Chapter Text
This wasn’t the first time Sirius was falling. He fell down the stairs at his childhood home an embarrassingly high number of times. He fell off his broom as a child and had been treated by dozens of healers. He fell when he stepped off the Hogwarts Express. And he fell for Remus when he caught him. At that point, Sirius was an expert in all things falling.
But this was uncharted territory. Falling through the Veil was unlike falling any other time because 1) Remus J. Lupin wasn’t there to catch him, and 2) he didn’t stop falling. It was like wandering dark hallways, past-curfew, sans light and Map. Because they were making it. He should be afraid, because when no one catches him, that was a death sentence. But for some reason, he was calm.
It was a fitting end: protecting his godson, the only family he had left. Sure, Sirius had his regrets--that was given. He regretted not telling Harry more about James and Lily. He regretted letting his cousin seduce the man he had been in love with for most his life. But most of all, he regretted his cowardice. He had done what he thought was enough in the moment, but in his last living moments, he realized he had made mistakes--mistakes that ultimately cost him everything. It cost him his family, his freedom, and his happiness. Perhaps that was why he embraced the Veil and closed his eyes. This was the end, and whatever happened after death, Sirius would accept, be it an eternity stuck in a portrait or with the brother and sister he failed to protect.
Then he landed in a crumple on the ground.
“Merlin’s bollocks!” Sirius cried. “What the bloody hell happened?”
“Language, Mr. Black.” Sirius looked around and eventually up to a handsome, familiar young man in light-colored robes and a pointy matching hat. “I presume you understand where you are?
“I don’t even know who you are,” Sirius said dumbly.
The man smiled. “Before I answer, I would like to ask you a question.” When Sirius remained silent, he continued. “In Muggle Ancient Greece, they would often have actors portray an assortment of deities they called ‘gods’.
“They would bring the deity out onto the stage with a machine so that the deity was suspended in the air. You remember what machines are, don’t you? You got an Acceptable in Muggle Studies.”
“I remember,” he said, remaining on the floor. “And I remember Muggle Ancient Greece, I think.”
“Excellent. Well, these deities would regularly save their heros and resolve conflicts. Do you remember Aristotle?”
“Yes.”
The man smiled. “Aristotle described this technique as ‘deus ex machina’. It translates to ‘god of the machine’. It is a term now used to describe a phenomenon in which something spectacular and unexpected saves the protagonist, and by extension, the written or performed work.”
Sirius interjected. “And how does it answer my question?”
“As impatient as ever, I see. Alright, I will cut it short: Sirius, am I deus, or am I machina?”
“What?”
“You should be dead right now,” he said seriously. “But you’re here talking with me. So I ask if I am machina, which brings the deity to setting, or am I deus, who saves the heroes from tragedy and despair?”
Sirius grunted impatiently. “I don’t know.”
“If you had to guess?”
“Deus,” Sirius replied with uncertainty.
“Is there a correct answer?” The man challenged. “What if I am simultaneously both?”
“Then I would think you would need to get to the fucking point already,” Sirius snapped. “All you’ve accomplished is confusing me.”
The man laughed. “On earth, they called me Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Here, they simply call me Dumbledeus.”
Sirius groaned. “I hate that. So much.” Then, he realized he had no idea where “here” was.
Before Sirius could ask, Dumbledeus (Sirius shivered in disgust at the name) said, “Then I propose an agreement.”
“Of what sort?” Sirius asked suspiciously. It wasn’t that he distrusted his former headmaster; it was simply that Albus had a tendency of making things happen in his favor.
“I have this Time Turner,” Dumbledeus handed it to him. It was silver, and the hourglass was filled with glowing, opalescent sand. “It’s special in that it turns back time to where you intend to be. It’s one of its kind, but there’s a caveat.”
Sirius interjected. “Why are you giving me this?”
Dumbledeus stared at him pointedly before continuing. “The caveat is that you can only go back in time seven times. It’s the exact number of times you need in order to drastically alter the future—to save, for instance, hundreds or thousands of lives.
“Three events must have a different outcome, Mr. Black. If you cannot change the outcomes of those three events, you will perish permanently. But, should you be successful, you will be pleasantly surprised to find that you can attain the affection of the one dearest to you and find yourself with a family.”
Sirius paused. “What do you have to gain from this?”
“I have little to gain.” Dumbledeus shrugged. “But you, Mr. Black, have everything to lose. It is my understanding that you harbor romantic feelings for Mr. Lupin, and this is your opportunity to go back and change the past.”
Sirius pondered this. He thought about his former headmaster’s proposition. If he agreed, he supposedly had a chance with Remus. If he declined, he wouldn’t know what could have been. Would he have lived the rest of his life with Remus by his side? Or would he simply relive the same pain he just experienced for nearly four decades? Or would he kill more people?
Dumbledeus sighed. “Now you’re overthinking.”
“What?” Sirius turned to face him.
“Mr. Black, you have nothing to fear. I will not allow you to permanently diverge into a darker timeline.”
Sirius did not follow. “I don’t understand.”
“It means,” he said, “I will not allow you to make things worse. Should you wreak havoc—and you won’t—I will return you here. However, I have faith in you, Mr. Black. I believe you will find innumerable success.”
“How can you be so sure? I’m a failure.” And suddenly, Sirius felt horrible about himself. Every mistake he had ever made ran through his mind in flashes: every taunt, every minced word, every faux pas. Every time he made Remus angry. Every time he made Remus cry, or put him in danger.
Dumbledeus stared at him in pity. “I must go. I have duties to attend to. Good luck, Mr. Black.” He walked towards the door, but when he opened the door, he paused. “Oh, and you needn’t murder anyone or anything drastic. Small actions can have serious consequences.” With that, his former headmaster left the room, but Sirius couldn’t figure out where he went. He sighed, slumping into a ball on the ground and staring at the Time Turner.
He’s been given the chance of a lifetime, but it was a heavy burden to bear. Him drastically changing timelines seemed nearly impossible, and the idea of Sirius being the only one who could do that was daunting. He thought about it, and after thorough deliberation, he decided to do it.
When did things first go wrong? He thought about all the choices he had made, starting as a child. Was there something he could do? He shook his head. His childhood was unchangeable. “Small actions can have serious consequences,” He whispered the sentence to himself as he moved the Time Turner in his hand, watching the opalescent grains flow gracefully. What did it mean? Perhaps it meant that he only had to change something small, like hiding a piece of parchment or locking a door. He realized how significant a small action could be: if James had never asked out Lily, Harry would never have been born. They would still be alive. Sirius would still be alive. Maybe they could have defeated Voldemort. He furrowed his brows and shook his head. No; he couldn’t take away James’s happiness, even if it cost them their lives. And anyway, who was he to meddle in someone else’s business?
He went through everything he had done at Hogwarts, when suddenly, he had an idea. Would it work? He thought about it. He realized he had to prevent the Whomping Willow Incident. It made sense; after that, Sirius knew Remus would never date him, even if he had forgiven Sirius.
But perhaps it wasn’t just that incident that he needed to prevent. Even before that, he had ruined his chances with Remus, and he had been angry about that. That was why he sent Severus to the Whomping Willow. But what had happened before then? As soon as he wondered, he remembered what had happened. A pit formed in his stomach; it was a memory he long suppressed, as it was the moment—the real moment—Sirius ruined his chances with Remus.
Sirius stood up and turned the Time Turner. He knew what he had to do; he had to stop himself from confessing to Remus.