ran a hand through his long hair and smiled rather tensely at Kingsley. “We’ll explain in there.�

“Well somebody had better,� muttered Kingsley as he guardedly followed Sirius Black down the hall with the others.

In the dreary little kitchen, Kingsley listened patiently as the tale unfolded before him. Across from him, Black refrained from speaking as much as possible, allowing Remus Lupin to do the bulk of the explaining. The rest of the Order was seated around them at the scrubbed wooden table or else leaning against the dark marble counters. Patiently, Lupin detailed how his three friends had become illegal Animagi at school, how they had later joined the first Order, and the Potters had been forced into hiding. Kingsley followed the story patiently But when they had arrived at the point when Black persuaded the Potters to switch Secret-Keepers, he had insisted on hearing the account first-hand.

“Why Pettigrew?� he had asked, staring pointedly at Black.

Leaning his chair back on two legs, Black rather spoiled the effect of graceful nonchalance with a bitter smile. “I was convinced it was the perfect solution. Everyone knew James was my best friend; Voldemort was bound to come after me—�

“You didn’t know that when you became Secret-Keeper?�

Black dropped his chair with a quiet thud, looking Kingsley full in the face. “It didn’t matter to me,� he said flatly. “I knew I would never betray them. But then I started to think of all the ways other than force that information can be extracted from unknowing victims. Suppose I took a drink from a fellow member of the Order, only to discover too late it was a Death Eater in disguise who had just handed me Veritaserum?�

Behind him, Moody gave an approving snort. Black ignored him. “With the lives of my best friend and his wife and son in my hands, I didn’t feel I had the right to play the hero unless I could back myself up. That’s when my brilliant idea occurred to me.�

The self-loathing in his voice was horribly clear. The kitchen had gone quite silent, but Kingsley could not look away. Black’s face had become smoothly unreadable, his features schooled into a haughty mask, daring Kingsley to shake him.

“Switch,� he continued lightly. “No one would think to go after Peter, I could still act as decoy, and everything would turn out swimmingly, you see?�

Lupin made a move as though to stop him, but Kingsley was determined to piece the puzzle together once and for all.

“But you were there the night of their deaths, before almost anyone else knew,� he prompted.

Black drew in a long, quiet breath. When he spoke, it was without expression. “I had gone to check on Peter. He was gone. I knew something was wrong, so I went to Godric’s Hollow. Of course, when I saw the house…and then…� His eyes continued staring at whatever invisible scene his voice had failed to describe.

“All right.�

Kingsley turned to look at Lupin, whose soft voice lit gently on the silence. Without further preamble, Lupin quickly outlined the remainder of the story, picking up with Pettigrew’s inspired disappearance, sans his forefinger, and continuing through Black’s escape from Azkaban and later meeting with Harry Potter and his friends at Hogwarts, from which the second daring escape had been made two years previously. Somewhere along the line Sirius Black had recovered his careless attitude, once more leaning cavalierly back in his chair. It occurred to Kingsley that he had bought the truth of the man at an uncomfortable price.

Now he sat in the dark stone kitchen, tea cold in his cup. The story was well over and around him, light chatter filled the room, Mundungus having insisted that Kingsley was exhausted by all the revelations and dinner should precede any further attempts at business. Kingsley could not help but feel grateful, although he suspected Mundungus had not had his interests at heart when the suggestion was made. Tonks was laughing merrily as she helped (and hindered) Lupin as he prepared the meal. Black goaded them on from his seat, occasionally getting a tea towel thrown at him for his trouble. Arthur Weasley was making careful diagrams on a long sheet of parchment, with Mundungus jabbing a grimy finger here and there to correct him. Halfway through the preparations, a young witch Kingsley recognized as Hestia Jones arrived to general cheers and agreed to stay for supper. He stared, numb, as she flirted casually with Black, trading insults and gossip as they set the table. It was as though the world had shifted from beneath his feet and he was the only one caught stumbling.

After a merry supper during which Kingsley was ceremoniously introduced to those members of the Order he did not know, Tonks rose at last, yawning ostentatiously.

“Well, I’d best be off. I’ve got guard duty at midnight and I want to catch a quick nap before I go.�

“You could stick around here,� offered Black.

Tonks wrinkled her nose. “Nah. No offense, cuz, but this place gives me the creeps.�

Black conceded the point with an amiable laugh, but Kingsley could not help but think he looked disappointed. The impression was reinforced when the other members of the Order took their leave one by one, whirling off through the fireplace, each off on some errand or other. Black watched them go, growing more and more quiet. When only Kingsley, Mundungus, Moody and Black were left, Moody too rose stiffly from the table.

“Got some business of to take care of for Dumbledore. S’pose I ought to put some protective spells ‘round Shacklebolt’s place, now he’s in the Order.� He fixed both eyes on Kingsley and Black. “If neither of you are averse to the idea, I was thinking Shacklebolt could stay the night. Just as a precaution—I’ll check and make sure no Death Eaters got wind of your induction, Kingsley. Sirius, you could fill him in and so forth.�

“No problem,� Black answered quickly, looking considerably brighter. Kingsley hesitated. He was unsure how comfortable he was with the idea of spending the night in the company of Sirius Black, however innocent he might be. Not wishing to offend, however, he nodded his assent.

Stumping over to the fireplace, Moody took a pinch of Floo powder in hand and turned briefly to glare at Mundungus Fletcher.

“You better get down to those pubs and see what your criminal friends make of this,� he growled.

“I just got off duty!� Mundungus protested, outraged.

“And now you’re back on it. I’ll expect you back by tomorrow night.� He pointed a scarred finger threateningly at Mundungus. “And put those back this minute; don’t you realize Dark wizards could trace that stuff back to this house?�

Mundungus started as Moody too vanished in the fireplace. For a moment there was silence in the kitchen, then Black turned Mundungus, who scratched his nose sheepishly.

“Dung, you reprobate, cough it up.�

Kingsley watched as the dirty little man produced a heap of tarnished but valuable-looking dinnerware from the folds of his capacious coat.

“Sorry, mate,� muttered Mundungus, “Old habits, you know…�

Black rubbed his face and picked half-heartedly through the loot. “Black family crest, Black family crest…and this one too…Dung, I wish to God you would use some sense when you nick stuff from me. Are you trying get us all chucked in Azkaban?�

Mundungus looked aghast. “No, I never, mate! That crest would come off easy with a bit of help. I know a guy what does that sort of thing—�

“And he’s sworn to keep the Order’s secrets as well, has he?� Kingsley interjected mildly. He was beginning to wonder why Fletcher was allowed in headquarters at all.

Mundungus had the grace to look ashamed, but Black waved off his muttered apologies with an amused smile.

“Oh, go on, get out of here, you mangy old sneak thief. You can make it up to us later. Maybe I’ll have you help Kreacher clean my mother’s portrait…� he laughed outright at Mundungus’s horrified expression, and Mundungus gathered his rucksack to go, looking relieved that it was only a joke. Black called after him. “And watch you don’t wake her up again!�

Mundungus’s whisper of, “Not on yer life,� hissed back to them, and soon his fading footsteps and the gentle click of the front door told them they were alone. Kingsley stared across the table at Black, who looked a bit uncomfortable. Something clicked in Kingsley’s brain.

“That was your mother?� he asked slowly.

Black gave a short bark of a laugh. “Yeah. We didn’t get on real well.�

“I know,� Kingsley mused without thinking. Black looked even more uncomfortable.

“It…came up briefly when I was researching your family history,� Kingsley apologized.

Black grimaced. “Great. That must have been a laugh.�

“It was my job to know everything I could about you.�

“Except that I wasn’t a mad mass murderer.�

Kingsley snorted. “Yes. Except that.�

Black grinned at him, and Kingsley felt strangely guilty as he smiled back.

“Black…� he began, uncharacteristically unsure of what he was going to say.

“Call me Sirius. There’s enough ‘Black’ to go around in this house as it is.�

“Sirius.� The name fell strangely in his mouth. He had meant vaguely to apologize, for he knew not what, and perhaps Sirius sensed it, for he stood abruptly and with a swift, warning grin turned his attention to clearing away the dinner things.

“S’pose I could call in that mad house-elf, but honestly it’s not worth the trouble. Besides, I’m sure he’s enjoying himself burning me in effigy up in the attic or something.�

Kingsley chuckled, and thought how odd it was to be sharing a joke with the man he had sworn to arrest. Awkward silence fell between them, and he found himself staring at Sirius as he moved around the kitchen. The events of the past few hours seeped through his thoughts, and he tried once more to wrap his mind around them. Here was the real Sirius Black, living and breathing in front of him, humming absently as he dumped dirty dishes in the sink. He watched this new Sirius Black moving with restless energy in the confines of his old home, that look of being defiantly lost hanging about him like an outgrown cloak. He remembered the way Sirius had laughed and chatted easily with the Order and found it hard to believe that mere hours before, he had been staring at photographs that chronicled the man’s life, feeling frustrated and helpless because he could not solve the mystery of a murderer. Now he realized what was wrong with the puzzle. The missing clue was that there was no mystery. There was no murderer. No wonder he had never seen it.

Feeling his stare, Sirius turned, an ironic smile tilting his lips. Kingsley remembered the Potter’s wedding photo and thought that his eyes had not completely lost their humor. Black tipped him a wink.

“Why don’t you take a picture, it’ll last longer.�